And you know

you're in trouble when your five year old asks you if the polar bears are going to live and you tell him, "no, they are going to die and no one is doing much about it, but that is an existential crisis for you. What you really need to worry about is how it is going to be too hot to go outside." And you know you're lucky when the next day he says "I figured it out Mommy--they will all swim to Antartica" and he then informs you that is a real theory. You know you're in trouble when after soccer you wrestle him to the ground to pull a Capris Sun out of his hands as all the parents stare in horror at your over the top attitude to sugar. And you know you are lucky when he looks you in the eye and says "why?" and you say "High-fructose corn-syrup" and he says "o.k." quite easily. You know you're in trouble when you are driving so fast to the teach-in you are teaching that starts in 3 minutes and your are on your cell phone and the car in front of you pulls into your lane and you swerve to miss it and hit a pole. And you know you're lucky when they say sorry and no one is hurt and you say "well, as long as your fine and we're fine gotta go" and head off to your teach-in --just 3 minutes late. You know your in trouble when you can't get the top groups to get it and you know your lucky when the Idaho Astronomical Society "got it" without being asked. You know you're in trouble when you wake up sad too early in the morning and can't sleep because of it and you know you're lucky when you find an email in your inbox from your sister asking you to lunch, just in time to help you not feel sad, and help you start to make a good day. You know you're in trouble when dinner is soba noodles, potatoes and ketchup, and you know you're lucky when strawberries and peaches are snacked on while the pasta and potatoes cook. You know you're in trouble when you are so mad that the bathwater is thrown purposely out of the tub that you shout "there will be no stories tonight!" And you know you're lucky when you actually do read a story in Spanish and English. You know you're in trouble when you are counting to 120 and thinking fall asleep...now...fall asleep...now. You know you are lucky when you bury your face into their sleeping bodies and hear the sound of restful breath. You know you're in trouble when you can't quit thinking about the weight of the world and you know you are lucky when you remember who it is you are worried about the world for.

Clearing Up

Just to be clear--I had to blow my nose on the sleeve of my sweater because there was not anything remotely like a tissue in the car and I was super congested to the point of not being able to respond to my big sister on the phone, and, well it was practically a spontaneous blow. Also to be clear--the quote I posted from a few days ago regarding the Pellinor series is a song that was song during the time of Annar, as that time was passing--the light moving to dark, turmoil taking over the land. Sometimes I feel like we are going through that kind of a time right now.

You know you're in trouble when...

You know you're in trouble when your driving down the freeway and have to blow your nose on your sweater and then, forget about it when you get to your destination and continue to wear your sweater with snot obviously on your sleeve. You know you're in trouble when you are super tired, but up on the internet anyways while a t.v. you didn't turn on is blasting and then out of nowhere, without realizing you were even listening, you find yourself laughing at a joke you didn't even hear by a late night talk show host. You know you're in trouble when the toilet paper is out in one bathroom and so you use the other bathroom and then you realize eventually that you are out of toilet paper in both bathrooms and that is what it takes to get you to walk to the cleaning closet and get fresh rolls of toilet paper. You know you're in trouble when the nice guy who helps you load your stuff says, "Hey, did you know your gas cap is missing" and you did, and it has been missing for likely a year. And he says, "That effects the fuel quality, it loses its volatility" and you didn't even think of that. And then he tells you, once you've started the car that you need to get something else done because of how your engine sounds and you didn't really even try to remember what he said. And you still haven't gotten a new gas cap. You know you're in trouble when you cry at basically anything remotely emotional, including commercials for t.v. dramas. Mommy brain, overwork, stress. Life.

The Song of Theokas

"I kiss the peaks of Lamedon with my eyes And the white arms of the passionate sea Which loves this beautiful island that I love For I am dying..." -From Alison Croggon's The Books of Pellinor

Emails Unanswered

There are two emails I have sent in the last week, which will likely never garner a response. Not that I don't send emails all the time that are not responded to, but in these instances a response of some sort was implied. Actually,three. 1) An email to a federal regulatory body requesting information about technological issues surrounding a controversial technology. What is the regulatory body for, if not to let the public know about the issue they are regulating? That is a naive questions huh, that is the point of most regulation, to keep things hidden. 2) A short email to my old mentor in grad school, who I had so much in common with and with whom the fallout of our relationship was rather irreperable. It was about Plain and seeing what academia may have planned. Feminist academia. Oh well, no response. I am not the student anymore, who do Ithink I am asking questions of the teacher? 3) A letter to a major group asking for assistance. No reply. So, maybe there is something wrong with the way I communicate. Perhaps it is out of balance. That is not effective, to be out of balance in the work. But the work has been polarized. Sometimes I can only start over here. The distance across the gap is large. I have not built the bridge yet. I see myself as a hermit with a hoody on. My hair is greying and I am alone, the children grown, the house empty. I am a mute, I have stopped talking entirely, the us of my voice has been proven unheard. E-mails unanswered.

Sleeping and Breathing

"I miss them." "Oh, you just miss them sleeping and breathing in the house?" "Yeah." Alone now, I lay down on the couch. Sometimes I just like to pass out, even in my clothes. I like to sleep on the couch that way. A sharp alarm sounds from an insect. I think at first it is mechanical. It wakes me and then I fall asleep in spite of it. My boots are still on and at one point, not very far into rest, I take off the boots and get in bed. I fall asleep. The phone rings. Urgency. I think they are hurt, something has happened. "He's sick, like that time. He wants you." I really can barely piece it together. As bad as the time in OR? Is the ambulance coming? Is he turning blue? I get in the car and the drive across town feels like it takes forever. I lived over here as a girl and now my boys are sleeping on the same street. With the same periodic traffic. Finally, I arrive. He is bundled outside. He smiles "Hi Mama" No, not like last time, but he wanted me, so I came. Tonight, the little one is asleep and the bigger is up with me. I hear the alarm again and find the insect with an antennae trapped in a bit of web. We help it detach and the alarm ends. It eagerly moves on, finally free. But he is still singing in the house. Is he thirsty? Maybe he just wants out now. Ever since I lived with the insects, I feel connected to them, when I let myself think that much about them. The boys enjoy them. Tonight they are sleeping and breathing here. That feels better.

here i am

thought i couldn't even blog tonight...but i can always blog here...its really some strange thing to use a public space as a private space and remain committed to the idea that it is private. someone did a google search on my dad the other day and found my father's day blog entry, and then wrote him a note to tell him my tribute gave them goosebumps. after liking that someone confirmed their suspicion that my dad rocks via my blog, i then thought, "Well, i hope they didn't read much further to see how whacked his daughter really is." Maybe everyone's whacked, maybe I am just a little extra for being comfortable to make it available for anyone to read...if they find it. If a blog is written but never read does it have meaning? is it only feminists who are willing to say no to nukes? i think maybe. hilary did. maybe i am wrong. why do i feel so right? could there really be two sides to this (or more)? what is...? so processing here is public and private. there are things i will not write about, like the way, really, i wish i could just drop to the ground, into the grass lining the path and make the moment pause or extend. make the bi-directionality settle and those passing by take a look through. a real one. you know that thing when someone looks at you like they get it? What if there were more of those moments? i think i would really splay on my back looking up at the sky and open my mouth into a deep grin. pause. here i am.

Anthem with written thoughts

What would he see if he saw the unseen? What would he say if he knew I liked green? Yeah. Jagged edges and small wounds. Crying over frogs lost in an airconditioner, that thankfully wasn't on and so the frog jumped out. Little whimpers and cries, a big sigh and big boy stuff like undies and school and not sharing. Playdough and sign language, science. Today I chose hanging file folders in rainbow. I guiltily chose them over the plain green recycled ones. There are so many different topics, I figured the colors would help me organize. They look good in the drawer. Its fine to call myself "80%" in so many things. Not 100% in very many. Like...the quality of my sleep at night in between dreams where I work out longings like I am wringing out the laundry. I have tried ringing out laundry and I have watched it done right. Its hard, like the hard kicks of two boys most of the night in my abdomen. Fleeting and painful, while it also soothes in its intimacy. In any case. Written communication is a dream. I am excited for my oldest to grasp it and flow, he will love it. What an adventure, to string these letters together, themselves arbitrary, in a succession of representations and meanings. Great fun. All right, I like green. Yah. Alright I say what I mean! Yah.

My Right Foot

I was simply stepping. And as it turns out it is a good thing the step was simple, and not robust or firm. It was a light step, around the rear of a big truck and the road biker heading the wrong way up the busy street that struck my right foot flew over the handlebars in slow motion. The papers I had fervently printed and neatly stacked flew across the roadway as well, the light catching their angles, a tire mark left on my sign-in sheet. The board, a key organizing tool, was upended as was I as I flew to the ground on my right side, but bounced back up in shock by the time he had hit the ground. I am gathering the papers along with my driving companion and the biker. He is apologizing I am trying to piece the impact together. Just a bit stiff in the right ankle, but for most of the afternoon numb. You'll have to excuse me, I explain to the crowd gathered, I was just hit by a bike, and I don't quite feel myself, but within instances the adrenaline took care of that, then just a dull pulsing ache for a day and now, not much but a tweak. We have seen each other twice. Yesterday in the produce section, I was holding some vegetable and chatting and he walked up and just stood. "Oh you are the guy who hit me on the bike" I say laughing. His earnest apologies are so genuine. I am also relieved he was not more hurt, we share the moment of what could have happened had there been traffic, had my step been grander. He is worried a bit about my body, I am worried about his. Again today, we see each other. "How are you feeling?" he asks. "Really,I'm fine. Its nothing." I say smiling as broadly as I can to assure him. Funny a step with the right foot, and an unusual choice of direction, a coincidence of timing, forever mapped in memory, partially put on the body, and a shared marker of experience by sheer accident.