Saturday, January 2, 2010

New Memoir Chapter - growing 35


last week, sometime after noon, i stopped at the library to drop off some borrowed items. it was bitter cold, and i was listening to a song by Ghostface on repeat. its funny because the song (BABY) concerns an emotion that i never thought i really was missing. the anticipation of becoming a father. as Ghost waxes poetic, i round the corner toward the bodega to grab some smokes, and sugar for the house. nostalgia sets in and i remember my first time in the neighborhood of Tremont - Loma, and i walking around our loft above the 5/3rd bank, both of us in love, bright as new snow. alive, not scared of life. the image falls away, and i remember years later, nearly a decade really - driving my caprice station wagon down this very hill toward a woman's house, who did not love me, and would never but thought it maybe fun to "entertain" the chubby poet nig. she did, and the image falls away.

back to the Ghost song, i know alot of parents, and they all seem so scared that they may fuck it up, so in awe of the creation made, so hopeful that it will all work out. they seem angry that we that have no children take our time, and our slight, slow -
stupid with our lives. perhaps i am projecting my own feelings onto them, but i think there maybe some truth to this. its as if you are not considered an adult until you have children, even though a good portion of the children born in the world are made by children. i love this song, it moves me to dream(day) about what it would be like to be expecting.

days after this cold morning of image fleeting, i had a conversation with a good friend about the nature of life, and what it means to actually try to control one's own - a life is time sensitive, but you do not know when the deadline is, nor do you really have an idea of what your life's work will be about once it is over. when i was younger than young, i thought it would be the overall body of work(art) that would set legacy in place. but when i think about what i know of my father, and how my mother held us together, and managed to get us safely to adulthood - i think that legacy is much like genetic memory, it echoes through the next generation. you do not get to set it. intent is never taken into account.

it is the night after the New Year -
as i lay beside this woman, and write this rough and rude draft i wonder what she thinks of my leaving the bed, does she take me as not serious about anything other than myself. (i often go there with myself, so its not out of the realm of possible thoughts) does she gladly take the head start to sleep? - seeing how i snore, and rock myself to sleep, and if one is not already asleep before i hit, it will surely be a long night. does she think that i may think of her as boring, and be already scheming for the demise of us?

perhaps she is just sleeping, and there is no thoughts menacing her nights. and i say to myself, yes. that may be it.
i was like that long ago, when my young was young, and i skipped along the beat of the woman that created my bed.