They were conversations on motherhood. It was Mother's Day. And also, these conversations happen when you're preparing your emotions for the soon-to-be-wedding. We were talking about mothering, motherness, motherlessness, and the future, and in her own way - because everything she does is in her own way - she reminded me that even in the absence of motherhood we are allowed to see a future - as opposed to what society would like us to think. And society is always trying to have a conversation with us, in the throes of womaness, womanhood, violent conversations. Mother's Day can be a bitch sometimes. And this is where baptism uncovers its rewards. The crying turns to thought, turns to laughter, turns to, "Thank you Mom. I love you." And then conversations of fatherhood, from this view atop Mother and Daughter Mountain. It's a beautiful thing what's happening in this uncertain generation. Men are being brought up to believe in women, to maybe think that the man alone might be more than just the mighty protector, or hunter. Because to be equal, is to be nobler than just a hunter alone. To look straight forward, into eyes, and to listen, is a better kind of protecting than what came before. This generation of this countries men are beginning to see women for who they are. And who they are is more than whats on paper, and women are more than women, and paper can burn, and women carry the matches. In other words, the thought is no more than what ends up counting. So when the generation of men that came before this generation decides to fuck up, the fuck up is greater than usual. There's an apology that sits higher than the bar that sat before. And now our boys, young men, are lost in not knowing how to solve the problems men before them created for those he loved, and who loved him. All that's left are a few unopened letters and broken pieces of man waiting for forgiveness. And I hope Father's Day can offer conversation between Man and Son, to make a mountain.
(how the heart wanders while researching the health profile of Morocco)
I cut some things shaving today. The parts of me I want naked. The parts of me I want to burn, from the inside, so that the healing can happen without anybody knowing, that I'm trying. The way the still-warm sun tea wants to try to escape from the glass, because the ice and the cracking becomes crowded, and...the glass drops from my weak hands, and barely breaks.
There was no blood when I cut myself. Kind of like the time you scraped your knee when you were seven, and only the white just below the surface of the skin showed. It only hurt when you wiped it with your dirty finger, dirty from it being in your mouth the second before.
The mouth wasn't dirty, it was just your thoughts. Not at seven, but when you wiped your cuts at 17, 24, and yesterday.
To be this ready for a band-aid. And butane. Is probably what the sand feels like when it becomes cobalt glass, with rounded edges. There's never a reason for the glass to return to sand. There's a million possibilities for what becomes of glass, in the hands of what we become when we stand naked, in a crowded room.