Tuesday, July 5, 2011

the one where I shake off this madness*

Title has no meaning here.
Today: My daughter passed her driving test, has her license, doubled my car insurance, plans now to stay in for the rest of the day.*

Rite
of
passage

She took her time getting this license, in fact, had to renew her permit because it expired before she got around to taking the test.

She's a good driver.

Friends nagged her. "Just go take the damned test! Why don't you just take it? You need to get your license!"

Why?

Sixteen
still my baby
sixteen
full-grown
sixteen
complicated and rich
sixteen
for five more months...

I feel like waging war on time.

I feel like sleeping.

I have lost some important documents, though the losing of them isn't nearly as serious as my middle-of-the-night self thought.

They'll turn up.

In the meantime, I have the account number and can handle business.

My stomach growls.
My fat stomach growls.
The soft roll of it
should be familiar to me now.
Soft
roll
like the grassy hill
my brother and I rolled down
in summer behind our Maryland house
just at dusk
just before our mother called us
to come in for our baths,
all red eyed and itchy skinned
from green allergies.

I feel no motion
in fingers rushing across keys.

I received the session one packet
for my MFA residency.
Only three other students
are in my group.
Love their pieces,
which, I tell myself,
means they will not love mine.

I don't know why I think this.
I do know why.
I don't trust
....

in what?

Oh.
Whatever.

I wonder if I am the only skeptic
when it comes to God.

(I stalk the other poets, see that I may not be the oldest, see that I may be the most mundane. Why does the word "prosaic" pop into my head? Because it does. It just does.)

In the mail, my daughter receives two letters from Pvt. Buddy. No return address yet. She must have sent them last week before she knew how we could reach her. We have letters ready to go out as soon as we know where to send them.

Boot
camp.

I received a legal notification about some Honda lawsuit. I'm going to exclude myself. It all sounds wonky. Wonky makes my stomach grumble more than growl.

Complain, complain, complain.

Now that I have the other poets' poems, I'm not sure what to do with them. Study them? Critique them? Try to see inside the writers' heads? Make a collage? Collect my whimsical eyelashes and paste them to the computer screen?

The cat makes pudding on a blanket. He wants me to sleep, and I could since I had a bit of insomnia last night.

But I'd rather find those missing documents and maybe buy my Girl a berry cobbler.

...

*I was wrong about my Girl staying in all day. I took her to a friend's (because she didn't think she needed the car). But she needed some things - her sunglasses, tennis shoes and socks, a sandwich... . After I fed her and she changed shoes, she took the car, her first time ever driving alone. She has 5 p.m. plans with another friend, so why not?

I rarely leave my house anyway, right?

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