Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Transport

Books transport us to a different world.

I forget this until I have a chance to slow down and read. Whether I am reading about a Googler living amongst make believe worlds in San Francisco, or a Quaker girl helping slaves to Canada in 1851, I then am transported somewhere other than a world of insurance and doctors' visits and karate lessons. I hold my breath as Ms. Haymaker brings a scrap of bread to a twelve year old slave on his way to freedom. I root for the hungry kid working at a bookstore waiting for his big break on the inter tubes. I read frantically, trying to absorb history from a world perspective about the Sandinistas and the contras. I come up for air, astonished every time, almost as if I have come up from a dark tunnel into the midday glare. Each time I close a book, good or bad, I am startled that the world has continued on its path.

And I am also aware of the world I want to get lost in, now more than ever. I am taking notes, almost feverishly, because I want to record every bird's conversation, every smell, every interaction that carries a quiet weight. I read and I plot. I read the words, scribble them on napkins, record them in my Evernote, and marvel at the thread that runs through us all.

"It took real skill to remove the gardener's hand from the garden."
                                                                 -Tracy  Chevalier

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Mah boy.



I found another one while going through old papers. This one is circa 2009-2010. For those of you who are not fluent in first-grade writing, I believe the monkey wrote "I have the best mom in the universe."

He also signed his name in parentheses above but I am not showing it (looking at you, Mr. Saudi Arabia lurker....).

I hope he ALWAYS believes this. Even during his teen years.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Ribs

I had this roommate in college with a little thing for medical textbooks. She was a dance major, but she had more NCLEX and DSM titled tomes than any med or nursing student.

If I had a cough- she was there waiting to diagnose a rare fungal lung infection. If I had a rash- obviously something stemming from a rare autoimmune disease found primarily in Hasidic Jewish men.    Anxiety over a breakup- there was a diagnosis for that.

She obviously rubbed off on me. Twenty years later, and here I was yesterday...

"My. Ribs. Hurt."

"K. Sometimes things hurt."

"No. Not a good hurt. Like a HURT hurt."

"Ok. Sometimes things hurt hurt. Give it a day."

You don't understand. It HURT hurts in a weird place. In between the ribs. I think I have rib cancer."

"There is no such thing as... Never mind."

And today....

"Hey, guess what?!"

"What?"

"My ribs don't hurt anymore. I don't think I have rib cancer."

"I told you that it was just a twenty-four hour rib cancer."


I love when people get me. Without questioning my fear of developing
micropsia or triskaidekaphobia.





Monday, February 4, 2013

Reality Trumps the Fairy Tale

This happened.



The monkey boy writes random little snippets in the strangest places, as if he has to ground the thoughts  in reality before they float away.

This one, I found in a random spiral notebook. I was going through the piles that inevitably build up and reproduce, making sure there was nothing tax-related or important. And I found this.

Once upon, crossed out hard, and replaced by a simple truth. Almost like the monkey was saying, in a ten-year-old, non-cussing way, "fuck the fairy tale."