january and 2003 arrive

december 18                                                                           seasons

I passed one man who had
Slain thousands
And thousands more
Thronged at his side
And granted him a life of peace
With pennants waving gayly
Over his lands

And I passed one man who had
Saved thousands
And one more came
And sat by his side
And played to him
On an ancient lyre
And kissed his hand
On leave-taking

And the slayer and the
Savior were one man
And the thousands
Slain and the
Thousands saved
Were one man
And the throngs who attended the first
And the one man who
Sand for the last
Were one man

And we are him

-Joe Henry
 

In last week's Time Magazine, Garrison Keiller writes candidly about the special favours society grants 'the rich'. As I read the piece, I tried to imagine anyone who would read it and think 'Gee, I'm too rich and I don't deserve special treatment because of it'.
This thinking is in keepng with the many conversations I've had about those maniac drivers who cut you off and think that disobeying road laws is their right. How come none of us are ever those people?

The reason is that we all believe we're good, no matter who we are.
 
 
 
 
 
 

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december 16                                                                                m  o  n         day

w
 

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december 13                                                                                           friday

with rice crispie squares as my only comfort food, being woken up 10 times per night by a kicking, itchy five-month old becomes tedious indeed. it's hard to know what space you're in with these cards. by afternoon, i feel quite fine. by eight-forty-nine, i feel wide awake.

i'm in email-paranoia mode. sending much more than i receive, i'm recalling the early days when it must have been hours  i spent every night here. typing. connecting. reaching out. was that a new fad or was it just poots-behaviour a la mode?

although, an email out of the blue from the guy with the big hair and the striped socks met me with surprise and glee. he and his family have moved not far from here, actually. we don't bump into them though. he's he one who has already plans to grow old. there must be something he really doesn't like about his life, although he had a darned good explanation, i forget just now what it was.

today the world is really dirty, but our cars got a double whammy 'trimoussage'. that's Esso-speak for red,white, and blue foam. Christmassy. they're just sitting outside being shiny. and with a big pile of food in the cupboards, i guess we'll just settle down for a long winter's nap. it's amazing what we consider normal in this part of the world. just amazing.
 
 
 

i guess you could call this my reverse portal.
 
 
 
 

"and it seems to me, you lived your life like a candle in the wind;
never knowing who to cling to, when the rain set in
and i would have liked to know you but i was just a kid
your candle burned out long before, your legend ever did..."

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december 10 2002                                                                     if i wrote a book

there are many subjects that mEp-things create;
plenty of crevaces left untouched in our daily subconsciuos;
but weaving the abstract to begin with, into something  coherent
is not my forte.

with minutes to spare and no spare concentration
steve martin and my husband reminisce in the kitchen
i stare into here looking for A  picture  to paint into words:
all the sums of my daily tasks and thoughts,
but instead i squirm; my forehead rumpled
and remind myself of how to push negativity out! out! you evil demons of negativity
you have never done me well.

we walk slowly in the crunchy sidewalk snow;
we stuff bananas into the space under the stroller
the mess follows me around
as we try to keep the dishes dishwashed
in december.
 
 

too many distractions

time to hide the rice crispie squares.
 
 

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december 09 2002                                           life becomes time

it's true; life is merely a series of connected instances held together by the past and the future.

he says life is a database; subject-driven processes
the past exists in my mind in a shape that i try to re-create, impossibly so.
the reason i write is to collect all the moments passed lived, in an as-yet
futile attempt to summarize everything at once. i have an uncontrollable
urge to see everything i know or see simultaneously. but that doesn't even
make any sense...

he says to make a film, yet i can't even assign a shape to them...
 

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december 07 2002

the observation bias is never clearer than once you have a child.