In the morning, we played catch with a tennis ball and raced cars across the floor. After I pushed the car across the floor he'd run on his fat little legs to get it, bring it back to me, and plop himself down in my lap as if to say, this is where I belong.
There are only so many times you can watch a car careen into a wall.
I was busy working on a Game of Thrones Quiz. I am often busy.
When I'm on the computer, and he's in the a certain mood, he'll cry every time I sit down. He'll walk over and tug on the edge of my shirt or shorts as if to say, "Hey, get the fu-k over here." Though he's usually much sweeter than that.
When I carry him by the strawberries he points at them and says, "No, No." I had to tell him that he can't pick them anymore because his mother's afraid they're full of mercury and lead. I'd have brought in new soil, but I've always preferred being lazy. The strawberries taste like delicious and sweet pieces of dirt.
I'm hoping that his nap lasts for hours. It doesn't. When I first hear him, I pretend like I can't, or that maybe it's some other baby who's broken into our house and is making noise in his room. What a strange thing for another child to do.
I don't like showers. I take showers about 340 days a year. I like baths with bubbles. I like turning on the fan in the bathroom, sinking into the water and feeling gloriously alone. I don't feel alone in the shower. Usually one of them comes by and pulls aside the curtain to say hello. "I need privacy," I say, to the little faces peeking in the shower. I'm an extrovert who likes to be left alone, except when I don't, then I miss everyone and everything like crazy.
When he says, the car, which is his favorite thing, his voice is almost guttural. When he says, Night, night, his voice sounds like that of an angel. Before nap, he said, Night, night, and then started crying when he knew I was leaving. Tears are non-sequiturs.
Chances are that if I've known you for more than a week or so, at one point I've missed you. I miss everyone.
Before leaving I say goodbye. He cries for a minute and then says, bye, bye.
The radio is playing songs with great beats, and I'm thankful for the hot twenty minute drive. I love car dancing in the heat of the day. Sometimes, it feels so damn good to be alone. I love people.
The afternoon feels disjointed. I found myself not wanting to make any effort. It's such an effort to know and be known, constantly dressing and undressing depending upon the interlocutor. Sometimes, you just want to wear effing pajamas all day. You don't want to say, "how was your weekend?" You want to say, "Some days are shitty. Have you ever read that book about Alexander? That kid is a prick, but he's got it right. Some days are shitty." But you never say that. Instead you talk of the cakes or the pictures or the other things that pass the time until we move on into other rooms, with other voices.
I talk to a college student for a while who says that most of life is full of repetition and boredom. I know that I'm supposed to jump in at that point and tell her of all the beautiful things that are yet to come. Instead, I hand her a cart of books and agree. "Same shi- different day." We talk in bits and pieces for a little while longer. I'm walking back and forth amongst the fiction section, looking at all the novels and pieces of writing that have been published, doing that stupid thing that everyone does where you compare yourself to others and find yourself lacking. "Life is boring, and I"m managing to not do much with it," I say, or could have said, or said something like. I think the sum of the conversation was disappointment.
We played a poor game of softball. "Hey, at least we're having fun," a co-worker said.
M: This isn't fun.
It's strange to care about employee softball, and not particularly laudable. By the third inning I'm stalking around like a cat in a cage. Oftentimes, not just with softball, I intend to not care about things. However, I'll find myself thinking about them, caring about them against my will, and I'll say to myself, brain: stop being so effing silly to which I rarely receive a reply. My brain likes being silly and doesn't want to be asked to stop.
Someone I work with stopped by the desk and asked if it smelled like someone had peed in the back. No really, she said, it smells just like urine.
M: That's coming from the clothes and shoes that I just played softball in. It's a sauna outside. Also I peed back there.
For a while I sit and tell some friends how life is always imperfect in every way you can think of.
F: You might just be in a bad mood.
M: I am moody.
On the way home I tell a friend that I want to disturb the universe. She says something along the lines of aiming a little lower, which is sound advice. Still though, certain days I feel like I should at least send away to have a star named after me. That way, after I'm gone, people will still be able to look through my paperwork and realize I was stupid enough to try and buy the stars.
There are only so many times you can watch a car careen into a wall.
I was busy working on a Game of Thrones Quiz. I am often busy.
When I'm on the computer, and he's in the a certain mood, he'll cry every time I sit down. He'll walk over and tug on the edge of my shirt or shorts as if to say, "Hey, get the fu-k over here." Though he's usually much sweeter than that.
When I carry him by the strawberries he points at them and says, "No, No." I had to tell him that he can't pick them anymore because his mother's afraid they're full of mercury and lead. I'd have brought in new soil, but I've always preferred being lazy. The strawberries taste like delicious and sweet pieces of dirt.
I'm hoping that his nap lasts for hours. It doesn't. When I first hear him, I pretend like I can't, or that maybe it's some other baby who's broken into our house and is making noise in his room. What a strange thing for another child to do.
I don't like showers. I take showers about 340 days a year. I like baths with bubbles. I like turning on the fan in the bathroom, sinking into the water and feeling gloriously alone. I don't feel alone in the shower. Usually one of them comes by and pulls aside the curtain to say hello. "I need privacy," I say, to the little faces peeking in the shower. I'm an extrovert who likes to be left alone, except when I don't, then I miss everyone and everything like crazy.
When he says, the car, which is his favorite thing, his voice is almost guttural. When he says, Night, night, his voice sounds like that of an angel. Before nap, he said, Night, night, and then started crying when he knew I was leaving. Tears are non-sequiturs.
Chances are that if I've known you for more than a week or so, at one point I've missed you. I miss everyone.
Before leaving I say goodbye. He cries for a minute and then says, bye, bye.
The radio is playing songs with great beats, and I'm thankful for the hot twenty minute drive. I love car dancing in the heat of the day. Sometimes, it feels so damn good to be alone. I love people.
The afternoon feels disjointed. I found myself not wanting to make any effort. It's such an effort to know and be known, constantly dressing and undressing depending upon the interlocutor. Sometimes, you just want to wear effing pajamas all day. You don't want to say, "how was your weekend?" You want to say, "Some days are shitty. Have you ever read that book about Alexander? That kid is a prick, but he's got it right. Some days are shitty." But you never say that. Instead you talk of the cakes or the pictures or the other things that pass the time until we move on into other rooms, with other voices.
I talk to a college student for a while who says that most of life is full of repetition and boredom. I know that I'm supposed to jump in at that point and tell her of all the beautiful things that are yet to come. Instead, I hand her a cart of books and agree. "Same shi- different day." We talk in bits and pieces for a little while longer. I'm walking back and forth amongst the fiction section, looking at all the novels and pieces of writing that have been published, doing that stupid thing that everyone does where you compare yourself to others and find yourself lacking. "Life is boring, and I"m managing to not do much with it," I say, or could have said, or said something like. I think the sum of the conversation was disappointment.
We played a poor game of softball. "Hey, at least we're having fun," a co-worker said.
M: This isn't fun.
It's strange to care about employee softball, and not particularly laudable. By the third inning I'm stalking around like a cat in a cage. Oftentimes, not just with softball, I intend to not care about things. However, I'll find myself thinking about them, caring about them against my will, and I'll say to myself, brain: stop being so effing silly to which I rarely receive a reply. My brain likes being silly and doesn't want to be asked to stop.
Someone I work with stopped by the desk and asked if it smelled like someone had peed in the back. No really, she said, it smells just like urine.
M: That's coming from the clothes and shoes that I just played softball in. It's a sauna outside. Also I peed back there.
For a while I sit and tell some friends how life is always imperfect in every way you can think of.
F: You might just be in a bad mood.
M: I am moody.
On the way home I tell a friend that I want to disturb the universe. She says something along the lines of aiming a little lower, which is sound advice. Still though, certain days I feel like I should at least send away to have a star named after me. That way, after I'm gone, people will still be able to look through my paperwork and realize I was stupid enough to try and buy the stars.
remarkable piece of writing
ReplyDeleteso many questions about life and how we fit in as we grow
older..
knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit..
wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad
that's what life is..a roll of the dice