or just a stirring in my soul.
I think there's something about being sick that sort of...heightens my brain. Everything swirls around like marble. I think in collage. A photo smashed against a memory of same event, pasted to the image of a face.
I've been reading Angelina, a blog, quite honestly, not everyone can appreciate. Some people will be tripped up by the numerous references to drugs and alcohol...and her frequent use of "the curse words." I, however, am not of that mind. I'm not sure why I felt the need for a disclaimer... Oh, wait, yes, I am. I'm little Miss P.G. And no, I do not mean the band. You can't but love them. I get the impression that her brain constantly works like mine does when I'm sick. Or maybe it's that she's high. Wink.
I talked to Sara for, like, two hours last night. Good. Stuff. [It's weird how being "the married one" of my friends (except for my sister, who doesn't count...because she's my sister and she's always done everything before I do it) makes me feel like I act somehow knowledgeable. And boy do I hate that. It's like, I hear myself saying things like, When You Meet The One... And a little bomb goes off in my head. It's saying: You sound like a know-it-all married lady. And you, dear Mrs. Hill, do not want to be That Lady. Logically, I know I don't feel more knowledgeable. Logically, I feel?] Sara Sara Sara. Whose new friends I have not met. Whose world has shifted. We shared that moment. That space. Pangea. And I feel... What do I feel? I would think I'd be jealous. But I'm not. As though, perhaps, I've outgrown that. Or am just that secure. Because, let's face it, the fact that she calls me up and we talk for two hours is a testament in and of itself, yes? There was a "two roads diverge in a wood" moment. I'm delighted, Mr. Frost, that we chose your route.
All that family I saw this weekend. I think I'm still processing it. I saw my cousin for the first time since she was what? Nine years old? And now she's in high school. And she's heard of bands and movies. And she knows things. And when she smiled I remembered her stick-straight blonde hair of old, her bigger-than-you'd-expect-from-a-four-year-old laugh, the way she called my cousin "Mother," curling up in a chair with her on my lap and telling her the story of Rapunzel... Not that she would remember any of this. I don't really remember being 4. As old as my oldest nephew is now. Only I am not there to tell him about Rapunzel.
And my other cousin that's pretty much the same age. I've seen her more often. And yet, I'm still constantly surprised each time that she's not still wearing bright pink leggings. Instead, she's this beautiful girl who wears clothes from stores that sell clothes I'd have to diet three years straight to wear. I wore clothes from the same stores when I was her age. Only I didn't really pull it off right.
Never having been what you might call fashionable.
When I see their faces, I don't see a time line. I see all time at once. Is this what it means to get older? Does my mother look at me talking about my husband and see me tying the kitchen chairs together with red string? And the reason I did that seems so far away now. Do childhood motives have to slip into the background? And then I'll smell a box of crayons. And everything will make sense again.
Pictures soon?
I've been reading Angelina, a blog, quite honestly, not everyone can appreciate. Some people will be tripped up by the numerous references to drugs and alcohol...and her frequent use of "the curse words." I, however, am not of that mind. I'm not sure why I felt the need for a disclaimer... Oh, wait, yes, I am. I'm little Miss P.G. And no, I do not mean the band. You can't but love them. I get the impression that her brain constantly works like mine does when I'm sick. Or maybe it's that she's high. Wink.
I talked to Sara for, like, two hours last night. Good. Stuff. [It's weird how being "the married one" of my friends (except for my sister, who doesn't count...because she's my sister and she's always done everything before I do it) makes me feel like I act somehow knowledgeable. And boy do I hate that. It's like, I hear myself saying things like, When You Meet The One... And a little bomb goes off in my head. It's saying: You sound like a know-it-all married lady. And you, dear Mrs. Hill, do not want to be That Lady. Logically, I know I don't feel more knowledgeable. Logically, I feel?] Sara Sara Sara. Whose new friends I have not met. Whose world has shifted. We shared that moment. That space. Pangea. And I feel... What do I feel? I would think I'd be jealous. But I'm not. As though, perhaps, I've outgrown that. Or am just that secure. Because, let's face it, the fact that she calls me up and we talk for two hours is a testament in and of itself, yes? There was a "two roads diverge in a wood" moment. I'm delighted, Mr. Frost, that we chose your route.
All that family I saw this weekend. I think I'm still processing it. I saw my cousin for the first time since she was what? Nine years old? And now she's in high school. And she's heard of bands and movies. And she knows things. And when she smiled I remembered her stick-straight blonde hair of old, her bigger-than-you'd-expect-from-a-four-year-old laugh, the way she called my cousin "Mother," curling up in a chair with her on my lap and telling her the story of Rapunzel... Not that she would remember any of this. I don't really remember being 4. As old as my oldest nephew is now. Only I am not there to tell him about Rapunzel.
And my other cousin that's pretty much the same age. I've seen her more often. And yet, I'm still constantly surprised each time that she's not still wearing bright pink leggings. Instead, she's this beautiful girl who wears clothes from stores that sell clothes I'd have to diet three years straight to wear. I wore clothes from the same stores when I was her age. Only I didn't really pull it off right.
Never having been what you might call fashionable.
When I see their faces, I don't see a time line. I see all time at once. Is this what it means to get older? Does my mother look at me talking about my husband and see me tying the kitchen chairs together with red string? And the reason I did that seems so far away now. Do childhood motives have to slip into the background? And then I'll smell a box of crayons. And everything will make sense again.
Pictures soon?
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