At the foot of the indoor wave pool, in the steamy foggy always 80-degree-ness below the maze of floom rides, with fragrant french fry grease hanging in the air, I realize I am in love with Humanity.
True, this is no super sample, no elite resort spring break vacay. But that’s the rub of it. I watch everybody, ambling, running, jogging by. Babies held, and toddlers in swimsuits that sag at their bottoms. Black, pink, brown, splotchy, albino white arms, legs. Life vests riding up, and older kids cradling clear rafts over false waves. Old couples and new parents and grandparents and one woman in the giant purple t-shirt, her masive dripping ginormous body quivering beneath its folds.
It is not quite beautiful here.
And it is precisely because of this that I realize I love everybody. It it their uneveness, the way they wear their story (or shadows of it) in the sag of their shoulders, the shadow of acne blooming or clearing, their faded tattoos or the bright new ones rimmed in red.
This week, in Boston, bombs went off, killing and maiming for god knows what reason. I am confounded, numb. I haven’t watched the news and it seems unreal. Love to those families, to everybody’s families. This postI guess is my repost.Filed under art, family matters | Tags: Boston Marathon bombs, Great Wolf Lodge Williamsburg | Comments (2)
I love the ways William and I look so similar and so different. These snapshots are from our last snowed-in snow day, not unlike today, except that earlier time was without power, without Billy, but with marshmallows. I remember the quiet, the promise of dark and my boy tapping into his own quiet, creative place—a pleasure to witness–even as I fretted about firewood and dying cellphones.
I saw our Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey at C’ville’s annual festival of the book this Saturday. Biracial Trethewey’s new book of Poems, THRALL, is all about the historic view of the predicament of ‘mixing’ race.Filed under family matters, motherhood | Tags: Natasha Trethewey, snow day, Thrall | Comment (0)
I’m thinking a lot lately about rejection, as I send my manuscript out into the world. Just words on paper, but they mean something to me, of course, like a thin, ghostly second child. It’s terrible, I think, to send her into world, slight and naked as she is.
OK, so I know it’s only fiction, a made up story and not flesh and blood. But I spend each evening in bed with my nightlight trained on other people’s stories, and I can say with certainty that stories matter. Even beyond the writer’s gross investment—for me, it’s been years writing, and rewriting this story: 58,000 words cut from many more written, a fat box of printed paper from Staples.
The literary world is crowded with other people’s stories, and even though I received some encouragement, sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, thinking it’s audacious, sick even, to press my own manuscript into the mix.
Still here I am, doing just that. Awaiting rejection. Knowing I’ve made mistakes, that my prose is imperfect, but wondering if it’s lovely in other places too. Wondering if there’s a place, under someone else’s nightlight where my words might glow, take root.
Drawing by me.Filed under drawings, writing | Tags: writing process | Comment (1)
We went on a holiday outing, an arty outing, an oh my god my-father-is-amazing-and-just-turned-seventy outing. We went to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, in Richmond, to bask in the colored light of Chihuly’s aquatic glass. If you haven’t gone, you should go too.
Chihuly’s glass will be on display at VMFA through February 10, 2013. Photos by Papa Johnson.