ballet slipper brothers
“I had a brother, once. . .”
GertrudeStein is fond of throwing this non sequitur before the baffled faces of her newly formed acquaintances. . . .
“Actually, she has three and a sister, ” Miss Toklas can often be heard amending from the corner of the studio.
“But, Pussy, for me there was only one,” my Madame would then insist.
How true, I think. We all have only one, no matter the szie of our family. The one for whom we would dive into an algae, pond, drink in its muck, and sink into its silt to save. The one for whom we would claim, “It was all my fault,” no matter the infraction for the crime. The one whom we worship and envy in tandem, until envy grows stronger and takes the lead.
GertrudeStein had a brother, once. She crossed the Atlantic Ocean for him. She had reached the age of twenty-nine in the land of her birth to find there nothing but a sharp, sloping hill. She could take graceful, mincing steps down it, or she could ask, “Can women have wishes?” and run down that same hill flinging her arms in the air in a series of “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Paris had two things to recommend it, her brother Leo and the new century.
–m. truong from the book of salt
poem for ‘paper art’
I have 159,967 frequent flyer miles. That should surely be enough to fly a pixie, a three-year-old and me across the deep blue sea so we can scrap this side-by-side, right?
——-
Wooden Boats
by Judy Brown
I have a brother who builds wooden boats,
Who knows precisely how a board
Can bend or turn, steamed just exactly
Soft enough so he, with help of friends,
Can shape it to the hull.
The knowledge lies as much
Within his sure hands on the plane
As in his head;
It lies in love of wood and grain,
A rough hand resting on the satin
Of the finished deck.
Is there within us each
Such artistry forgotten
In the cruder tasks
The world requires of us,
The faster modern work
That we have
Turned our life to do?
Could we return to more of craft
Within our lives,
And feel the way the grain of wood runs true,
By letting our hands linger
On the product of our artistry?
Could we recall what we have known
But have forgotten,
The gifts within ourselves,
Each other too,
And thus transform a world
As he and friends do,
Shaping steaming oak boards
Upon the hulls of wooden boats?
we know stir crazy
j might have to go to boston. for a week. just saying…i so get it. 
wish i was home to pick up the call today, but alas, i was at trader joes picking up spilled raspberry “bombers” off the floor.
by the way
i’m so ready to do the putmyhairinaponytailandchop haircut. please tell me it’s a wicked combination of bordem, the frizzies, and threeinabed syndrome…
more signs
thought you’d enjoy these as well–
while trying to find the path to elsinore castle we came across this^
and i like this one because it seems to say, no yappy little terriers please (as opposed ot the “dogs on leash” sign which shows a big sierradog-ish sitting tall–which i need to snap next time i see it).
Straddling
I get a day off today. Not from everyone, of course, but from West. Whom I adore. Totally. But whom I will adore even more after we spend five hours apart. Because two… it gets harder and harder as Pixie grows into a girl. I mean I thought W and I could play puzzles while Pixie slept. But as we should have known, babies don’t sleep. At least not ours. And so she coos and goos and wants to play too, but she can’t even sit up, so play is different. (And can i tell you baby einstein the second time around is a trip. I mean it’s like a time-warp, but then, through the tinny jack-in-the-box wound classical music is W, the first baby, shouting: rewind it mommy. Rewind it to the dragon saying: BLAAAH! and When is it my turn to watch MY show? and Stella said to tell you that she doesn’t like this show. [She's sitting, mesmerized, crying only when W blocks her view] and TURN IT OFF NOW!
And I’m straddling again, another big-ass-line.
So today, we’re taking off. Giving the long legs a rest and taking Pixie to the Zinc cafe for silly face-making and tea.
While trying, trying, TRYING, not to feel guilty about the firstborn.
