"modicum."
So there's no way I can follow up on yesterday, can't step twice a las: yesterday, when I just had the fever I occasionally have-- when, for better/worse, I type practically as fast as I can think (for which reason I must admit that I prefer this mode to handwriting very much, regardless of whatever gets lost in the regimented-font shuffle), whereas now, I can think of no reason whatsoever to write anything. My mind is racing with the same old material, though perhaps certain things are being thrown into sharper relief. I am selfish, for example. I am really thinking of this experience in terms of how everything will affect / reflect on me. The formative years and entire life, really, of the little one, is more of an abstract concept, regardless of any sentimental discussions. (Talk about "Parts," Dr. Greene.)
But I'm no worse or better than anyone else.
It just seems I have little excitement for the kind of life D. & I seem likely to have. I know we have control over these things, and that part of what motivated me was my desire to nest, but I want some adventure, someone with the motivation to save up enough and have enough drive so that we can go somewhere. So that life is not only about trips to Walmart and watching television. But both of us are passive and rather ineffective, both of us sort of need a stronger force to pull us out of inertia. Except, perhaps, for me. No. I like to vegetate. I really want to be a writer, someday.
We shall see. D. has a lovely touch with the guitar, this is true.
I thought about calling the sub coordinator to request assignments but I think I should wait and get my initial check up, see if I need a flu shot (which I am practically ethically opposed to, for little reason but idiosyncratic prejudice) seein' as how I'm in the family way.
Nothing is sadder than little kids getting drunk, smoking cigarettes, carrying guns, and/or leading intricate drug operations. Though these things are on some twisted level a testimony to their capacities: I need to be optimistic. Focus, as the Apostle Paul instructs, on whatever is good and pure and lovely. Also: though it will most likely not come to this, there are plenty of willful, single mothers, who knew from the get-go they'd be doing it in such a way-- in fact, it seems there is almost a movement towards it. Men, are, at any rate, impossible. They could never handle pregnancy, and I know I shound like an ignorant fool: but it is true. I, for my part, am half-impossible, and need to be encouraging, kind, and relaxed. Worrying puts bad energy out there. Bitching aids no one. I need to get ready for the falling-in-love of a lifetime.
I am happy to be in my room, with an internet connection and all kinds of books that I like to read- but for how long? I hate the idea of budging, by which I mean, "moving," but it's probably necessary. I have little to say and think I'll just surf the net. Why force this?
I will just amble through words like paddling in the water. I always use this metaphor and it is what I mean. I can't imagine a totally placid relationship, though I have dabbled, at times, in that sort of dynamic. I think of my friend Kirsten, in her mid-thirties, who is desperate for a baby while all the time advising me (I think I was 19 at that point) to wait, wait, wait. Her husband was a professor of philosophy at Colby College and when I went over there for dinner we had some local produce potato leek soup and roasted lamb by candle light. They sang a song and/or said some nonsectarian (indeed, almost Unitarian in its vagueness) prayer, as well.
It's no secret there is an "unrelenting surging tide of mommy blogs" (from, "Does Parenting Make You Stupid?" http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/12/08/does-parenting-make-you-stupid/ ... a not-stupid-at-all article written by a stay-at-home dad), but what can I say? I'm not immune to the collective unconscious, the zeitgest of the times, or the stream we're swimming in. I only want to add my two cents, but from a less cushioned, less 39-is-the-new-29 vantage point than seems to be the norm. Young parents, after all, do not generally write extensive blogs on the matter; rather, they bite the bullet, roll up their sleeves, and do what they have to do, with perhaps less reflection on all the angst of choosing something so obviously optional in our post-sexual revolution, post-everything world. (I am not very smart, but I like to rant.) Perhaps I'm less interested in the nuances of roles, more interested in taboos that just won't quit: how mothers who leave are still considered the most heinous of creatures while for men it is still, still mostly matter of course, as long as he at least makes some effort to see the kids every other week end or whatever. That's fucked.
But life, oh yes, am I here just to look pretty? To dress up and buy new used earrings, and toss my hair; to rise to the top, accumulate lovers? To get buzzed and record my dreams and stretch an always-thin frame splayed huge across a big, empty bed?
*
And I could just rise above it all. Nothing is mandatory; I'm sorry. I guess that's the existentialist in me, but honestly I sometimes find more comfort in it than anything. I don't have to do anything, I don't even have to stay alive. All this means to me is that to remember this is to be free. That I live, and do what I do, because I choose to. That I can care about others no matter what, and not impose a rigid sense of isolation dictated by my specifics. In my mind I can soar like a bird, and go wherever I like.
"And it is markedly different than being sad." - a woman, on depression
"In a way it was fantastic, I had a reason..." - The same woman, on the grief of bereavement
"The only way to make it stop, is to stop living... so be kind, when you think of people who have succumbed to this overwhelming desire, to just make it stop.." - another woman
