I got my period this morning, a day late.
Why was I ever so slightly dissapointed?
I'm a glutton for punishment.
Don't get too excited, dear loved ones. The brief moment of insanity passed.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Life can be ugly.
I woke up this morning and was running late for work. I'm always late for work--I'm glad I don't work with someone who minds or even notices. It was freezing but I never notice when I run outside, still hot from the house and the chaos of being a person who is perpetually late. It's why I never wear a jacket--because I always think, 'it's not that cold...'.
The end blip of news on the radio was that a water main break burst in Fairburn and Hwy 29 was closed. Great--the street I have to cross to get to work. Then I decided it wasn't such a bad thing--after all, it gave me a reason to be late.
But as I drew close to the little white bride, I noticed the gray smoke, the movement of water squirting in the air, the ashed, burn edges of buildings that have stood in the center of town for all of my life, for all of my Mother's life and for all my Grandmother's life.
Our town burned last night--OZ, Casablanca, the antique mall. It was a shock to see my city so wounded, crippled.
I looked at pictures later--blurry snapshots posted on a news website, the flames licking the night sky, demon eyes of swirling, orange fire feasting on my town, on my memories.
With tears in my eyes, I walked through two blistering cold parking lots, too shocked to feel the 26 degree weather or to remember my breakfast in the car. The backs of the buildings were horrific shells, reminders of how ugly life can be. How beautiful, how powerful, how warm and how cold--it can be all those things simultaneously.
So I don't know where to direct this post--whether I should dwell on the spring nights, when warmer whether draws us out, when me, Anth, Robert and Amanda would get the same idea to go for a meandering walks, the echo of our laughter, of our banter, disappear like the smoke rising from the burning embers of those evenings. Or whether I should remind everyone that life can change in an instant, that destruction doesn't come without the chance at new life. Or maybe I should be hopeful, rallying for my town--this will make us stronger, we will persevere (!) But mostly, I can't help but think about my childhood--the old buildings, the familiar musty smell of the antique shop, Linda's friendly face making me a deal, the over-priced food at Casablanca and the upstairs where I always dreamed of throwing my parent's an anniversary party. My mind is swirling with the past, the background to my memories, the touchstone of my reality--hell, even my book is set in that building--in the glass of Oz Pizza, on the worn, wooden floors of Casablanca's upstairs.
I took my last ride through Fairburn last night and I didn't even know it--the Fairburn as it will always be remembered, at least. Anth was driving and I was sleepy, my focus on the future, pouty-lipped and sleeping in the back seat. Little did I know, that in three short hours, it would all go up in a blaze of beautiful wonder, not knowing that when I woke up, life would be different.
I'm mourning the loss of those buildings like the death of a loved one. I keep realizing I have a catch in my throat, swollen, and I push it away, try to remember that others will probably think I'm being a teensy bit dramatic.
Why couldn't the rotting areas, with used furniture and decaying buildings and sprinkler systems, burn to the ground? The foreclosed houses or even the dry cleaners? Places that could be rebuilt without thinking about the ghosts of the history that were sent up in smoke?
Life doesn't work that way--it's ugly and unfair, captivating, mesmorizing.
The end blip of news on the radio was that a water main break burst in Fairburn and Hwy 29 was closed. Great--the street I have to cross to get to work. Then I decided it wasn't such a bad thing--after all, it gave me a reason to be late.
But as I drew close to the little white bride, I noticed the gray smoke, the movement of water squirting in the air, the ashed, burn edges of buildings that have stood in the center of town for all of my life, for all of my Mother's life and for all my Grandmother's life.
Our town burned last night--OZ, Casablanca, the antique mall. It was a shock to see my city so wounded, crippled.
I looked at pictures later--blurry snapshots posted on a news website, the flames licking the night sky, demon eyes of swirling, orange fire feasting on my town, on my memories.
With tears in my eyes, I walked through two blistering cold parking lots, too shocked to feel the 26 degree weather or to remember my breakfast in the car. The backs of the buildings were horrific shells, reminders of how ugly life can be. How beautiful, how powerful, how warm and how cold--it can be all those things simultaneously.
So I don't know where to direct this post--whether I should dwell on the spring nights, when warmer whether draws us out, when me, Anth, Robert and Amanda would get the same idea to go for a meandering walks, the echo of our laughter, of our banter, disappear like the smoke rising from the burning embers of those evenings. Or whether I should remind everyone that life can change in an instant, that destruction doesn't come without the chance at new life. Or maybe I should be hopeful, rallying for my town--this will make us stronger, we will persevere (!) But mostly, I can't help but think about my childhood--the old buildings, the familiar musty smell of the antique shop, Linda's friendly face making me a deal, the over-priced food at Casablanca and the upstairs where I always dreamed of throwing my parent's an anniversary party. My mind is swirling with the past, the background to my memories, the touchstone of my reality--hell, even my book is set in that building--in the glass of Oz Pizza, on the worn, wooden floors of Casablanca's upstairs.
I took my last ride through Fairburn last night and I didn't even know it--the Fairburn as it will always be remembered, at least. Anth was driving and I was sleepy, my focus on the future, pouty-lipped and sleeping in the back seat. Little did I know, that in three short hours, it would all go up in a blaze of beautiful wonder, not knowing that when I woke up, life would be different.
I'm mourning the loss of those buildings like the death of a loved one. I keep realizing I have a catch in my throat, swollen, and I push it away, try to remember that others will probably think I'm being a teensy bit dramatic.
Why couldn't the rotting areas, with used furniture and decaying buildings and sprinkler systems, burn to the ground? The foreclosed houses or even the dry cleaners? Places that could be rebuilt without thinking about the ghosts of the history that were sent up in smoke?
Life doesn't work that way--it's ugly and unfair, captivating, mesmorizing.
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