rocks us to a standstill, lullabies us to complacency and contentment, two of my least favorite venues to play out this drama of life. My fantasy life is no less real than the junkie's demons down on Railroad. I live my dreams with eyes wide open rather than play someone else's game every day until my eyes bore themselves out of my skull. The only real truth is in an artist's work and the only real work is work that one enjoys. This is technology in search of an artist, the hammer seeks a hand from which to swing.
New phrases and words:
"toy-ett papuh"
"wype bumm"
"steweo too woud"
"ho 'and" (hold hand)
"salal"
"wa fee" & "wa 'an" (wash feet and hands)
Lyli counts to two twice, finding some basic multiplication easier than fundamental (and linear) counting. Crazycrazy and I soak it up smiling. Today is a lense thru which I gaze at all my tomorrows. Which reminds me, my father told me about a group of indigenous folks dwindling away in their native Andes whose word for "Past" is what they can see in front of them, the familiar, and whose word for "Future" is what lies behind them because they cannot see it. Awesome! Goddamn Western Man and his convoluted logic, backwards medicine and unslakable greed.
Good old salt Trevor comes with his classic whirlwind in tow. Monday we drink and smoke and talk the afternoon away. Steph arrives early evening to drop the girls off and Trev entertains us with horror stories of the operating room. Later he whips up an excellent chili-pepper dish, I put the girls down and we retire to the front yard before it gets too late to fire off his 12 gauge Mossberg tactical shotgun (I am not a fucking pacifist!). Frankly quite surprised the shotgun didn't wake the ladies (Not to mention our 2:30 a.m. drunken bottle rocket extravaganza) but hey, forget about it. We kick around memories of college years, fish that got away, all those other bulls we matadored around our respective yards or living rooms. A late, late night indeed.
Up on Tuesday morning, Trev cooks breakfast and spoils myself and the girls rotten (we'll get into that later once the statute of limitations is well and gone). The girls put "ka inna bag" (rocks in a bag or bottle), their new cooking game at the end of the driveway, and serve us on the porch over and over and over again. Reflected in their tireless thirst for life I see my own sleepy motives birthed so long ago in that grief-stricken mind I might as well have remade rather than recycled. I see the initial sparks that drove me to open the bookstore, that drove me to look in Steph's eyes and say yes, that drive me today to bouy any life close to mine with fierce optimism and fiercer individualism in the face of rampant homogenization and hopelessness. Look to the children, they say. And they are very wise indeed.
Trev and his dog take their leave early evening style, leaving the girls and I to recoup, recharge and tidy the downstairs so they can wreck it again tomorrow. I think of blood and time and rivers and bridges and how when Trev and I talk or watch each other's eyes it seems not a single day has passed since we were younger and so full but hungry. Good times indeed. My batteries delight.
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