In Spring

Some beautiful flowers in the sun.

I like the taste of blood in my mouth as I rip the skin from my bottom lip. In some way it’s soothing, familiar, it’s not a particular good taste but not a bad taste either. I don’t consider this self-harming.  I do it more in the winter when my lips are particularly dry but the dryness is really just a prelude to an activity to be performed. You really can’t lose in this game.

It’s been far too long since I have left my house for “socialization” purposes; I am a gorilla needing social training.  I think I’m starved for people, conversation, maybe conversation over food. I haven’t had that for the last four weeks. It’s almost like I’ve lived like a monk.  A monk and her dog.

I have tired myself out today and tonight by cleaning  things. We have buckets that are still not unpacked from the “construction site project.” I don’t know if we will ever get to them or just put them aside in our already over-cluttered basement. In cleaning things I find relics from when my children were very young; my daughter’s tiny, faded, soft, pink ballet shoes, my son’s five-year-old’s beaming face on his baseball photo, a radiant smile of my husband and my fake “engagement photograph.” We did not want anything formal so we had this amazing, fun photo taken of us, full of hope, flirtation, tenderness and surprise. We were looking forward to all the possibilities in our future, our informal wedding, places to travel, maybe babies some day. It’s so lovely to be young and in love.

I sit tonight among boxes and huge plastic rubber tubs, some filled with paper, some empty; my answer to organizing is to sit in the middle of all these items, surrounded by my past. I try to throw out as much as possible but I don’t get very far. I do know where I have been but I have marked that in a box labeled “SENTIMENTAL.” A big achievement for me.

Now, I need to look forward, beyond the blood of the bleeding lip, beyond my daughter’s wonderful acceptance to colleges. I need to stop feeling old and tired and worn out. My heart and head haven’t caught up yet but I know they will. Perhaps when the forsythia blooms bright yellow and the crocus’ peek out from the ground and the weather warms itself up like a buttermilk biscuit melting with butter. I, too shall start anew.

Pop Cop: The Who?

I am not a big fan of football and frankly, did not watch the Superbowl with the exception of the half-time show and the commercials.  What I learned from Sunday night’s game is not a greater understanding of football but really, how very old I was. Apparently there was a large amount of people , ok, young people who had no idea who The Who was. Who, they asked?  The Who, we answered which give way to a lot of head shaking, grumbling and some requests for people that the kids at least knew and liked. The Who was not it.

Bruce Springsteen is someone we can all relate to. Paul McCartney too. Bring on Beyonce and The Black Eyed Peas. But, The Who? It really dated the viewing audience and from what I heard the performance was not a spectacular one.

Maybe next year they will select a half-time performance that we can all enjoy. Like that’s possible.