The other day I stood in a bus shack listening to Charlotte Gainsbourg and feeling okay. Limber arms and cold breath made for a wait that I didn't at all mind; observation and motionlessness. A little girl with eyes--glassy, large--hovered next to me on the bus, chirping an endless string of questions into my ear, and I loved her for it. I didn't know her name but I pretended that it was Iris. She looked as if it would be.
It seems that lately a blazing topic of inquisition (directed my way) has been children and whether they are in my plan of action. It's strange because up until now, the odd question would snake itself my way, but it seemed cool and manageable, given the long stretches between. For some reason though, these days the mother interrogation ("Do you want to be one?") chases after me like a loaded gun. I don't necessarily mind it, but its frequency is becoming startling. I always feel as if I answer awkwardly and vaguely, which is not what popular demand seems to be looking for. To burn the spotlight on this issue by choice for once, my position is that yes, I think that I do. Want little beans of my own, that is. It just all seems so far off and not really at all relevant to my focus, and the rhythm of my days in the now. The thing is that, unlike a lot of people I trade words over this with, I can envision my life edging in either direction--that is, sans babies or with. When I leap ahead in my mind to the years that have yet to play themselves out, I don't necessarily see a sharp image. I don't see anything all that concrete; recognizable; detailed. I see, rather, warmth and meaning and balance and joy. I see taking pride in what I do, whether it is baby-holding or writing or office-inhabiting, or any other number of motions. If I am living intentionally and with a smile against my lips more often than not, then that is all I really care about.
A few evenings ago, Meg, Kit and myself had a lovely reunion over dinner with our friend Beatrice from Belgium. She is sixty-eight years old and one of the coolest ladies I know. She has skin that is bronzed like pale leather and eyes that radiate light and energy. She has a husband named Raphael, and a slew of dogs, and a gorgeous spread of home in the Belgian coutryside, and a secret garden, and a vocabulary that would make you reel. Her French is smoking and all throughout the evening, she and Meg's Auntie Daryl flipped, smoother than rushing water, from one language to the other. It was amazingly beautiful to listen to. The evening was dominated by the sounds of those two twining languages, but when Lady Bea fround out Kit and I are flinging ourselves onto South American soil in a matter of weeks, she obliged us by layering some boisterous Spanish into the mix. Draped around the dinner table, us five bodies, in the heart of Auntie Daryl's breathtaker of a lanky apartment (I would die to inhabit a space like that at some point in my life, even for the briefest interval), something fell into place. There was a click; a sigh; a distance broached. Two elders and three young, wispy individuals with so much to discover; so much yet to learn...it was like we just relaxed into our respective roles, and it felt right. It felt better than good, actually. We poured over photos from those months spent an ocean across, and we laughed and stories flowed and we all three missed it very much, I think. Long after the warm, delicious arrangement of food was consumed, long after melting wedges of chocolate cake had found its way to our bellies, we lingered there at that table, sipping at the last dregs of red wine and exchanging words. I sincerely hope one day to be with my best girlfriends as these two are, Beatrice and Daryl. They extracted stories of insane love and lust and humour and injustice like plucked blossoms from a source from which I am sure held endless amounts more. These women have had passion and they have had devastation and they have lived abroad and traveled everywhere and cascaded down into despair and been left alone only to be picked up again, whether it be by a kindred spirit or a lover who just knew what to do and how to do it well, or by one another, or most importantly themselves. They inspired me in a unique way that night, and I would want them to know that. Aging gracefully has never taken on such a lighthearted, appealing air as it did for me during those hours, in the presence of those women. I left altered, in a subtle way but also in a permanent way. It was almost as if I was flown back to Europe for a single night, in the company of a lot of wisdom and laughter and good food and it was absolutely perfect.
I passed yesterday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, quietly hidden away in a Bar Italian nook. Both halves of the room were mayhem; apparently the whole of our neighbourhood congregates on the corner of McMillan and Cockburn, in that lovely dingy space, come mid-day Sunday?! It felt somehow nice to be a part of things, yet definably removed. At one point, I glanced over the array of objects littered across my table, and thought to myself, if I were to step away for a few moments, would somebody be able to tell it was me hanging out here just by my belongings? It is an interesting thought. I took inventory my possessions in the present--one coffee (half-drained, second round), one book ("The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" by Michael Chabon, courtesy of Hilary's intimidating book collection), one issue of British Vogue (outdated; October 2008. but still alluring in every way.), one pen, one folder (containing all four glossy issues of G.Love; a portfolio of sorts I guess), one pair of mittens (green, containing rips, stolen from my brother one season ago) and one heavily-laden snakeskin/paisley tote bag. I would like to think that anybody who knows me well would attach me to this paraphernalia. Any takers? Madge? Drewber? Lopez? Etc. etc. etc.
My dreams in the dark have been haunted as of late. I don't like it; they cause me to sleep fitfully and wake feeling angsty and scattered. These days, the content is always similar and it leaves a wretched taste on my lips. Space and time seem all fucked up by the time that I pull myself into wakefulness, and it takes some intention to feel reality out again. I am learning, though. Lessons weathered and perspective gained, right?
I'll find you after dinner, in that place we call summer.
Time to start the day,
RB
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