Archive for Groceries

Spring Equinox

Basically, all that is the egg: fertile and round and pure and strong in fragility.

Delicate paper-thin shell encapsulating sticky moisture cracks into soft and hard.

All that sustains life bursts in delicious, scrambled spring.


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13 March 2012.


Thank you.

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the i for the y

Dostoievsky, avec umlaut en Francaise (et cette avec cedille [et cette avec accent aigu]). Mais sans umlaut et cedille et accent aigu en cet blog.

To keep with my last post theme of books, I wanted to say that the other night, no joke, a certain book fell off my bookshelf. And you know that by “fell” I mean “flew.” It’s true, quite a distance into the room.

Dostoievsky’s L’Eternel Mari, 1967 editions Baudelaire. Text all in French. Bought on the street in front of its book store during my time in the Latin Quarter in Paris. L’Eternel Mari in a cardboard box on sale for francs right before the advent of the euro. Maybe I thought I had the ability to read it all in French like Le Petit Prince in high school. I’m sure I thought I could, I sometimes have grand ideas like this still. I just liked having it on my person. I kept it hidden away safe as a treasure at the bottom of my giant backpack that I lugged for a very very long time on a very very solo journey.

Its cover is truly unique, and I’m certain this is why I also bought it. My definition of beauty is oftentimes awkward.

This deep blue spine and what would be a painting of a sinister (or mysterious) man on its cover. Again, browned beautiful pages that once held the musty sexiness of its surroundings. Its inside front covers another tapestry of white latticework on that same deep blue.

I’m sure I also felt all avant-garde roaming around, having just seen Oscar Wilde’s gravesite with strange lipstick marks all over it, and dreaming of the bohemian writer’s life strolling my French-speaking twins through the eclectic passages of streets to get us all to the dance studio before mommy has to go back to the flat and finish her latest chapter while my husband works on his violin making and playing. After baking something divine from the market, of course, which would be wafting through everyone’s space. Always a nurturer.

Such opportunity came from selling my car for money—traveling and the writing program I attended—but moreso a complete belief in me. To read a whole book in French. To travel alone for so long, with absolute bravery and fulfillment. To dream up stories for my future self. To yearn. To become me.

And that brings me to my existential point of this book coming to my attention now. I have certainly become me but in entirely different ways than once imagined, and possibly only because I once imagined them can I be who I am.

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I had forgotten how precious and pure is the process of putting a baby to bed. How very different it is from a school-age child whose words and fears and wants often strip the fairy tale of its wonder.

After changing and dressing and placing him in his crib, it wasn’t the modern, fancy gadgetry of the nursery that captured my awe but my instinctual rubbing of the forehead, watching his eyelids flutter, all cozy and warm and wrapped in blankets with a favorite stuffy.

I started to cry. Out of happiness. Out of remembrance. Out of hope. Then admittedly a touch out of sorrow that my first-born son perhaps never had this peace, certainly not the amenities or luxury of secure consistency.

But mostly I felt joy because in my heart of hearts I know that I will be blessed once (twice?) more with being given life from my own.

And what a woman never forgets, what her body’s memory carries (yearns for?) forever, is the gentle weight of her child resting on her hip from birth onward. It becomes simply a natural tendency to rock and sway even if she’s just standing by the copy machine long after the child has grown up.

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It can only be explained that the soul is birthed into water. Any memory of that sensation seems best represented in life through art. Music, poetry, painting, photography. The instinct of water captured for just a moment. People say the most peaceful way to die is drowning, itself a surrender, a giving into not a giving up.

I have had the good fortune to be surrounded by water for four days straight, with the added blessing of a full August moon. Friday the ocean, with its magnificent, infinite power and magic who bore witness to my swelling heart. Saturday the lake, with its calm lapping and sedentary depth amid goddesses. Sunday the drizzly rain that created an engulfing calm of domesticity. Monday, tonight, hard rain: preserving that which I already have. The sky is not weeping this week but shedding the sweat of doubt.

All the water of the world is carrying me on its rhythm and gravitational pull to my true north.


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The next time a full moon lunar eclipse happens directly on Solstice is the year 2093. To think, I won’t be here the very next time what happens today happens again. “A witch’s dream” is how a friend described it.

Happy Solstice, the longest night of the year. Happy Full Moon in Gemini/Sagittarius 29 degrees. Happy Eclipse, that great permeating shadow that exists so that light can come. Happy Yule.

Godspeed 2011.

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New Month

New year.

November is kicking my arse with writing and working. Overtime on all fronts. I have a whopping one sane hour to myself at day’s end, after 15 hours of doing the work of 10 women, so I’m pulling all the goddess strings and amping up on nicotine and caffeine. Plus a flu shot and ok one night crashing at the same time my son went to bed, but still.

It appears I’m delirious thus I wanted to stop by the grocery to pick up some balance. It seems no one is shopping at Magdelana’s Mini Mart, so I’m trying to drum up business.

Sliced bread: this week only, two for one special.

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