If only we did grow wiser when we grew older
I could have seen the rejection before you
Crammed so much thought and lovely prose in my brain
That they left me paralyzed
On a silk comforter
As if we could only contain so much motion
That my head moved so much my body could not
I think I could have caught you
Or maybe at least see you coming
Or maybe perfected my
Laughing you off
Or maybe just do some covering.
**
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
ageless decade
W called today during class. I pushed it to voicemail and sent a text instead.
"Can't talk now, what's up?"
"Call me, it's important."
"Is it bad?"
"Yes."
"About who?"
"Me."
"I can call you in half an hour, okay?"
"Fine"
For the next thirty minutes I drifted in and out of First Amendment law. What was this news that was bad, but not so much so that required an immediate callback? Medical diagnosis? A break up of the engagement? I felt guilty for not calling but relished in 30 minutes when I didn't have to feel bad yet, whatever it was, even if it was really bad, I had 30 precious minutes of not knowing.
When I finally called, I found out it was pregnancy. At an inconvenient time, but at least not with an inconvenient person. As I ran through the options and laid out an attack plan, relief rinsed over me. And after I hung up the phone. Something more. Envy. Even 72 hours ago, I had marked the passing of my birthday with friends, faux complaining of becoming older. It's faux complaining because we were arrested in our aging. It's hard to say when it starts and ends, but I'd put it at the decade of twenties, when everyone within this range looks the same. The faces of non-age. Even if I have passed the prime, or have yet to approach it, or steeped in it, who's to know? From behind the superficial, thin skin, unmarred by acne or sun damage or trauma, I can feel something passing, but I have the freedom to demote and twist its significance. It hasn't been published to the world yet, not yet created into an image, so who's to know?
Yet here is news, the ultimate symbol of virility, of life, of production and fruit from seizing the prime, and making something with it. In Chinese, to be pregnant translates to "have fortune", to "have joy". Nowadays it comes loaded with other things, things opposite to joy and fortune.
"You should've been more careful." I told W. But even as I scolded her I envied her cross into becoming something worthy of so much celebration. I imagined holding the little fruit, nine months from this phone call. It filled me with such a biological, base giddiness. Envy only comes when you fear that you are not within reach of something, no one envies a thing they know that is eventually coming to them. I suppose this is the curse of the ageless decade. If there is a timeline for such things, who's tell us when we are falling behind, when our identical faces betray no sign of it?
**
"Can't talk now, what's up?"
"Call me, it's important."
"Is it bad?"
"Yes."
"About who?"
"Me."
"I can call you in half an hour, okay?"
"Fine"
For the next thirty minutes I drifted in and out of First Amendment law. What was this news that was bad, but not so much so that required an immediate callback? Medical diagnosis? A break up of the engagement? I felt guilty for not calling but relished in 30 minutes when I didn't have to feel bad yet, whatever it was, even if it was really bad, I had 30 precious minutes of not knowing.
When I finally called, I found out it was pregnancy. At an inconvenient time, but at least not with an inconvenient person. As I ran through the options and laid out an attack plan, relief rinsed over me. And after I hung up the phone. Something more. Envy. Even 72 hours ago, I had marked the passing of my birthday with friends, faux complaining of becoming older. It's faux complaining because we were arrested in our aging. It's hard to say when it starts and ends, but I'd put it at the decade of twenties, when everyone within this range looks the same. The faces of non-age. Even if I have passed the prime, or have yet to approach it, or steeped in it, who's to know? From behind the superficial, thin skin, unmarred by acne or sun damage or trauma, I can feel something passing, but I have the freedom to demote and twist its significance. It hasn't been published to the world yet, not yet created into an image, so who's to know?
Yet here is news, the ultimate symbol of virility, of life, of production and fruit from seizing the prime, and making something with it. In Chinese, to be pregnant translates to "have fortune", to "have joy". Nowadays it comes loaded with other things, things opposite to joy and fortune.
"You should've been more careful." I told W. But even as I scolded her I envied her cross into becoming something worthy of so much celebration. I imagined holding the little fruit, nine months from this phone call. It filled me with such a biological, base giddiness. Envy only comes when you fear that you are not within reach of something, no one envies a thing they know that is eventually coming to them. I suppose this is the curse of the ageless decade. If there is a timeline for such things, who's tell us when we are falling behind, when our identical faces betray no sign of it?
**
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