Swim
How does one choose this page over the cool water of the lake, the boy whose legs have already grown longer than you ever imagined, his love of swimming?
How does one choose this page over the heat of summer roads where my feet pound over dirt and gravel, the trees bend and bow as I pass the blueberry patch, smell of pine woods, dry and hushed, sweat in the crook of my back, nape of neck?
How does one choose this page over the cry of my little boy, blonde haired, nearly old enough now to fill hours alone but not quite. Leaning into boyhood yet still babyfaced in the way that squeezes me?
How does one choose this page over the news scrolled out, the quick flick of words left that speak to those who already believe you, the easy labor of self congratulatory sentiment and rage, re-tweet, re-share, like, like?
In the morning I sleep for as long as I can; sleep is the luxury I want most to indulge. The day rolls out in ways that make me think it might go on forever. I sit with the boys on the dock while they eat toast and jump in the lake. I try a couple of yoga poses. M and I discuss which thing we like best: this dinosaur or this dinosaur or this miniature glass eagle. I say I like the dinosaur with the head painted blue and yellow. And red too, he points out. His backpack is filled with tiny toys: cars, Legos, dinosaurs, people, animals like the tiny turtle hatching from an egg he insisted I buy him in South Carolina, little ponies with manes he snipped short. His favorite games involve asking questions, guessing, and deciding which thing we like best. Also, baseball, chess, and Candy Land.
W runs down the dock and jumps in. The shallow water reaches the middle of his belly. He walks towards the beach and climbs from the water, then runs again, jumps. Repetition comforts and pleases us. I notice this most in children.
I think of the book I began last summer. The women, the boys, the field, the mountain. It becomes one of those days that I start to feel like a phony. One of those days ripe with longing. The longing is for the writing. I know this now, perhaps for a long time I didn't. But it seems more poetic that it embody something else: the split-wood ache in the middle of my chest that marks the ephemeral, the beauty of my fawn-like boy, his red hair, his ease in certain moments reminds me that he is weary and unsure in others. The long stare of my husband that seems to travel a lifetime and ask me what the hell I am doing, how will he ever survive me?
 |
| Swimming |
***
I think of Lana Del Rey, I want money, power and glory, she sings, and then, I wanna take you for all that you got. There is something about her lyrics that strike me as both funny and darkly true. I don't find her ironic even when she sings, I fucked my way up to the top. But I smirk.
I listened to Ultraviolence this year. I found the CD in our car, left by my husband years ago, and played it on my weekly commute to work. It soothed and riled me. Something about her strikes me as both authentic and delightfully insincere, almost as though her deep sincerity about wanting money and power and glory rings authentic. It reminds me of the way I learned to ask if I was bad, ugly, dumb, etcetera, in a million different ways, each meant to elicit comfort -- no, of course you are not bad, you are beautiful, you are true.
I listened to Ultraviolence this year. I found the CD in our car, left by my husband years ago, and played it on my weekly commute to work. It soothed and riled me. Something about her strikes me as both authentic and delightfully insincere, almost as though her deep sincerity about wanting money and power and glory rings authentic. It reminds me of the way I learned to ask if I was bad, ugly, dumb, etcetera, in a million different ways, each meant to elicit comfort -- no, of course you are not bad, you are beautiful, you are true.
 |
| American Boyhood |
How does one choose the page over long mornings spent with coffee on the porch, in the living room, with a book? How does one choose the page over late nights together talking about nothing, but in the best way possible. How does one choose?
I have been looking elsewhere for months, years even. Finishing another writing project and avoiding the new work I want to do. But today on the dock with M, his pale skin flashing almost blue and translucent, his kindness, I wanted to describe him, to make him with words in order to understand him and me and this moment together, and in that flash the ache grew and from that ache a weariness and then the little voice that says, you're not enough, you're not a real writer. Then this writing, this testing the waters. And now, M. has asked me to come down to the lake and swim and I said yes.
***
I have been looking elsewhere for months, years even. Finishing another writing project and avoiding the new work I want to do. But today on the dock with M, his pale skin flashing almost blue and translucent, his kindness, I wanted to describe him, to make him with words in order to understand him and me and this moment together, and in that flash the ache grew and from that ache a weariness and then the little voice that says, you're not enough, you're not a real writer. Then this writing, this testing the waters. And now, M. has asked me to come down to the lake and swim and I said yes.
***
Comments