Written @ 11:32 p.m. on 2007-09-15
Another Day
I'm reading a pile of New York Times magazines while I wait for calls. It's 11:30 on a Saturday night, the girls are buried in twin beds under mountains of picture books. P. has taken up reading, which is a miracle to watch unfold. I stepped in tonight to replace a plastic fairy to the proper room, if not the proper place, and B. looked in over my shoulder and smiled. Is he smiling because they are cute, or is he really beginning to feel the swelling heart I feel when I gaze at my sleeping children?
The New York Times magazine is pretentious as fuck. The ads are all geared to the multimillionaire set...investment firms, manhattan penthouses, expensivie summer camps and boarding schools. There is an article about what 1.5 million dollars will buy you as far as real estate in places in the world. An 880 square foot apartment in Manhattan, 1.5 million. Are you CRAZY!? Well, interesting. This was juxtaposed with an article about a real, genuine hermit who lives in Asheville, NC. She is an authentic hermit because she lives alone in the wilderness for spiritual reasons, instead of merely being a separatist wacko. She writes a newsletter for other hermits, which kind of seems to defeat the whole "hermit" thing, doesn't it? You are supposed to be communing with god, man, not social networking. You aren't supposed to be posing for pictures in the NYTimes, either. That is total hermit cheating! What would St. Augustine say, eh?
Tsk. Tsk. Hermits just don't get it right these days.
Today I
-looked at a two hundred dollar rabbit taj mahal.
-named, and spelled, as many dog breeds as the girls and I could recall
-slept through my blood appointment.
-supervised a playdate at the park and sketched my right hand, simultaneously
-navigated 35 retarded hissy fits on the part of P. Is it possible for a 5 year old to have pms?
-held B. while he cried with relief over a financial matter
-made four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
-considered a career change to something in quantum physics
- sold a couple of iPods as the model Apple employee that I am
- visited with B's grandfather
- wondered whether I should dye my hair red or try for dreadlocks again
-tried to be nice to the bunny
-wondered what that smell is in Staples
- and talked to my mom on the phone
Nothing too special.
There is no need to create silence for it is already there. It is simply a matter of letting it rise up from within us. Once we have heard this silence we thirst to find it again. A Carthusian The Wound of Love (from the hermit newsletter, Raven's Bread)
My mother's father's obituary is a complete fallacy. The company he worked for is wrong. There is no mention of his education or many of his acheivements that have always seemed so important. The number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren that survive him is wrong. His name is spelled wrong. My mother's name is spelled wrong, AND the town she lives in is also incorrect. My mind reels that the public documentation of his life can be written by what seems to be a first grader who never met my grandfather. He may have made a million, but it seems like no one much noticed. God. I wonder what they'll write about me. Jill The Thrill.