I need to not quash/squelch/quell the thoughts that are in my head. That I have. That I think. That I own. That exist, that creep. I am pretty sure they just do said things because my mind has a penchant for extremes and attempts at self-freaking out, but here it is. If Shalom Auslander can write in his world-renown published satirical orthodox yeshiva hating memoir about the initial thoughts of fear and terror for his unborn recently- concieved child, then I can write about thoughts along a similar (non heroin- infested, I might add uselessly) vein that I have tried not to entertain as of late.
When I held the babies, a thought came: I can poke out one of their tiny little, unfocused, of androgynous color, eyes. I can toss/drop/throw/huck them onto the floor. It's like when I drive over that curvy overpass on route 4: a slight turn of my wrists, or a negligence in turning at the right moment to remain on course, and drastic things with irreversible consequences, pregnant with grief, ensue. And it's all in my hands. Along with the great undifferentiated potential personalities, tribulations, and proud moments of these children lies the power in me to deter that, to fuck with it in a really really twisted and subtle way, or I could take the demonic route that would lead to as much havoc as me refusing to go to college and moving to a forest; and practice my javelin toss. Of course I need to write this in a veiled manner, even after setting off on a quest to be super lucid, because it's my fallback, and my default when I know that this is not FYEO. Sucks.
So the neuroses are there, ripe for the diagnosing. where are the willing, eager young world- changers?
Tuesday 23 June 2009
Wednesday 17 June 2009
Funny you should ask.
So it's been a month since last blag. I guess that's indicative of summer. I am proud of my cooking that I just did, so I will note it here:
I made angel hair in a pot, alongside a pan in which I fried pieces of eggplant, broccoli, and string beans in butter, oil, and garlic. I added tomato sauce to the pot of veggies and then some pizza cheese, and mixed it with the angel hair. Now I'm eating it. It is such a pleasure to eat real food... It just makes so much more SENSE than what I did last night after a weary night of frisbee in astoria; stop at cvs and buy a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers and an instant teriyaki noodle bowl of soup to microwave with one of those tiny packets of "vegetables" which are really just thin flaky pieces of cardboard in orange and green and marroon. Next up will be eggplant parm; it just has to be. The strange thing is, it took me so many days/weeks to muster up the something to cook. It's like I feel it will be a big endeavor, whereas it's not more than 20 minutes, and now I'm set for food at least till tomorrow night. Is it gross to eat a pound of pasta and veggies in a day? I hope knotz. [chomp chomp]
Ok, I ate 2 bowlfuls and cleaned up. Good going E! I even wiped up the stovetop. The food is packed away in the fridge and the utensils and dishes are washed. And my shoulders hurt. And I will need to go to work in half an hour. On that front, here's what I've been up to these days:
Babysittin'
- lying around, trying to impart wisdom and common sense on a tot, perfecting my playground protocol/ettiquette skills in this damned city, cabbing myself and the little one EVERYWHERE, and generally getting looked at differently by everyone since I have a small clueless vulnerable child in tow. For example:
On the subway, first of all, the kid loves it. I'm not sure if it's because it is SO much bigger and greater than him, and he might feel about it the way I feel about the ocean. It continues regardless of him and all the other people present, but at the same time, all of those people make it what it is. I mean I look at his face, and it's that same enamored obsessed face when he sees an elevator, a shiny glinty "OPEN" sign, or whatever elsemight tickle the quirkish fancy.
Also, heh. I want to write about some stuff right now that I am so hesitant to divulge even here on the internets because I'd venture to say there is a 30% chance that somehow the people I will be emulsifying and blending with my words will stumble accross this very blag and then I'll have to dig myself out delicately from this self-imposed cheezit-crumbs barrell.
Ok, so 3 babiesfor the price of...well, 3. But for the timing of one gestation period! That's right, I am an aunt to triplets. I never thought I'd be typing that sporting this surreptitiously smug smirk but hey, that's the Truman life. They are somewhat real to me but will be even more real after this sunday night when I perform my first selfless and painstaking "night shift" of feeding, burping, daiper changing, cooing, wooing, pooing, and cashewing, and whatever else is involved with people who weigh 4.5 pounds each. It's all me. Well, it won't be. But I had a strange dream. And then it was July, July, July, and it seemed SO strange!
Get the ref? you should.
Iran: kind of exciting. I wish I was there. Or it was here. Token mention of sadness for the casualties and injuries, but my original hunch remains: I want in on the passion.
So what kind of sense am I trying to teach the little dude? First of all, I call him dude. Maybe a little bit too much. The entire thing is an exercise in my own patience, for sure. I need to tell him everything, and between 5 and 10 times before it gets done. And not just tellling, but prompting, physically and modelling. For everything. Like, "give me your foot" so I can put on your shoe. But hey, some people can't move their own feet, so this is a prodigious thing and should not be catted on.
Man, I need to wrap this up as I should put on presentable clothes and maybe brush my teeth? And then go be one of the other people here with a purpose. I can't wait for certain things. Such as hockey later. I don''t know, its been much too long since I've made it to a weekday scrimmage.
I made angel hair in a pot, alongside a pan in which I fried pieces of eggplant, broccoli, and string beans in butter, oil, and garlic. I added tomato sauce to the pot of veggies and then some pizza cheese, and mixed it with the angel hair. Now I'm eating it. It is such a pleasure to eat real food... It just makes so much more SENSE than what I did last night after a weary night of frisbee in astoria; stop at cvs and buy a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers and an instant teriyaki noodle bowl of soup to microwave with one of those tiny packets of "vegetables" which are really just thin flaky pieces of cardboard in orange and green and marroon. Next up will be eggplant parm; it just has to be. The strange thing is, it took me so many days/weeks to muster up the something to cook. It's like I feel it will be a big endeavor, whereas it's not more than 20 minutes, and now I'm set for food at least till tomorrow night. Is it gross to eat a pound of pasta and veggies in a day? I hope knotz. [chomp chomp]
Ok, I ate 2 bowlfuls and cleaned up. Good going E! I even wiped up the stovetop. The food is packed away in the fridge and the utensils and dishes are washed. And my shoulders hurt. And I will need to go to work in half an hour. On that front, here's what I've been up to these days:
Babysittin'
- lying around, trying to impart wisdom and common sense on a tot, perfecting my playground protocol/ettiquette skills in this damned city, cabbing myself and the little one EVERYWHERE, and generally getting looked at differently by everyone since I have a small clueless vulnerable child in tow. For example:
On the subway, first of all, the kid loves it. I'm not sure if it's because it is SO much bigger and greater than him, and he might feel about it the way I feel about the ocean. It continues regardless of him and all the other people present, but at the same time, all of those people make it what it is. I mean I look at his face, and it's that same enamored obsessed face when he sees an elevator, a shiny glinty "OPEN" sign, or whatever elsemight tickle the quirkish fancy.
Also, heh. I want to write about some stuff right now that I am so hesitant to divulge even here on the internets because I'd venture to say there is a 30% chance that somehow the people I will be emulsifying and blending with my words will stumble accross this very blag and then I'll have to dig myself out delicately from this self-imposed cheezit-crumbs barrell.
Ok, so 3 babiesfor the price of...well, 3. But for the timing of one gestation period! That's right, I am an aunt to triplets. I never thought I'd be typing that sporting this surreptitiously smug smirk but hey, that's the Truman life. They are somewhat real to me but will be even more real after this sunday night when I perform my first selfless and painstaking "night shift" of feeding, burping, daiper changing, cooing, wooing, pooing, and cashewing, and whatever else is involved with people who weigh 4.5 pounds each. It's all me. Well, it won't be. But I had a strange dream. And then it was July, July, July, and it seemed SO strange!
Get the ref? you should.
Iran: kind of exciting. I wish I was there. Or it was here. Token mention of sadness for the casualties and injuries, but my original hunch remains: I want in on the passion.
So what kind of sense am I trying to teach the little dude? First of all, I call him dude. Maybe a little bit too much. The entire thing is an exercise in my own patience, for sure. I need to tell him everything, and between 5 and 10 times before it gets done. And not just tellling, but prompting, physically and modelling. For everything. Like, "give me your foot" so I can put on your shoe. But hey, some people can't move their own feet, so this is a prodigious thing and should not be catted on.
Man, I need to wrap this up as I should put on presentable clothes and maybe brush my teeth? And then go be one of the other people here with a purpose. I can't wait for certain things. Such as hockey later. I don''t know, its been much too long since I've made it to a weekday scrimmage.
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