I was just looking for a picture of the dogs for N.Lo’s show and tell this week (pet themed. clearly.) and this box, which by the way is starting to smell a little mildewy from basement life, so I rescued it, contained photos from like, every era of Penelope. Except the most recent in which everything’s been captured digitally, of course. So me riding a tricycle was mixed in with me graduating college and me graduating grad school and then me at sixth grade camp and then in high school marching band and then oh – pictures of London scenery and Chicago scenery and that time I went to Myrtle Beach. Frankly it was alarming and odd and awesome all at once. I really ought to sort. I should catalog. I should provide you with an excellent photo montage. Right! That’s so going on the list of Projects Someday.
For now here’s us in 2001, at Heaven on Seven opposite our little crew (not pictured. duh). Love. Eet.
And the nuances we spoke of. It’s like. They are there and I’m not in the practice of expressing them. For awhile I was overjoyed at the idea of being a writer, because there was a form in which I could almost capture it all, communicate it. Whether in an essay or then a blog post or emails or whatever. But was it just a blip on the radar screen, that shining moment in time when longer forms and nuances were digested readily? Sought after for consumption even. Now we’re in the area of constant but superficial and/or insta-connection. So it’s like we’re always talking, but how deeply. And sometimes I tell myself, well no one wants to hear that. There is no time and space for it anymore. But is it just an excuse. Perhaps blogposts and emails are our anchor. How post-modern-retro-or-something of us, but still.
This past weekend, at the beach, for a moment I grasped my hand around certain slippery ideas like enjoyment and beauty and presence. They’ve wriggled away by now like the fish or other sea creature I happened to step on (what are the chances of an intersection of human limbs and such quickness, really), but their impression remains. Also impressed on my skin: a sunburn in spite of excess SPF 50 application? It pulses with heartbeat occasionally and will likely peel but otherwise isn’t the worst I’ve seen. A small price to pay for such a glimpse.
And the cool-weather soundtrack with our windows open, aside from the crickets and other nightlife: acorns falling on a tin roof. This didn’t happen last year, so I’m assuming it’s a tree that’s aged and/or a new shed (the pig house?), and maybe it’s pinecones or gumballs, not acorns. At first it sounded like the crack of a bb gun. But it’s regular intervals. Fall expressed as sound. And I kind of dig it.
I’m trying to think of weeklong plans to share lest I infer that Cath is a better friend (gasp! after all our years) but mainly it’s nothing. In a good way. Oh book club. And some more stupidbutnecessaryandalsoheavensent paying work. And handbells, which I learned today, via an imparted lesson from Sesame Street: play as though you’re holding an ice cream cone, and you don’t want the ice cream to fall out. My notes are D and E and sometimes D# – is there symbolism here? Discuss.
Also, your thoughts on Revolution? I was more or less engaged by the plot but felt they could have punched up the dialog with a bit more wit? I mean it’s JJ Abrams for heaven’s sake. My expectations are HIGH. And anyway, why would we bother otherwise. Don’t tell me the electromagnetic pulse zapped the humor from everyone’s souls, too.
xoxox to you on the island
(and point taken about the postcards…)