Really Good at Rolling in It

In a recent work meeting, someone's tongue stumbled and they accidentally said "in" the first time before correcting to their intended "with." What we learned about our flexibility and adaptability:

"We're really good at rolling in it."

I don't know what "it" is, but I think I actually like the accidental first version better. I think I might even make it a new life goal, to get better at rolling in it.

The first part of this post is going to be another edition of "as previously seen on Facebook." But I feel like this is a less ephemeral format that I have more control, and I like compiling things here. I have a vague hope that maybe my kids might read it someday when they're much older. Although the bit above I started as an aside in the chat of the online meeting before it was anything else.

Since I started with something from work, here's another spontaneous thought I had while sitting at the desk while sitting in the Kids area:

You know . . . I think if we could somehow convince every child who enters my library's Kids space that the floor can never, ever turn to lava, the play and atmosphere would be calmer. Do you think we should ask if there's budget for purchasing a new lava-proof floor material?

Everything not carpet is currently lava-proof and constantly finding new arrangements.

Though, I'm still waiting for the day someone tosses a ring of power onto our floor and walks away, believing it melted . . .

I was asked if the post was inspired by my children, but it was not. They have, in fact, played "The Floor Is Lava" at my library, but so has nearly every other child who's walked through the door. It seems to be a universal childhood game.

Another moment from the public service desk:

When I sat down to work desk found two different people had left little origami figures to add a bit of fun, so I added a third--perhaps less elegant--one.

Speaking of posts inspired by my children, though:

I am so jealous of Harry Potter and friends. I am always chasing mischief, berating mischief, futilely failing at preventing mischief. I have never once been able to satisfactorily claim to have seen mischief managed.

We have two boys, ages 7 and 8.

It seems the rest of my slim anecdotes today are about the older one, who is very smart and very absent-minded.

We're enjoying our first rain and break from heat in weeks, and I opened the blinds upon waking so we could enjoy watching it.

I also just watched [Spouse] get the boys out the door for their day camp (I'm relaxing today after working the weekend). Part of what I observed:

"[Older], try on these three pairs of rain boots to see which one works best. Now find your tennis shoes for when you get inside."

"[Older], here's your rain jacket. Yes, [Younger], you have to take your rain jacket in case you go outside; it's supposed to keep raining until eleven."

[Older], upon opening the door and stepping outside, "Wait! You didn't tell us it was raining!"

"Great acts of kindness will befall you in the coming months," [Older] read off his fortune. "No. No, I don't believe that."

"You don't think so?"

"It's just some nonsense written on a piece of paper in a factory and put into a cookie with countless others."

"No one ever does anything nice for you, like buying you a yummy dinner? Or taking you fun places?"

"Ooohhh. I thought it meant that I would be the one doing nice things."

-----

I'm currently reading a book to the boys with a truth teller and a liar. [Younger] asked me who I think he more resembles. I said the truth teller. That our whole family is pretty honest.

"Maybe not as much [Older]," he said. "He's a very, very cunning man. Maybe even diabolical."

The book is The Facttracker by Jason Carter Eaton

This spoke to me. I've copied the words; follow the link for the full illustrations.

Lunarbaboon

July 23, 2022

"End"

I want this moment to end.

I bet they would stop if I smashed this bowl against the wall.

I could totally do it.

But then I would be the kind of dad that throws bowls.

And I'll never be that dad.

I'm never perfect at it, but I always try not to be that dad.

On a very related note, this poem blew me away. I read it through three times: the first time the I read the plain text on the left (every other line); the second I read the italicized on the right (every other line); the final time I read every word in order. There might be other ways to do it, but this worked for me and I recommend it. Three powerful poems in one.

Michael Kleber-Diggs

                                       SEISMIC ACTIVITIES

My father died at the edge of spring

My daughter was born as summer waned

unexpected like an earthquake

There is no way to prepare              for rapture

or rupturing a disruption when everything

                   when what you know       and who you are

becomes something else     is subsumed

                     is ravaged by flame then remade

I loved my father but he frightened me

          I recall being invaded by fear

Once, he sent rage like fire into my face

              I reeled staggered and dizzy burning nerves

I had a hard time keeping my feet     on the ground

     I tried to figure out what I’d done to deserve

torture so total  I wanted my father to be

a blessing a miracle for me     something

more than my tormentor                      and he was

beautiful too heartbreakingly beautiful

I remember playing baseball one autumn

I probably imagined innocence a shield

I was a child we were                          in our backyard

            not much later I’d set my girl down                   mean, my rage

a ball I threw––dad put a hurtin’ on it

                       a sphere shaped like a fist          so fast

with such velocity everything froze

I jerked back from it instinctively

a bullet, a bullet, a bullet, a bullet

                          You never forget the shape of a shocked mouth

all around us grass was browned

      wilted  spoiled        I can pinpoint the moment

the earth shook and came apart

                                   the house moved    my mirror fell and shattered

I learned death travels at 2500 feet per second

I saw yesterdays and tomorrows I found out

(those who love us can destroy us)

(we can destroy those we love Listen)

the ball cleared the yard and entered the woods

no one can hurt like those       who’ve been hurt

                   like my father

no one can hurt like me

I believe I was able to reproduce the spacing correctly. I read it in the book Worldly Things (by Michael Kleber-Diggs), though you can also read it (and a few others) at Sleet Magazine. Here's what I wrote about the book in my review:

Kleber-Diggs has a magical ability to take the boring, mundane, ordinary stuff of life and somehow--without changing, exaggerating, hyperbolizing, or glorifying it--make it holy. Some of that holiness is joy, some relationships and connectedness, and much is lamentation. He powerfully and movingly expresses an immense amount of human experience and emotion through seemingly simple, everyday, worldly things. He's a magician.

Here are another few lines I liked:

I am somewhere

inside the middle of my life, and still

preoccupied with sex and alcohol and

mortality – only the ratios have changed.

That's from from "Structural Fatigue." You can read the whole thing at Midway Journal.

I picked out two others that I especially like for the way they find the magic in everyday moments.

FIXTURES

Fog borne of fatigue, fog of early morning,

of restless middle-years sleeplessness, fog of cat

hair in my eye, of dog, dogs, fog of darkness, fog

of dreary days under a pseudo-autocracy, funk

fog of high crimes and misdemeanors, fog of my daily

compulsion toward work I do not want to do.

Red traffic light unaware I am there. Darkness,

no cars coming, no reason to wait--no policy

vindicated by my compliance: left, then right, then

left again. Headlights on, brake lights working,

me a warrantless man, a man without priors,

an insured man--able to prove it. No cars coming,

no reason to wait. I run it. I run it every day. I run

the red light like I'm free. In the Midwest we don't

really have bodegas. We have convenience stores

or mini-marts fueled by fuel, for cars, for people,

fuel and cigarettes, vapes, energy drinks, chips,

dips, nuts, so many kinds of cold beverage, even 3.2

beer, and there's one kind of fruit: browning bananas,

three for a buck. Sinful things: donuts, deli delights

pre-packaged off-site, pornos and pills, tinctures

and balms, ointments--get hard, stay hard, chill out,

grab a boost, fight acid, soothe your cough--fuel fix

and run. The mini-mart I go to is in the 'burbs, two

miles away from three supermarkets. It's called

Farmer's Grandson Eatery-no 2nd possessive so

it applies to me through my mother's father, but

membership bestows no advantage. I go there

because it's easy--right off the interstate. My mini-

mart makes hot sandwiches on site. I stop even

though I know my foray will be plagued by malaise.

All of us dumb from exhaustion, everything taking

too damn long, no one speaking except Ahmed,

his is the only name I know, he who credits me

for a coffee club I ain't in, waves me away like

a blessed child, recognizes me and my usual fare:

medium roast in a medium cup, always either

almost enough cream or a bit too much. Once, on

a snowy morning, I trudged to a bodega in Harlem,

144th and Amsterdam--dispatched on a parental

errand, in a hurry, urgent a.m. appointment

midtown, knowing traffic would crawl, knowing

the snow would pack the A-train, needing good

food to go, arrived to find the owner--brown

like me and tired too--out of bagels, the bakery

delayed by the storm. I said nothing. Somehow,

he knew my mission mattered. He left me by the till

walked aisles more narrow than I, then returned

with a mango and a small plastic knife. I don't know

the name of the woman at my mini-mart who rang

me up most mornings. I don't know where she is

from--North America, South, Central. She is brown

like me and not. We've never spoken, and in my full

humanity and hers, being honest, I didn't like her

much, nor she much me, I think. All our transactions

drowned in dread. She dropped change in my hand

like I was hot. High voltage. I often wanted different

for us, though never enough to speak on it. Four

years, meeting almost every day--1,000 mornings,

sharing nothing but place. 1,000 mornings, her

presence a fixture, so familiar to me I could take

her for granted--1,000 mornings always the same:

$1.70-bag? $1.70-bag? No thank you. No thank you.

Then no, just no. Then nothing because she was

gone. She vanished or was disappeared. Though it

could have been anything, the times pushed panic.

Gone, yet she stayed with me all day--ache of

a void, wage of regret, more constant than ever;

she lingered, still with me that night as I worried

toward sleep. Darkness again the next morning

when I arrived at the red light I ran every day, still

unaware I was there. Awake, alert, clarified in concern,

chastened, willing to wait for permission to go,

reminded my compliance is the policy,

and vindication is not meant for me here, nor her.

Grace is not made for us. People so invisible

we can't see each other--hypervisible people.

People whose papers matter and don't: kin.

ARS POETICA

In a recent dream, I wanted something ordinary--eggs

or a hammer, a thing like that. So, I sought out a neighbor

but not a real neighbor. I rang an unfamiliar bell.

Behind a hollow door, a man yelled, I called the police.

Okay, I said. Do you mind if I wait for them

here? He must have said no 'cause I waited on

his front steps. Soon, he sat next to me. We talked, but

I don't know what we talked about. We were calm.

I know we were calm. Neighbors chatting while sirens

gathered in volume, urgency. I never got the ordinary

thing. Worse, I woke myself up seconds before the police

arrived to arrest me. The squad car and its lights disappeared.

I usually return to darkness--my dreams gone, lost,

beyond my reach, into my cortex, into ether. Or maybe

that's what I tell myself. It's possible I don't want to know

what my mind makes when I sleep. I may rely on forgetting.

I'm writing this on my phone while I teach my daughter to drive.

I should pay attention more than I do, but she is managing well,

and I don't want to lose this idea. I'm writing a poem, I tell her.

She asks, What about? I answer. Cool, she says. I say, I almost

always forget my dreams I don't know why. Maybe I want more

from them-like magic-something fantastic. Maybe

I could breathe underwater or be miniscule or grow an epic beard

or maybe all three at the same time. Sadly, my vision is common.

I dream about ordinary things-stuff that could actually happen.

As I say this, my daughter sits like a dancer, tall and open.

Her hands show power and lightness. In them,

the steering wheel becomes a ballet barre.

She's focused, but she is somewhere else too.

I always remember my dreams, she says. They're strange.

In one, I pooped a yellow snake then became friends with it.

Are you shitting me? I ask. She frowns, shifts gears,

rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and she's right. This

is a serious conversation. Time is silent. We practice

turns, left and right. We do road work. I navigate.

We avoid busy streets. We'll work our way up to them.

I reach a spot where I can stop writing the poem.

Quiet becomes a taunt, a gauntlet. Eventually, I say,

You are the kind of artist I want to be. She does

not look at me. She keeps her eyes on the road. She makes

the window a mirror, meets me there instead.

Though I recommend the whole book.