Writers Writing
Grumpy as the grumpiest grumper, (sometimes I like to talk like this: "Fussers fussing," I say to the baby, when he's whining and grizzling. "Chubbers chubbing," I say as I poke at his knees) I slouch along down our little street. I hate my life right now, I say, ungratefully, disregarding the moon and the light spilling from everywhere, the food in my belly, all the blessings piled up in heaps.
I'm tired of shallow new friendships and forever trying to go deeper, I say, as I smile and stop to talk with my neighbors, disregarding the thousands of small kindnesses that I receive everyday.
"Weren't you supposed to find that out for me?" I say to my husband.
"Did you realize that you put them to bed a half hour early? No wonder they're not tired."
"Do you think you can remember?"
This kind of talk is not kind talk, if you know what I mean.
Meaner than the meanest meany, I slouched along down our village street, which is the width of a single car. It's also made of dirt. Red dirt which is in my house and in my bed and we bathe all the time and clean all the time and I'm up to my neck in laundry and so tired of dirt. I'm tired of wondering about how to pay for things, tired of sorting out squabbles, tired, just tired.
And then I stopped to watch some pre-wedding celebrations. Three men were sitting in front of a Catholic shrine, and the middle one was covered in milk and flour and water. The other two were also quite drenched, but he was sopping.
Wow.
"He's the groom?" I asked the man who was closest to me. Funny. I had talked to this sodden man three times today, and had no idea that he was getting married tomorrow.
It reminded me of being in Thailand, so long ago, for New Year's. Everyone in the streets ends up as sodden as the soon to be married man, since the custom is to throw colored flour paste and water on each other.
Gunky, messy, sticky, fun.
Apt descriptions of my life right now.
I can't say that I feel any less grumpy (though I did apologize to my Superstar Husband and kissed him on the forehead a few times) but at least I felt inspired to sit down and write this. I love it here, where they throw flour and water on soon-to-be-married men outside in the village.
I'm tired of shallow new friendships and forever trying to go deeper, I say, as I smile and stop to talk with my neighbors, disregarding the thousands of small kindnesses that I receive everyday.
"Weren't you supposed to find that out for me?" I say to my husband.
"Did you realize that you put them to bed a half hour early? No wonder they're not tired."
"Do you think you can remember?"
This kind of talk is not kind talk, if you know what I mean.
Meaner than the meanest meany, I slouched along down our village street, which is the width of a single car. It's also made of dirt. Red dirt which is in my house and in my bed and we bathe all the time and clean all the time and I'm up to my neck in laundry and so tired of dirt. I'm tired of wondering about how to pay for things, tired of sorting out squabbles, tired, just tired.
And then I stopped to watch some pre-wedding celebrations. Three men were sitting in front of a Catholic shrine, and the middle one was covered in milk and flour and water. The other two were also quite drenched, but he was sopping.
Wow.
"He's the groom?" I asked the man who was closest to me. Funny. I had talked to this sodden man three times today, and had no idea that he was getting married tomorrow.
It reminded me of being in Thailand, so long ago, for New Year's. Everyone in the streets ends up as sodden as the soon to be married man, since the custom is to throw colored flour paste and water on each other.
Gunky, messy, sticky, fun.
Apt descriptions of my life right now.
I can't say that I feel any less grumpy (though I did apologize to my Superstar Husband and kissed him on the forehead a few times) but at least I felt inspired to sit down and write this. I love it here, where they throw flour and water on soon-to-be-married men outside in the village.