Wednesday, February 5, 2014

no news like old news (june - dec 2011)








Here's looking back at 2011.

Here's my one-woman protest to the tyranny of today's latest update.

Here's to no news like old news for helping to calibrate the rate of change.


(click titles to read more)


JUNE 7, 2011
functions modelling change
. . . Frayed edge? As if the sky were neatly woven cloth, warp and weft at right angles?  I’m translating too politely.

When I see that friable, fractal, weeping edge of cloud, what I see reverberates more gutturally.  Not cloth so much as the eroding bank of the sky.

Still translating.  What I see is something up there in the air that feels deeper, visceral, menstrual even. . . .



JULY 11, 2011 
arrows of flowers, bowstring of bees
. . . As in so many things, Fritz is a good part of my pleasure in this pavilion of shapes and eternal quantities, this peaceful place we can come to play, a paper paradise untouched by the messy cross-currents we are otherwise caught in . . . We wake in the morning and (instead of discussing the broken dishwasher) we lie in bed, propped up with pillows, pencils in our hands, graph paper pad against our knees. Our two heads bent over the shared sketch and computation.

This is how geeks sing their aubades. . . .




 JULY 18, 2011 
a fiction: True Confessions
I am not who you think I am.

You may have suspected by now that I write under a pseudonym. To be frank – and I am nothing if not Frank -  I am also not Emma J.  You probably knew that.

 But also the pictures you think you’ve seen of me?  I lifted them from someone else’s life.

That’s not me – placid and fading into grey, twitching a little with the usual midlife impatience, but generally content within the cinnamon-spice aura of a happy home and healthy family.

Not me.


[see also a fiction: Summer, a fiction: Not about the Garden, a fiction: Straight Answers]




JULY 27, 2011
Future Cycle: Small Town Revival (of 24:4): The Town Itself
. . . Do I love the town as a town? 
as a home and refuge and peaceful abode? 

or as a philanthropic challenge? 
as a chance to exercise a gritty aesthetic?. . .
[see also (of 24:1) Public Green, (of 24:2) Old-fashioned Roses & Community Spirit, (of 24:3) A Morning's Ride Away, (of 24: 5) The Heart of the Matter, (of 24:6) Eating Local(of 24:7) Backyard Bounty(of 24: 7½) . . . and Chickens(of 24: the end?) coming to the F.E.A.S.T. ]  



AUGUST 27, 2011
bramble

. . . But in the interim, I go out early, take the dog  (quoting Emily Dickinson who always has so much to say about the kinds of things that always happen) and expect to be surprised by the blackmarket "Hsst-over-here!”  scent of ripening blackberries dangling from unlicensed brambles arcing up, thrusting thuggishly up through the sweet cream-soda froth of Queen Anne's lace at the roadside . . . 







SEPTEMBER 19, 2011
the care and keeping of daughters: 12 secrets
100_4282 (2) . . . Lucky you, you don’t have to compete to matter in this story.  You don’t have to jostle for position with her, or struggle to cut her down to size.  You are already her mother (or father or teacher) and so you have an important place without trying to take her spot or knock her down a notch or push her out of the limelight.  You are privileged to bask in the light that is this unique human being.  
 

Don’t resist that privilege. . . .





SEPTEMBER 4, 2011 
symbolic logic
. . . “I don’t think you think too highly of my kind of logic,” her voice was coming in more limber even though her eyes were closed.

 
“Well, I wasn’t entirely standard myself," he said.  "I would eat the pages as I read them.”

“Why?”

“So I knew when I had finished a chapter.  They didn’t taste very good.  And then I looked at your book to see if I could figure out where we were.  And I saw we didn’t even have the same book" . . .




OCTOBER 5, 2011 
self preservation


. . . I will not consider that the providence of my current season may be a desire to preserve also what was sweet and nourishing to me about my years at home with young children.  My years householding, home-steadying.

See, I am resisting the symbolism. 


I am not saying how I’m standing not at the end of my years of raising children, but near it.  I haven’t said that I’ve crossed over into an unincorporated wild space between Mommyville and the town of What Comes After — but if I did, I'd have to say it’s not so bad here.. . . 





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