Monday, February 16, 2009
Realized with a jolt that all of the cleaning women I have employed here have had university degrees. (This could be extended to include my ex-wife, but we won't go into that)
They were also all foreign.
I try very hard not to wander around cyberspace reading new blogs, although the temptation is enormous. (For a start, the varieties of English that you find-- try reading teenager blogs from the Phillipines, for example). I stick to reading the ones I know, for the most part. Otherwise I would never get ANYTHING done.
People are always interesting. Some can express themselves better than others, OK. But I love following the days of people I have come to know through their posts. Some blogs, though, stop you in your tracks, with nearly every new post.
Take this blog, for example, written by a girl living, I guess, somewhere in Pennsylvania. Today's entry:
WHAT DID YOU THERE
We were in a tiny blue tiled kitchen, we were like the last people left in the world. Thinking about how much fucking and childbirth was going to be required of me to repopulate the country, feeling tense over the fish scales and guts on the cutting board. I put olive oil in the pan. All we had besides the pan and the fish and olive oil was a bar of chocolate. My big toe had been stubbed three mornings in a row by the grade change onto the tile. I kept it lifted off the floor while cooking, and it was my private joke how beat-up and sad this purple toe looked.
When he came in I asked him to dump the fish guts outside. He didn't. Him. You. You know that I only keep up this stupid blog so that you can find me whenever you want. If you read it a month from now, ask yourself, what crazy generous act is going to bring me back?
Instead of trotting off with the fish, my loyal shaggy dog, you reached for the open bottle of olive oil and lifted it above my head. When the heavy stream hit my head, some neuron attempted to smack you with fishy hands but my brain shut itself off and I could only stand. The oil was warm. I closed by eyes, it fingered down. Then we were sliding all over, I bruised my elbows, we made a fucking mess. Your dick slipped in just fine, which was a great relief, because you never know, when you are stuck with the last man on earth, whether his piece will fit. When you turned away I circled the scar on your shoulder around and around with my index finger until the oil sank into it.
That night the little ants that lined up in the tile cracks made a move onto my thighs. I could feel their confusion on my hands as I swiped them away in sleep, but I didn't have the heart to wake up and get rid of them completely; they only wanted a bit of our juice to take back to their fat queen.
This woman doesn't allow comments on her blog, for which I am very grateful. She is a musician, I can feel her wavelength. But I am very glad I don't know her personally, somehow. Where does she find the courage to write these things?
They were also all foreign.
I try very hard not to wander around cyberspace reading new blogs, although the temptation is enormous. (For a start, the varieties of English that you find-- try reading teenager blogs from the Phillipines, for example). I stick to reading the ones I know, for the most part. Otherwise I would never get ANYTHING done.
People are always interesting. Some can express themselves better than others, OK. But I love following the days of people I have come to know through their posts. Some blogs, though, stop you in your tracks, with nearly every new post.
Take this blog, for example, written by a girl living, I guess, somewhere in Pennsylvania. Today's entry:
WHAT DID YOU THERE
We were in a tiny blue tiled kitchen, we were like the last people left in the world. Thinking about how much fucking and childbirth was going to be required of me to repopulate the country, feeling tense over the fish scales and guts on the cutting board. I put olive oil in the pan. All we had besides the pan and the fish and olive oil was a bar of chocolate. My big toe had been stubbed three mornings in a row by the grade change onto the tile. I kept it lifted off the floor while cooking, and it was my private joke how beat-up and sad this purple toe looked.
When he came in I asked him to dump the fish guts outside. He didn't. Him. You. You know that I only keep up this stupid blog so that you can find me whenever you want. If you read it a month from now, ask yourself, what crazy generous act is going to bring me back?
Instead of trotting off with the fish, my loyal shaggy dog, you reached for the open bottle of olive oil and lifted it above my head. When the heavy stream hit my head, some neuron attempted to smack you with fishy hands but my brain shut itself off and I could only stand. The oil was warm. I closed by eyes, it fingered down. Then we were sliding all over, I bruised my elbows, we made a fucking mess. Your dick slipped in just fine, which was a great relief, because you never know, when you are stuck with the last man on earth, whether his piece will fit. When you turned away I circled the scar on your shoulder around and around with my index finger until the oil sank into it.
That night the little ants that lined up in the tile cracks made a move onto my thighs. I could feel their confusion on my hands as I swiped them away in sleep, but I didn't have the heart to wake up and get rid of them completely; they only wanted a bit of our juice to take back to their fat queen.
This woman doesn't allow comments on her blog, for which I am very grateful. She is a musician, I can feel her wavelength. But I am very glad I don't know her personally, somehow. Where does she find the courage to write these things?
# posted by vailian : 11:53 AM
