mama hips

June 15, 2010

Dirty and and tired and loving every second of it.

Just when I think I’ve got this, I don’t. Just when I step out a little on either side to fill in the space I I know I can reach I reach it alright but there is a whole new feeling of discomfort there. Same cycle; I just went from the tense phase to the bugging our stage and now am in the what the fuck stage. Dirty and and tired and loving every second of it.

It’s 8 o’clock at night, I just put Danaë to bed. I am writing this post in the kitchen having just finished packaging tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch for all of us, iPhone in hand to give existence to the flow of words in my head.

Five minutes prior to this, I was living the scene in my movie where I standing in my kitchen at the end of the day, romanced by Ann Peebles in my hips when the music swells compelling me to stop take a deep breath, put my hands over head and let all the exasperation out. The sound of the lady blues: I’m doing what mother after mother after mother has done; work at taking care of their babies. For all of us, its work on some level and for most of us we have had the moment when all we can do is sigh and know its all alright and that bed isn’t too far off.

Fucking hell today took a lot of effort. At one point, I literally didn’t think I could handle another second of exerting energy. Physically drawn to walking out and going to sleep, unable to put a cranky, over awake child to sleep and feeling like I have lost my mom superpowers. But I didn’t, and she went to sleep happy and I got a shower and here I am, clean and tired and leaning on the kitchen counter stealing a moment to write and can’t wait to get to sleep with my love.

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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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