Piles of Ash

I don’t know how extroverts do it. I have been “on” since 7:30 am. Running meetings, teaching kids, socializing at various events and now I am depleted and spent. The house is dark expect for a few dim lights, and the red wine is perfectly tepid; Elliott Smith songs fit snug like a beloved blanket.

I cry for her at the weirdest parts of the day. In the staff bathroom. On the drive to work. Alone in my classroom. Some tears of joy, the others a bit more painful. I have so much to unload, but I will hold on while she is holding on. Waiting with baited breath for her to let go.

Every time I think of her my heart fills with more love and joy that I can handle. A small part of me hopes that I will cry every time I think of her. Like our own private cleansing. I see her smile and feel her humor, and the sobbing begins. Her leaving forcing me to unload. She empties me and fills me back up with whatever it is that I need to carry on.

It’s scary the masks we wear to pretend like we aren’t constantly falling apart. We are just piles of ash held together in the urns of our skin. Stardust waiting to be returned to forgotten infernos. “With hidden cracks that don’t show, but just constantly just grow.”

The are no words to name these things. There are songs that come close. The darkness. The night and a new tomorrow. 

We Are Young

It’s kind of sad how excited I am for what is happening right now, and what might follow the next three hours. It is 8:37pm on a Friday night. I just got home from a pool party with some friends, where I had a few beers and Pina Coladas. I am nursing a gentle tired buzz, but nothing drastic like a drunk. I have hit play on song one on Lemonade by Beyonce and I have nothing to really do or worry about tonight, expect for trying to capture a few words that you might nod your head at.


I might watch some random youtube clips when I am done, or I could commit to a full movie- Deadpool is begging to be watched. I just read some lit on The Big Lebowski so I am dying to watch Barton Fink or the Hudsucker Proxy. If a film is too much commitment I could read a few essays from Bad Feminist by Roxanne Gay or if all else fails I could just shut the whole show down and go to sleep before 10pm. The point being- I gots options, and none of them involve me getting of the couch.


Shift from Beyonce….to The Strokes. Just found out there is a new EP out and three new songs out on Spotify. I am still a big fan of the boys from NYC…


We drove up to Boston from NYC. Ari, David and I. I can’t pinpoint the geography but somehow we stopped at Yale to visit with Jeff. I have no idea whose car we took. Could have been a bus. I have no recollection. I just know that we were in Yale for a night before the night of the show. We had driven up to Boston to see The Strokes at the Orpheum. 2004? 2005? Not sure. We drank at some local Boston bar across the street from the couch where we were staying- a friend of Dave’s. We were out of place but we belonged.


The night of show, we partied pretty hard. Can’t get into the details as this is a family post, but we were feeling pretty good as we entered the show. I think the Kings of Leon opened, but I don’t remember if we arrived to see them. We were sitting in row AA front and center. That means that there were 26 other rows in front of us, but there was a path that started from the center of the stage and ended in front of my seat.


The show started and everyone was on their feet singing and jumping about. Then around the sixth song, Casablancas leapt from the stage and started to walk down the path. The song was Under Control, at least that is how my memory has constructed it- he was headed straight for me. Then before I knew it he was sitting on my lap and we were sharing the mic. The spotlight was on us both and I was screaming at the top of my lungs:


I don't want to change your mind,
I don't want to change the world.
I just want to watch it go by.
I just want to watch you go by.
We were young, darling
We don't have no control
We're out of control…


He smelled of leather and sweat and he is a much bigger dude than you might think. He returned to the stage after a few bars. It was a good night.


These new songs aren’t bad on first listen. It’s been sixteen years since The Strokes, the darlings of hip NYC rock renaissance started, and they are still making pretty good jams.

The Introvert Wins Again

We saw one lone star.
She told me that she once heard that stars can be wished upon
She asked me if that was true:
I suppose; I responded
that anything can be wished upon
if you have dreams in your heart.


Earlier we walked home from dinner in the tropical heat-
the palm trees swaying unseen in the shadows
hints of frangipani and hibiscus
blending into the city streets under the traffic.
She told me about her favorite author
with intensity and excitement.
She loves his artwork and he is a good collaborator.
“Daddy!”
Every sentence pre-punctatued with two syllables
“Daddy, Eric Carle uses so many colors and writes so many book.”
She told me that she loves books and can’t wait to read to her kids every night.
“Daddy! I hope my kids appreciate books as much as we do.”
I was flabbergasted by the words coming out of her six year old mouth.


Early, on the way to dinner, the other one asked about the Bible.
We discussed the Garden of Eden story.
The tree of knowledge-
Eve being made from Adam’s rib.
“Why wouldn’t god take the time to maker her from scratch?”
That’s a great question I told her.
Holding back from defining the biblical roots of misogyny.
“So what do you call yourself?”
Atheist.
“Mommy too?”
I think so.
“What am I?”
Whatever you decide to be when you are ready to decide.
“For now I think I believe in the greek gods.”
Those are great stories.
“Daddy? What’s the difference between a myth and a religion?”
Great question.

…

My plans to go out tonight and make a night of it have fallen victim to fatigue and exhaustion.
Instead I am back in my pyjamas at 8:45 on a Friday night.


The immediate future looks like this:
finish up this thing.
grab a glass of wine
watch The Punk Singer.

Blank Days

It’s a quiet Sunday night: Bit of work. (Finally finished all the marking from X-Mas. Six classes worth of stuff) Kaia set up a spa and painted my nails gold. Bike ride. Lunch. Pool. Some TV. Dinner. Bed, for the kids at least, but honestly I am not far behind.

...

In the kitchen making a sandwich with Kaia. Bob Dylan playing on our new speaker:

“I have been listening to this guy since I was your age. My dad loved his music, so it was always playing at our house. He tells really good stories. I used sit with his records and learn about history and poetry. I would love to share some of his words with you. Take a listen.”

There’s a restless hungry feeling that don’t mean no one no good…..

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

...

I remember the ocean from earlier today- littered with tankers and shipping vessels, the teal coloured water shimmering beneath the fast moving clouds. A cool breeze. The sand between our toes. Throwing that coconut into sea.

Maybe the blank days are okay. Better even.
Maybe it is nice not to be weighted down by too much thinking and empathy and indignation and hopelessness and passion.

Sure you watched that video about how people in Syria and Iraq are on the brink of freezing to death, but then the video of Kevin Hart, Ice Cube and Conan giving a driving lesson made you quickly forget.

...

This was a very social weekend and the introvert in me needed today to wallow in the silence and solitude, behind the wall of this screen and the ambiguity of these words. Leave you likes at the door and I will try and reply to a comment.

Lessons Learned:

• Expose your kids to all the things you love. 
• I love riding bikes with family. 
• Sometimes you just got to go with the flow and not expect much from yourself. 

1. What are some things that you will make sure your kids learn to love? 
2. What’s your favorite thing to don Sundays?