July Fifth and the sparklers are all burnt, stuck in the sand, the fireworks exploded, there are probably gnawed bones of pigs littering the yards of everywhere, every one, charred ribs with delicious barbecue sauce licked off and nothing left of those but pink bone, pink bone with tooth marks.
The ants will feast.
If I had my way (maybe in a parallel universe) I would be planning what to wear on my lovely thin body. I am thinking a red skirt that swirls when I walk but falls heavy-silk-like-water when I am still and maybe a blue shirt of some sort.
In this life, this sweaty, North Florida life I am a wife/mother/child/grandmother, my body is not lovely or thin but bears the marks of each and every child I cooked up and delivered, whole and pink and plump and perfect.
It's a damn good trade.
I wear cargo shorts with their great, good pockets.
Water. I think of water and how it would feel to slip into it. Water rushing, water still, water sweet or salt but always cool. When the waves rush back and forth, they churn the water into bubbles that fizz around your feet. Whipped water makes froth like eggs, like milk, like cream.
Some days all I have to hold onto, it seems, are words. Why IS this and of what use? Why this compulsion to scatter them out, pick the sturdiest ones, the shiniest ones, the ones with secret messages? Why not a compulsion to help the poor, feed the hungry, ease the suffering, find the cure, build the bridge, do the equations, set the bones, hike the pathways, arrange the flowers, play the notes, make the money, sail the seven seas?
On the other hand, why not the compulsion to rob the blind, steal the hearts, blow up the buildings, confuse the masses, run for office, preach the gospel, eat the dirt or clay or starch, BURN the bridges, yell FIRE in the theater?
Ah. But sometimes, don't we all want to trip the lame and then the light fantastic?
July Fifth. Take down the flag, wipe the grease from your hands, put your nose to the grindstone, walk through the storm, compost the watermelon rinds, contemplate becoming a blond, wipe the sweat from your brow, comfort the child when she falls, open your favorite book blindfolded, let your finger land on a passage, do what it says or, if you don't like what it says, spin the globe and let your finger land on a spot and go there and if you don't want to do that, throw the I Ching, lay out your cards, toss the runes, read the tea leaves, sniff the wind, study the bumps on your head, the lines in your palm, bury your head in the sand, or your feet in the surf where the water is whipped and you can hear it hiss, hiss, hiss as it rises up in molecules of hydrogen and oxygen, so cleverly held together with electrons, or something like that and if none of those work for you, write it down, burn it up in yesterday's bonfire, yesterday's barbecue pit. Lay back, get up, do the laundry, feed the chickens, accept your fate, learn to love your captor, or fight like hell, run like the wind, help yourself to do or be or maybe just to some of yesterday's leftover baked beans. Chase your dreams or let them come to you as you drowse in the shade.
I'm not sure it matters but it's July Fifth and so what and so everything and so nothing at all.
Whatever binds your molecules together and keeps them from rising up, hissing, hissing, gas instead of liquid. We might as well be, we bags of saltwater, we infinitely small specks of what we know as life, anchoring ourselves every day, cutting our ties and floating away, might as well, either/or.
July Fifth. The ants will feast.
July 5th and I have 13 more days with the state.ReplyDelete
Love you, and I heart this post.ReplyDelete
Why, indeed? Why words? I'm afflicted with the same compulsion, and I have no answers.
Whatever binds your molecules together and keeps them from rising up, hissing, hissing, gas instead of liquid. We might as well be, we bags of saltwater, we infinitely small specks of what we know as life, anchoring ourselves every day, cutting our ties and floating away, might as well, either/or.ReplyDelete
I am so tired today that I may have to read this later or tomorrow. The brain is exhausted and my body too.ReplyDelete
Your word salad is not the word salad my case manager called what my mom does with her speech (or use to)...you have word theory and word philosophy.
Now I need to drink my coffee, gather some energy and clean up from the party yesterday....
You are waxing beautiful the day after the fourth. I loved each necessary word.ReplyDelete
Oh, my, my, my........Mary, this post is.....well....incredible.ReplyDelete
(you have taken away all my words)
I don't know what to call it, but "word salad" it is NOT.
Gorgeous.....a poem, a word feast, a word symphony......this may be your finest hour.
For the past umpteen years, I always wear a red, white and blue bikini.ReplyDelete
This year, I didn't even take it out of the drawer.
It is the 5th of July. Maybe I will put it on and laugh.
DTG- And now, as I write this, fourteen.ReplyDelete
Amna- Well, it's better than crack, I guess.
Stephanie- I am glad!
Ellen- I know. Word salad, medically, is different. But it fit, too, somehow. I hope you got some rest today!
Lo- I liked it too, to tell you the truth. It sort of poured forth, you know?
Omgrrrl- Why not? Love you, dear.
It was a good July 4th. And yes, there was pig, beef, and assorted other stuff. I ate the assorted other stuff. The fireworks show rocked.ReplyDelete
I am too damn dumb to get to the marrow of this post. But I want to so badly.ReplyDelete
Syd- The other stuff is my favorite.ReplyDelete
Ms. Bastard-Beloved- THERE IS NO MARROW! IT'S VEGETARIAN! Love you, baby.
I LOVE your words xxReplyDelete