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Archive for November, 2011

I don’t think that I want to be the kind of girl that hangs out at penitentiaries, or asylums, or places of incarceration. That girl whose fingertips stretch further than they are able to try to touch the flesh of another palm. One whose skin is white like paper and whose eyes look deep and dark and hidden. I like the freckles on my shoulders and across my nose. I like the way my skin smells when the babe and I have spent hours searching for polywogs and beetles in the lake. When I kiss, I like the taste of my lover’s lips and the old coffee and sandwiches that cling to his tongue to dance across mine. I don’t want to be another mouth pressed up against glass trying to feel the heat on the other side.

But in too many other ways I already am that girl and always have been. My attraction to caged things is undying. As a child I liked to catch lizards and flies and hold them close to me in an attempt to make them happy in my warmth. I’ve always loved the zoo, the fact that I could stand so close to lions and tigers and monkeys, but I would always will them out. Someone told me that if you believed in something with enough of you, if it was real to you, it was real. In childhood this is an easy concept. I believed that by willing it, I could release the animals from their cages. I believed that they would come out and lie prostrate at my feet. That they would bite me, just enough to draw blood, and then lick the wound when I cried out. I want to believe this now. That by willing the bars to come down I can grant freedom, and that in that freedom all that the incarcerated will want is to be trapped by me.

The babe is sleeping now. He gets so sweaty when he sleeps and I like to go in there and cuddle up to him and smell his hair. It still smells like newborn to me, maybe because I wash it maybe once every two weeks. No crib, babe sleeps on the mattress on the floor next to me. We’ll go out tomorrow to enjoy the sunshine, but lately this is what life has looked like for us:

Light up UCF with the aunties

A medieval wedding for my Uncle and his Bride, Eldonna

Sister and Me, who has been holding my hands in dreams and brushing my hair.

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A day ago, or a few days ago, or every day, a woman was out on her lawn on a mattress that she had pulled out and laid in the center because, “I like to sleep in the sun.” And she was doing just that, she was asleep and the sun was pouring down on her and moving its way underneath her skin and making her brown and warm and smell like the earth, and that’s when her boyfriend came around the corner and covered her in gasoline and lit her a flame. Did anyone even hear about this? I like to imagine that as the gasoline poured down her face and over her body she was dreaming of being a little girl in the bathtub when her mama would bathe her. Except, she was full sized and the bathtub was huge and her mama was even huger. As the gasoline ran down her face and over her hair she dreamed of her mama with a big plastic cup and her hand sheilding her eyes. She was singing “Amazing Grace” and the warm water was running down her cheeks and over her shoulders and the bathtime suds were floating in the water around her. When he lit the match and threw it over her body I imagine that she had a brief moment where she thought the sun was just too hot, and that maybe she should go inside and get a glass of sweet tea, but then the flames burned so fast and so hot that her body turned the heat into cold and she considered a blanket, but was just too tired to get one, and so instead she slept and slept and slept inside the warm sunlight.

Things like this have been keeping me up at night. This, and scenes from the Holocaust that I’ve been reading for class, and the chance images of men and women being shot in the streets of some place far far away from me popping up on screen while momma daddy baby and me had dinner. I don’t think I fear for myself or for pain or for death. I feel peaceful about these processes, that this is just a body and that death and life intermingle and get tangled up and are just more pieces of existence and non-existence. But, I worry about the babe. My thoughts center around keeping him safe, away from fear. I worry, if we were taken away somewhere, carted off in the darkness, what would I do? Could I hold on tight enough, sing loud enough, smile convincingly enough to drown out the blanket of fear? I know that I have to let these things go, that they are outside of my control. I know that I need to just relax and enjoy the softness of his cheeks and the way that his breath still smells faintly of milk. And while I love his sweet rolls and the way he clings to me, I do have an inkling of desire for the days when he will be giant and strong and be able to destroy armies and catch bullets in his hands.

What, readers, are your fears? Do you fear the things that go bump in the night?

When I get restless like this I cut my hair. I had my dear Jessie to help me this time.

This is new.

In the sunshine.

Frrriieeeennndddssss

Mon Bebe

More on life later.

 

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Hmm.

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When he was even smaller

So, I had a kind of long well thought out post that just completely got erased. Frazzle razzle.

Enjoy this picture of baby and smile :).

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