Well. Start with...
My son is now seven years old.
If your mind isn't blown, then you must understand the unremarkable, unstoppable passage of time, and the inevitability of such a milestone. Yeah, well. YEAH, WELL.
My perception of time is measured by how long I spend in the shower these days. If I'm in and out quickly, it must be a Thursday. If I'm taking my sweet ass time about it, it must be virtually any other day. That's it. There is only Thursday and Not-Thursday. Seven years old! I think that means God is keeping score now. They learn to lie at this age, I'm told.
So the boy is in 2nd grade now. His feelings remain ambivalent, leaning, at times, toward displeasure. Home is rad. I imagine everywhere else must feel less rad by comparison. (Does this mean he measures his settings the way I measure time? Home and Not-Home? Cripes.) He is tall. Strong. And so heartrepairingly sweet. His ability to memorize hours of dialog have come in handy with his space and nature facts. Course, the space facts are sprinkled with "freakin' hell"s, but, to quote All-The-Way May, "What difference does it make? She's readin', okay?"
His left eye still gives him fits. The only thing that seems to help is a steroid drop, and I don't know if you've ever seen a seven year old on steroids, but uh... it's a challenge. I am nauseatingly conscious of the fact that the only reason this whole thing works - our entire way of life right now - is because of my mom. She's been having some issues lately and it reminds me about that damn passage of time. What would I do? What could I do?
Speaking of family things, MY SISTER FINALLY GOT APPROVED FOR DISABILITY!! Nearly three damn years of constant suffering and they're finally relenting that she might not be faking it. Those federal cunts. But it's done. She's done everything she needed to do and it is done. She still experiences the weight of the disease, but she is in remarkably high spirits most of the time. Or so she appears. I should probably work on my own appearance, come to think of it...
FFS, Brit. Are you still sad?
Believe me, I'm just as shocked as you. The silvers nesting in my hair are yet another reminder that there are more Not-Thursdays than there are Thursdays. I am mostly able to think about Nick without losing it. I almost never dream him anymore, but when I do, I'm filled with all the same unforgiven emotions I was filled with then. And thank God for anger. Thank GOD for it. Anger is the tough guy exterior my sadness wears and my broken heart tends to not want to pick a fight with a sad thought in a leather jacket. As ignorant as I am of time, I am wholly aware of my daily impressions. The Talk Show Host who asks how you're doing, what you're working on, how it's going for you, your hopes and dreams and frustrations and wants teed up for your attention starved heart to go yard. Ya know. That sort of thing. It's an all day thing, it feels like. And the only time I'm not doing it is when it's Not-Thursday and I'm in the shower, music playing a soft sort of pong off the tile, the water falling hard on my face - illustrating chaos theory a thousand times before I take a breath. I'd found a blue mole on my right breast recently and nearly went into my impression of someone not certain they were going to die. Upon closer inspection, it was a piece of blue confetti that had made it down my shirt. And since they're biodegradable, the water had turned the paper into a blue circular smudge. Apart from that, the shower is usually the only safe space I have.
Is poetry not safe anymore?
Probably. I'm just so disenchanted with it. It is more cyclical than anything - the pattern of inspiration, equine suffering, disillusion, break, inspiration, equine suffering, disillusion, and so on. I've tried to quit, like really quit, so many times now. It resembles my alcoholism. Wait. I think I said I didn't have that, didn't I? Well. I lied. I'm older than 7. What'dya expect?
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