2003-09-11 - 10:25 a.m.
Took the car in this morning, and rode my bike from there. I like our car guy -- his name's Daniel (pronounced, you know, the Spanish way) and he has pictures of his two cute boys all over the wall -- in the snow, playing soccer, at the beach. Very nice.
I saw a lady getting into her car, which was mysteriously filled with verizon boxes. I realized that yesterday the roto-rooter people had been at her house.
And -- it only took me 35 minutes today, although it's not quite fair to compare since I didn't start at quite the same place. Still - it was not very far away.
Now I am very hot. I've got long pants on, which is probably a big mistake.
Also, the weather is sooo very nice -- I think we should go backpacking. Hmmm. It's perfectly lovely out. Warm days, cool nights, fall colors --
Okay -- what else.
Homework so far has been relatively painless -- both girls have been good about just getting it done.
Nora's room looks like a bomb went off in her dresser, sending clothes all over the place.
Here's a poem -- forgive the awful format.
>No one came home
>Max was in bed that morning, pressed
>against my feet, walking to my pillow
>to kiss my nose, long and lean with aqua-
>marine eyes, my sun prince who thought
>himself my lover. He was cream and golden
>orange, strong willed, lord of the other
>cats and his domain. He lay on my chest
>staring into my eyes. He went out at noon.
>He never came back. A smear of blood
>on the grass at the side of the road
>where we saw a huge coyote the next
>evening. We knew he had been eaten
>yet we could not know. We kept looking
>for him, calling him, searching. He
>vanished from our lives in an hour, My cats
>have always died in old age, slowly
>with abundant warning. Not Max.
>He left a hole in my waking.
>A woman leaves her children in day care,
>goes off to her secretarial job
>on the 100th floor, conscientious always
>to arrive early, because she needs the money
>for her children, for health insurance,
>for rent and food and clothing and fees
>for all the things kids need, whose father
>has two new children and a great lawyer.
>They are going to eat chicken that night
>she has promised, and the kids talk of that
>together, fried chicken with adobo, rice
>and black beans, food rich as her love.
>The day is bright as a clean mirror.
>His wife has morning sickness so does
>not rise for breakfast. He stops for coffee,
>a yogurt, rushing for the 8:08 train.
>Ignoring the window, he writes his five
>pages, the novel that is going to make
>him famous, cut him loose from the desk
>where he is chained to the phone
>eight to ten hours, making cold calls.
>In his head, naval battles rage. He
>has been studying Midway, the Coral
>Sea, Guadalcanal. He can recite
>tonnage, tides, the problems with torpedoes.
>For five years, he has prepared.
>His makeshift office in the basement
>is lined with books and maps. His book
>will sing with bravery and error.
>The day is blue and whistles like a robin.
>His father was a fireman and his brother.
>He once imagined being a rock star
>but by the end of high school, he knew
>it was his calling, it was his family way.
>As there are trapeze families, clans
>who perform with tigers or horses,
>the Irish travelers, tinkers, gypsies,
>those born to work the earth of their farm,
>and those who inherit vast fortunes
>built of the bones of others, so families
>inherit danger and grace, the pursuit
>of the safety of others before their own.
>The morning smelled of the river,
>of doughnuts, of coffee, of leaves.
>When a man fell into the molten steel
>the company would deliver an ingot
>to bury. Something. Where I live
>on the Cape, lost at sea means no body.
>You can't bury a coffin length of sea
>water. There are stones in our grave
>yards with lists of names, the sailors
>from the ships gone down in a storm.
>MIA means no body, no answer,
>hope that is hopeless, the door
>that can never be quite closed.
>Lives are broken off like tree limbs
>in a storm. Other lives simply dissolve
>like salt in warm water and there is
>no shadow on the pavement, no trace
>They puff into nothing. We can't believe.
>We die still expecting an answer.
>Los desparecidos. Did we notice?
>Did we care? in Chile, funded,
>assisted by the CIA, a democratic
>government was torn down and thousands
>brought into a stadium and never seen
>again. Reports of torture, reports of graves
>in the mountains, bodies dumped at sea
>reports of your wife, your son, your
>father arrested and then vanished
>like cigarette smoke, gone like
>a whisper you aren=EDt quite sure you
>heard, a living person who must, who
>must be somewhere, anywhere, lost,
>wounded, boxed in a cell, in exile,
>under a stone, somewhere, bones,
>a skull, a button, a wisp of cloth.
>In Argentina, the women marched
>for those who had disappeared.
>Did we notice? That happened
>in those places, those other places
>where people didn't speak English,
>ate strange spicy foods, had dictators
>or Communists or sambas or goas.
>They didn't count. We didn't count
>them or those they said had been
>there alive and now who knew?
>Not us. The terror has come home.
>Will it make us better or worse?
>When will we understand what terrorists
>never believe, that we are all
>precious in our loving, all tender
>in our flesh and webbed together?
>That no one should be torn
>out of the fabric of friends and family,
>the sweet and sour work of loving,
>burnt anonymously, carelessly
>because of nothing they ever did
>because of hatred they never knew
>because of nobody they ever touched
>or left untouched, turned suddenly
>to dust on a perfect September
>morning bright as a new apple
>when nothing they did would
>ever again make any difference.
>Copyright (c) 2002 Marge Piercy
> Box 1473, Wellfleet MA 02667
I especially like it from 2 though 5.
OKay -- got to go.
I woke up with a leg cramp last night. Signs of my increasing toughness.
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