mama hips

July 15, 2010

The Morning Commute

Sitting on the bus in my seat against the window, watching the the humanity I travel among every morning. Today, in the blue Septa seat sits a young mother in a burka taking her two boys to school, a bald and stately black man wearing a tan suit reading through a manilla file, an Asian woman I suppose is a nurse wearing scrubs and big ass rhinestone sunglasses mixed in with teenagers, babies, workers and addicts and me, all on our way somewhere. Moving. Intersecting. Together.

I miss Danae, it bothered me today to have to leave. I think about working like this for a few more years and get sad at the time I won’t have with her. I got jealous of Joe and the moms that watch my baby while they stay home with theirs. I got mad at their potty training abilities, mad at their photobooks time and the time they have to develop their children. Its not them, I know. Its me, I know.

I’m having a hard time with all things I didn’t want to happen, happening. Tv all the time, hotdogs, time apart to make more money. I feel that this whining is superficial and to some degree it is. I know what is best for us and what needs to happen. I know my cousins need our help. I know my family needs stability and income on order to live our dream and so then its okay and I am proud and excited by the potential and limitless possibilities that lie ahead.

Sitting on the bus, I wonder if these people know what I know and what their house might look like, their neighborhood or where they are going. Moving ahead or trudging along, being or fighting, breaking or perpetuating cycles. Why and what brought them to this bus ride. and that brings to me to why I am on this bus ride, thinking about these sorts of things.

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February 2, 2010

synchronicity

Six months ago I stepped off of the 23 bus at Ridge and Spring Garden streets to escape the feeling wanting hurl that accompanies the block by block stop and go at what has to be an enormous velocity for an hour. that is one long city bus ride but it does give me an hour to read or listen or look or sleep or whatever. I have an hour to settle into the morning’s story; an hour to connect with whatever is going on and its presence in the beginning of the day. breakfast for the mind of sorts. i see young, young girls taking theirs kids to somewhere..daycare?, i see girls their same age going to school. I see the woman they call ghetto booty sometimes – shes a connection of round jiggly bubbles that with a big ass Cheshire cat smile of some sort of bliss who always listens to music and she sings and is moved by the music and its loud and its eccentric as all hell and shes quite an inspiring thing that reminds of different planes of reality. In the murmur, there are phrases like, “one day at a time”, “just got off work”, “he’s locked up” mixed with some laughter, some “heeeyyyy” of familiar faces in passing. the bus is city living. Even though we have one the most poorly managed and inefficient public transit systems ever, i still love public transit.

on that particular day I was re-reading Even Cowgirls Get The Blues, the part about that its only catfish who can predict the coming of an earthquake. when an earthquake is imminent, catfish freak out to the vibrations. other than this extreme reaction by the only species intune with the enormous, low, low internal vibration of the earth no one can accurately predict something as friggin significant as an earthquake. all seismologists can do is predict the probability of a fucking earthquake.

this is what I am reading about when I close my book, step off the bus six blocks early into a morning that predicts spring is on the way. it was grey and raining lightly. my favorite weather. bright green and lush. right before the rain starts, when the air is heavy and wet and something is coming as the wet air hangs, silence. everyone waiting. the clouds are pregnant. and then it rains. birth birth birth  and cleansing and water and introspection. this when I feel most creative, most intune, most aware. and absolutely driven to write. sometimes, i have to. the need is to compelling. if the wet air hangs, sagging lower and lower with weight, that weight is pushing and pushing to come out and words are the only way to do it.

as i step out of the bus, getting my shit situated for my morning walk to the world when i hear dude say from the stoop behind me to whoever on the phone, “why can’t anyone predict the coming of an earthquake?’.

in the next month, my husband lost his job. our car was broken in to. my parents were in a car accident with my baby. we had to borrow money from both our families to pay our bills. every sense of security we might have had was taken away when we looked to the future, the very near future and were not sure we were going to be able to basic things like buy diapers for our daughter or pay or mortgage. but thats not the kicker.

what is fucking triumphant about this whole thing is intention. i/we have aligned myself with my intentions. i have come to evolve in the idea my reasons.  rev-a-fucking-lation! the magnitude of this is massive.

that, my friends, is some synchronicity. and synchronicity is some cosmos speaking shit.

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