patti and the room.

five days of a cold that has laid me down, hard and fast.  fatigue is overwhelming and quirky; i almost fell asleep several times while watching the new episode of "fargo" last night, which was almost sacreligious.

i got out of work early today--only two parent-teacher conferences and i was done.  i pushed my meetings aside and headed to the pet store to buy frozen rats for my classroom snake, who just this morning i found curled up inside the futon in our classroom.  i mean, literally INSIDE the futon; i had to cut the bottom fabric from the underbelly and there she was.  she had been missing for two days.  i can't help but wonder what she was heading out for, what kind of life she was seeking away from her heating pad and newspaper shreddings.  

at home, i ate a bowl of ice cream that could do nothing for my cold except exacerbate it, but i didn't even blink as i spooned it into my mouth.  i watched bad tv on my ipad, my headphones covering up the sounds of my daughter's tv show across from me.  isolated and insulated.

i put on long pajamas and socks, despite it being 86 degrees outside.  it was cooler in the house, and it is almost the end of october, so on principle i just decide to go with autumn.  the other day i wore my doc martens for the first time in months, because it was in the 60s when i woke up.

alex was on a work call in our room, so i made my way to my son's room to read and rest.  he's away with his school this week, camping.  his room is exactly the way it looked the second he stepped foot outside its doorway--which is to say darkened, cluttered, and his.

i layed on his bed, tucking myself in under the comforter.  i opened the shades a bit, because i need daylight to remind me to wake up after a few minutes of napping.  i turned on the fan for white noise, and picked up the patti smith book that has been my light for the past few days.  i started to make a list of all of the authors, painters and philosophers that she mentions whom i do not know, but gave up due to its size.  who cares if i don't get her references?  all i know is that she is pulling me in, over and over again, thinking about her watch cap and olive oil brown bread and lists without commas.

and then i read this:

"We want things we cannot have.  We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. . . I want to see my children as children.  Hands small, feet swift.  Everything changes . . . Please stay forever, I say to the things I know.  Don't go.  Don't grow."

my son is gone for a few days, and gone for good.  gone for the good work of growing up, gone to himself, to his friends, to his place in the world without me.  he began this work when he took his first steps, weaned himself from my milk, slept by himself--but the real meat of this job began this season.  he chooses to stay up late, well after i've crashed for the day.  he talks to his friends via texts.  eats dinner and then has another meal later.  he doesn't ask for help except when he does and then it is frought with my inevitable failure at not being able to craft an answer that works for him.  

he is on his way out, and the world is going to be so fucking lucky in a few short years to have him amongst the grown people who can do, and change, and make, and be.

patti's words made me cry a little bit, but only a little.  being in his room makes me feel close and far at the same time, but it is comforting to me.  i don't expect much from him these days, and when i am given the time of day or a hug or a "thank you for dinner, motherrrr" i quietly contain my happiness and respond with blase affirmation. 

i can take you or leave you, i tell him.  you doofus, i tell him.  dude, i tell him.

i rest my head on his shoulder when i hug him now.  he doesn't know this, but it gives me great joy.  i built you, i think.  i'm the one who has made it so you are tall and gangly and beautiful and strong.  i have secret pride in all the damn fine work i've put into you, kid.  someday i'll tell you about it.

in the meantime, i curl up on his bed and put his rabbit between my arms while i read.  i think of him on a beach with a bunch of teenagers, wind flying around them; all dirty feet and no showers and stars above him as he sleeps out in the open at night.

they are all for you, i think.  every single one.  

here and there.

and just like that, i am driving on shady roads.  dappled, hidden curves, spots of sunlight poking through; i realize that this is such a novelty to me now after riding in cars in Los Angeles for the past 21 years.

i drive around here in borrowed cars, smiling out loud at the "turtle crossing" signs.  when i walk i see the remains of dead frogs who didn't make it across the street in time.  i hear all the birds sing and they sound more fulfilled than the birds in Los Angeles, if such a thing is possible.

and the clouds.  good god almighty, the clouds.  filled up, soaked in their own glory, the possibility of water from them to me is almost too much for me to bear.  

i am inundated with the beauty around me, here in New England.

but still, i miss my people.  i miss the dogs who adore me, who sit on the new red couch, waiting patiently for us to come back.  i miss feeling like i am part of something that needs me.

here, i am just floating along for a while, and i'm not sure it does me good.  i mean, i know it does me good, this vacationing, this down time, this simplicity of day; but it is difficult sometimes.

between two worlds is my place in this life.  i have always been that way, and perhaps always will be.

when i am there, i miss here.

when i am here, i miss there.

constantly searching for the home that i know is just hidden inside my gut, if only i could reach it more readily.

but damn, massachusetts, you know how to wreak havoc with a girl's heart.  

brave new whirl.

home sick today.  first time in a while.  i've got a wicked-ass head cold and i'm worn out, people.

it's been a long time since i've swum in this blog-lake o'mine.

i watched documentaries today: "advanced style", "20 feet from stardom" and "the punk singer".  a lot of women.  if you haven't seen these docs, you should.  

i finished with the kathleen hanna movie, and i'm sitting here in my messy house, my dog snoring, using part of the table that isn't taken up by the enormous 1000-piece puzzle of jungle animals that my family is working on...

i'm sitting here feeling fired up, wired to my sick core, thinking about my life.  reflecting upon it, as it were.  watching "the punk singer" brought a lot of memories forward again; bits and pieces of myself that i let sink to the bottom somewhere, covered up by what is right in front of me--namely my family, my children, my job.

i wasn't on the bikini kill train back in the early 90s.  i had found ani difranco, and she satisfied my need for a female feminist musical role model.  i remember reading about bikini kill--seeing the announcements for concerts in Los Angeles, but they scared me.  the idea of punk rock scared me.  it was too much for this massachusetts girl.

watching the documentary today, i was blown away by the power of the music, by what the riot grrrls were trying to do, trying to bring to pop culture.  what kathleen hanna had to offer me that i was not present for.  it's all a little bit heartbreaking, as i think back to what i missed.  

i can't help thinking that i could've been one of those women, either in the audience or somehow up on stage.  those were my people, save for the fact that i already had a boyfriend whom i would marry a few short years later; save for the fact that i felt the need to have children, to settle down, to feel security; save for the fact that i wasn't brave enough for all of it.

there is something in me that makes me crave the bravery i left behind.  it was there in small amounts while i was at calarts--when i wrote about kicking the shit out of mike tyson after her raped desiree washington--or when i jumped up on the bar at the roxy to perform my monologue about my shaved head--or when i got naked on stage and talked about the perfect body and how it wasn't mine--but in retrospect all of that shit just seems played out, like everyone did that, all of my like-minded women tried those moments on for size just like me.  and sure, there is bravery in that, but was there really originality?  revolutionary thought?  brilliance?

probably not.

i had this idea that i would somehow continue to create art and subvert the patriarchy my entire life.  i really did.  i thought i would save teenage girls from themselves and from fashion magazines, and be a part of the third-wave feminism that i so fiercely believed in.  and then what happened to all of this fervor?  it got redirected to wedding plans, preschool teaching, pregnancies, toddlers, daily lives of dogs and bills being paid and the agonizing consistencies of what has come to be my life.  my life.

there is nothing wrong with this life of mine.  it is a good and well-placed life, full of love and happiness and promise.  i have not failed myself, but i am sad today.

i miss being brave, whatever it looked like.  i miss that woman who used to ride her anger around town, looking for fights because she knew she was the one with justice and truth on her side.  i miss the person who thought she could be a part of something that could change minds.

then again, maybe i just miss the spotlight.  maybe i miss the idea that i could be the lead singer, the one in the kickass t-shirt and tights, screaming her words while the audience begged for more.  don't all people want to have that moment?  is this just another piece of my status-quo-ness coming through?

i remember back then when i was writing about being a girl that i had fury in my pocket, and all it took was one good word or look to make me grab hold of it and wield it like a machete.  but even then, sometimes my anger felt disingenuous.  like i couldn't be that mad, because i had never been raped.  like i wasn't allowed to give over to it all because my childhood had been relatively normal. like i wasn't allowed to just be mad at the world the way it was, because i wasn't willing to go all out for it.  i wasn't willing to give it all up to go on my quest because deep down inside i was too scared to give up what was comfortable and real to me.

i was lacking real courage, it seems to me now.  but maybe not.  

i think it's ridiculous that right now, sitting here at the table, no lights on and the cloudy sky keeping my head and house dim; right now i want to put together a band of 40-year old women who still have something to say about the state of things, who don't know how to play instruments but want to do it anyway, who can somehow put aside all of their kids' schedules and daily committments to get together and become a force for good.  right now, that's what i want to do.

i could still be brave, i think.

the week behind...

in the midst of writing about other people this week; young people that i love and admire, finding details about them, uncovering the good stuff in their daily life at school--in the middle of all of this my life continues to trudge forward in all of its absurdity.

trying to color my hair and failing again, then finding a fixer-product at target and ending up with slightly reddish hair.  not the plan, but in the end, who gives a shit?

my lovely dog needing surgery, costing so much money that we don't have, knowing that we'll pay whatever it is we need to--or more specifically, put it on credit--because that is what you do when a family member needs to be mended.

working from home and realizing that silence is a balm.

(as i wrote that my other dog is in the back yard, yapping away at a squirrel.)

thinking about charlie hebdo and france.  about islaam and peaceful practitioners, about religion taking such fierce hold, about how my children cannot understand what would lead someone to do that.  no faith to be found in this household, other than faith in the earth and trees and dogs and ice cream and people.

still people.

feeling the winter melancholy pull me down, surround me in my grandmother's old bedspread, demand that i give over to the inevitability of this time of year.

the crookedness of my little life, the beauty in it.

trying to love every single fucking inch of my skin, because i deserve it.  resolving to put lotion all over my body every day -- not just my legs -- because my floppy belly and tiny breasts and ever-widening posterior deserve moisturizing, too.

anticipating the next two months of madness and scheduling and work, work, work.  traveling to virginia with 37 ten, eleven and twelve year-olds for five nights and days.  taking a red-eye with said children.

wallowing in some kind of selfishness, worry; festering money problems, uncertainity about stable income, knowing somewhere we'll be okay.  at least that's what the card on the goddess wisdom app told me today.

feeling jealous.  it's such a nasty thing to feel jealous.  i am ashamed.

wanting new music to listen to; music that wails (horn sections are a must) and cries out (soul singers) and demands that my heart bursts from my chest.

wondering when the peace kicks in.

bartering with myself about exercising.  about being okay with my 43-year old body and soul.

listing to do's along with groceries.  feeling accomplishment but knowing it's the teenage version of it.

feeding a squirrel in the tree near our house.  

wearing socks, glorious, cozy, fuzzy socks.

eating an entire plate of mashed potatoes for lunch yesterday; knowing that potatoes are my heritage, my history--or at least tellling myself that so i can eat more of them.  also that they are a winter staple, but in summer i'll eat lighter things.  believing this to be mostly true.

feeling unbelievable gratitude words that fuel me.

crying again.  grateful that i no longer have medicine inside of me that makes that response difficult.

wanting to move my body, to not be sedentary.  i will not be sedentary.  

being able to hear the clocks ticking in my house.  my heart beat.  my dogs' breathing.  letting all the quietness and loudness of my brain mix together into some kind of funky ease.  i am okay, somehow.

absurd, yes.  okay, yes.