The lady with the flowered green bag sulked around and paced outside the restaurant door, sucking on a cigarette. My bright shiny cheeked boy anxiously tugged my hand as he pulled me past her to go for a walk down the mean sidewalk streets of Austin.
Meter. "Failure" sticker. Chicken wire covering an air cooling engine. Dirty wooden trash bin with bright red duffel bag and 2 rotting bananas in half-opened skin, lying side by side like war casualties in a ditch.
What is the world coming to?
Where are we now, and where have we been?
What hath rock and roll wrought...on the hair of Americans? Bad dye, frizzy, puffy, thin but poofy, long and greasy, sideways and inappropriate or not quite matching facial hair. My rock and roll hair signifies my allegiances. I choose to align with the Divine. Or Patti Smith.
Who may smoke.
The fire of heat, steam coming off our skin at Eastwoods park. It's Eila's birthday, it's Jenn's birthday. The day a woman's first baby is born is the day she dies, reincarnates as...a Mom.
"It's like a scud missile has gone off in the middle of your life."
In a good way.
Leaving plumes. Peacock feathers, Krishna's kiss, Radha longing to be the flute at his lips, fiery fists and furrowed brows, real tears, throwing things, scratching mama's lip off, the explosive growth of the toddler mind.
I feel blackened, crisp. Delectable, smoky incensed.
Unfiltered. Unwashed. Deliriously happy. Gnawing on nails, carrots, knuckles and baby boy knees.
I send my offerings up to God, into the wild blue yonder, along with the prayers, the nag champa, the longing throb of my voice.
Fan me, I'm a flame.
I'll never go out.
--Liz
Smoke on the water. Water on the stove. Pasta in the water on the stove as we race against hungry bellies inside each and every one. Can I help? Oh no. Not now. Time is of the essence and there is no time for cooking lessons when low blood sugar stares us in the face and comes out in the form of snarkiness. Wah. Wah. Wah. And that's just from the parents. Imagine how it sounds in the babies and the kids. Italian sausage in the broiler smokes. Ah! Get it! Oh well, a little carcinogenic but tasty nonetheless. Fresh greens picked by our 11 year old at Green gate farms where she goes every Friday instead of going to school. Yippee for intentional hooky! Better than my version of childhood hooky which involved spur of the moment decisions and no plans and drives to the Jersey shore or the big apple smoking, smoking all the way.
--Bernadette
Not supposed to smoke while I'm pregnant--that part is easy. Not supposed to drink (a lot) either; that's not so easy. Especially after a day like today, which followed a night like last night. Baby up twice, second time for a full hour, writhing and kicking her fleshy knees into my growing belly. Sleep was my insatiable craving, and I thought nasty thoughts while she stirred, I really did, crazy how you can do that and love so profoundly at the same time.
Today I drove two friends and my tired girl to a barbecue mecca in small town Texas. If I would have come alone, as my old self, it would have been all open arms gluttony, cold beer in tow and bring on the fatty meats. But now, baby on my hip, I wondered if I should feed my tot the greasy links and cheap, soft white bread and if the smoke from the wood fire would linger in our clothes and hair (I actually relished this possibility). The electric knife they used to slice the brisket make her wide-eyed with fear (such noises are terrifying since her tiny cast was sawed off), and that image took away my hunger.
Feeling a 100 years old, with baby on my lap (jabbing her brother with every bite), I was reborn, I was again surprised by the renewal of being a mom. I watched my sweet girl sucking on rib bone, plucking pintos from the sauce with her fingers, eating tiny pieces of smoky meat for the first time. And my indulgent anxieties and self pity were snuffed out. My happiness was a hot fire, and it smolders still, as I remember messy face and greasy napkins and my pants soaked with the ice tea that she had spilled.
--Paula
The end of a very. long. day. My cranky girl exhausting every resource of calm and even temper I have available to me. And I am fortunate to have many.
But I'm all run out. She's finally asleep and I can't shake the feeling of fight or flight that has risen from riding, wrangling and reeling through the histrionic roller coaster that is the emotional life of a toddler. I remember that my fellah keeps a little green bud in the top cabinet in an oregano jar. 'Medicinal' he says.
Tonight I understand. I acquiesce. I smell it. Smells like Christmas tree. I smoke. I choke. I remember then why the last time I tried this was in the 80's. You see...."Bitches can't hold their smoke. That's what it is."*
*Weird Science 1985
--J
--J
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