Transitions

Lyra's just asked me how cooked tomahtoes feel - are they squishy? This, in response to me flailing my hands about, trying to get a scalding flap of tomato off my lips and back onto the plate.

"Indeed they are," I said. "Very squishy."

Today I've met yet another American - a Hawaiian, this one. She recognized my voice from Lyra's ballet class (not my face, because I generally drop her off and dart to the nearest cafe to enjoy a nice, peaceful cup of coffee and a few minutes' uninterrupted read). Now that Lyra's in school, I'm feeling more social, a bit more open to actual social interaction. Once you have children (and ride the bus), people become easy to meet: the gorgeous French woman whose daughter dances with Lyra at ballet; the father whose daughter is in Lyra's kindergarten class; the woman whose son also attends Steiner - all of these people ride the bus with me, and we chat about families and balancing and do you have two children? How does that work?

These families are all lovely, the way they make it work and their willingness to reach out to newcomers with open arms and share bits of their lives and the secrets of how they not only keep it all together, but create rich, warm, inviting lives for themselves and their children.

As for me, I've never spoken to so many "strangers" before, and it's just as well. I'm learning to be a little more open, to extend a warm hand to others as they've done for me. And still learning, too, how to balance my own newly-formed family. These things take time, but I've been incredibly lucky.

The Last of Budapest's Summer

There are so many photos of Budapest, far too many to sort through them all. I like these, the ones that don't really fit in anywhere - no landmarks, no important people in my life - just quirky little shots that I snuck in while walking to one of the many delicious restaurants or cafes in the beautiful city.

We visited Budapest just a month after moving to Brighton, and being away for almost a week helped me think of Brighton as home for the first time. Even though I loved the Hungarian city (and especially the weather), I couldn't wait to get back.

Today I'm reading about writing, thinking about writing, and hoping my new books come in soon. It's rainy and overcast with just a hint of chill in the air, and at night the smell of woodsmoke is beginning to fill the air. This feels like my first autumn in a long, long time.

Food.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered a casualty of Lyra's splatter-paint. The effect was so beautiful, and so perfectly unlikely.

Berries here are smaller, redder, and more delicate. This isn't the first time I've stopped in the middle of breakfast and taken a photograph.

Breakfast.

Snack and subject. In the background, the first rainy autumn day of the year.

It'll Get You

And this is what happens when I write early, early in the morning.

Every advice column about relationships invariably begins with the questioner, usually female, attempting to persuade the giver of advice as to the genuine, deep feelings of goodness she has for her partner. "He's wonderful, kind, nice, sweet, caring, and really, really great!" she writes. "But he's also an alcoholic."

Every time. "But he... beats the children." "Sleeps with other women." "Is emotionally abusive."

This isn't the part I have a problem with, believe it or not; my problem is with the initial description. What exactly is "wonderful"? Can we be more specific?

"He's the only guy I've ever ever met who loves "Mork and Mindy" as much as I do! He loves it when I order sardines-and-pineapple pizza! And he makes hand puppets out of dirty socks! And for some reason I love this! But he's an alcoholic! Help!"

Exclamation points aside, at least my attention is piqued. She must really like this guy; let's push back our shirtsleeves and get to work.

Unfortunately, I don't think people are all that specific when it comes to choosing a mate. They're looking for that certain je ne sais quoi that tells them someone's special, and this thing, whatever it is, is apparently capable of overriding Good Sense.

My pet theory, the one I made up just now, is that what we normally call compatibility isn't finding that one special person who lets you eat with your toes so much as finding someone who can simply relate to you on your level. I'm just thinking back to a number of perfectly good relationships I've had with perfectly good people who were perfectly nice (and wonderful, and caring, and sweet, and great, and probably those really are the only words I could have thought of to describe them). I'd never quite let any of these people in on my private thoughts (not the "I hate how you leave your washcloth in the sink" thoughts, more like the "Do you know what I was... um... nevermind" thoughts) because I knew they would think I was crazy. Utterly insane. And I wasn't ready for that.

It's good to let the crazy out.

I'm not claiming to define the laws of attraction; we have other people to do that (remember: big eyes = infantile = good).

Come to think of it, letting the crazy out probably includes eating with your toes. Poor pet theory... she died so young.

October 10, 2008

Once upon a time, it was Spring...

Once upon a time, it was Spring, and things were different. Then everything changed. The world was no less beautiful and in many ways was even more beautiful than before.

As time passed, more and more information had to be examined and accommodated. Still, the world was beautiful.


October 17th, 2008

Patrick and the Love Hand

At a whim I thought I'd peer into those forgotten drafts that began to be written, once, but were set aside, perhaps because they were no good and perhaps because I had something better to do. The titles always take my breath away. This one, "Patrick and the Love Hand", was a dream I wrote down on May 31st of this last year.

I don't have much time. We're getting married in an hour, in a week. My dad's paid for it all; the little altar adorned in lilies, Grecian somehow. A priest. A chaplain. A cheap wedding dress.

I'm ready to walk down the aisle.

No, no, I gesture for him to come near me, wiggling my index finger like it's about to fall off. "Come here, come here." He comes. "This isn't how it's supposed to happen. It isn't in the script."

____________________________________________________________

Once again I'm in my little apartment. Shells are being fired here and there; I've got my helmet on. A couple of troops are leaning against the brick wall; I'm sitting down for a cigarette. "It's horrible," they say. I nod. "It's not so bad. What's that smell?"

A horse, lying down. Green. Palomino once, I think. Before it died. Before it was killed in all the fighting. I wonder if it served its country well, if it can have any concept of how or why it died. The horse gets up. Flies circle its eyes. It looks at me.

"You have to go back," it says. I wonder how it survived, how it can live like this, puss oozing from every orifice, a saddle still on its back, its dead eyes gazing into mine. Horses have a different perspective. They can't see straight ahead.

"You have to go back," it says. "Sure," I tell it. I know. I find the bridle. Its legs will catch like that, wandering around with the reins hanging down around its ankles. "Hold on." I reach to twist the reins and loop them around the neck so they'll sit still, not wopping around the legs like they want to catch fire. "Not like that," he says. "He's afraid of the reins. Gently." He likes what I do, and I move past him toward the door.

___________________________________________________________________

"There's a ghost in the house." She heads for the closet, ignoring my words, tired of the repetition. "There's a ghost in the house. You don't see it but it's there. Don't be afraid. It doesn't want to get you; it wants to be free. Do you know what that feels like?" I try to throw my cigarette against the ground but it just bounces and I catch it beneath my boot. "Do you know what that feels like?" She pulls back the curtains: the closet, full of all of our clothes. Dresses, hats, a violin. "Do you get it?"

She pulls out a suitcase. A sigh. Brushes a stray curly lock from her forehead. She doesn't care about me anymore. I care, but there's the horse, its ass sticking out from four feet of designer dresses, green and moldy and stinking up the place. I hate it, but I gotta take care of this thing.

This is a Sham

Blarghy blargh blargh.

The Slug Came Back

...and so did I.