i was form-tackled by a chubby four-year old, intent on giving me a bear-hug, yesterday. it was awesome. however, my glasses were broken harry potter-style, and i can't find my wand to save my life. i do have to say that being bear-hugged by a chubby four-year old is probably one of the top five ways one can break one's glasses.
i broke my right baby toe, yesterday. i caught it on the edge of a file cabinet, as i was leaving the office for the day. it was this blinding white light of pain that ran up my leg, and back down, and settled in my metatarsals. y'all...it hurt to have a sheet on my foot. of course, this is around the 950th time i've broken this baby toe, so i'm sure this is normal.
i'm turning 32 in four days. i'm excited. and maybe 2% scared. i'm not sure of what i'm scared, but i am, just a little bit. i think being 31 has been so pivotal, that i've done so much work and learned so much this year...i just don't want to lose any ground. i want to do this life well, and to keep feeling the good feelings i've felt about myself in the last year.
i watched a movie about dylan thomas this weekend, once straight through, and once with the commentary track and subtitles on. if i could send him a lettter, back in time, i would tell him that every woman wants to believe that every poem is about her, and some women will be utterly convinced that all the poems are about her, even if none of them are. such is the nature of women. there is a set of fine lines between the maiden, the mother, and the crone...magical and sacramental, and if the poet looks and listens carefully, the poet will know when he has crossed any of those lines. poets love dichotomy...the lines between the whore and the madonna, the kite and the rock, the mountains and the sea. the lines are crooked, switchbacked, as long as the nile, and as volitile as the rubicon, and to the untrained eye, the poet will seem to be a shambling and drunken bufoon as he wends his way along the winding lines of his muses. because there is always more than one muse. or, if one believes bob dylan, there's only one muse, with a thousand faces.
how the poet walks those lines speaks volumes, and often writes them, as well. and sometimes, the walking ceases altogether, and the poet comes crawling on hands and knees, looking to the untrained eye like a mendicant with an empty bowl. the poet knows that whether he seeks suckle at the breast of his mother or his lover, a woman will always be the one to feed him, kindle a fire, wrap him up safe, and fill him with something good. at least, such is the case with the poets i know.
mil besos,
rmg
