MEMO: The following scramble of words and idioms were throw together aggressively on the plane enroute to the motherland in a feverish attempt to race my brain while wielding a pen instead of the usual faster-than-the-thought-process European keyboard. Here it is, in translation: scrawly and undeniably wild with excitement for home and n open-armed mum.
The sky is in the eery inbetween stage of the light of day and the dark of night. I am feeling very reflective right now (I just dragged a hand across my T-zone/forhead and froze in horror at the sight of my grease caked fingers) especially since realizing the entire point to this said journey--NOT the destination(s)--that just presented itself when I looked out the two inch thick window in retrospect. While the time-change was only a mere seven hours, my brain is still flip-flopping desperately between the here and now and the thereafter that will materialize before my eyes in only six hours. All I asked to be greeted with at the airport was a frenzy of shrieking and flash photography. (Two words: She [mum] delivered).
Again, looking out the depressing emergency exit window (or lack thereof) the reminder that I am in charge of all of the lives in the entire back right hand side of the plane's belly should we crash (thanks to my seat beside the said door of doom and impending death) is overwhelmingly unavoidable. Flying is no small feat; talk about anxiety.
(Right now, in the comfort of my very home, I am sitting on an inherited ottoman in a tent dress drinking Grandma's cold beef borscht out of an old dill pickle jar in between spot checks from my Apple's screen and my giant lap journal and listening to Edith Piaf on vinyl. Suffice is to say, this is the exact definition of a Mennonite-carpenter-meets-Joyful-Notes-choirwhore-lovechild-who-escaped-the-clutches-of-the-town-post-graduation-but-still-craves-the-Grandmother-borscht-with-loyal-desperation. Awesome. You nailed the soup by the way Helen Helen Helen).
ANYWAY, back on the plane somewhere between Amsterdam and Minneapolis, the light is still trying desperately to become just that, light; and I am thinking about motives. It only dawned on me now, five minutes ago in this bum-numming seat; five hours ago in Amsterdam while starting at the boy (in the cream fedora with the broken feathers and the beard) and the potential father of my children; five days ago in the Roman bed with red cheeks staring at the single rose drying upside down above my head; five weeks ago in Berlin looking at my entire culture and self-defining character in the face on a plate of ham and potatoes; five months ago while still swallowing a relationship that was over before it began; I was SUPPOSED to do this. I was supposed to leap out of the proverbial box like a cake-covered cheerleader person, out of misery, out of the mundane and the predictable, out of a beehive network of friends accumulated over hundreds of lattes, bottles of wine, potlucks, dance floors and Scrabble boards. Away, away, away. I was supposed to go to Europe to be 'taken off guard'; to ride my own coattails instead of my big sister bird's for once; to become so vulnerable that the sight of a single pair of men's patent brogues could shatter my entire happy-to-be-single existence. I was supposed to come home with negative $21.98 dollars in my bank account up to my ears in overdrafts (and I did), the stories and endless rolls of processing-included pictures and sight of my COSTCO-sized muffin tops (thanks to daily over-eating in England, Netherlands, Germany, Czech Republic, Austria, Belgium, France, ROME and Spain) weighing more in Golden Nostalgia than any sum of Manitoba Student Loan money could ever amount to.
I have not changed. I still have the same sneeze, the same lightening-paced gait, the same open-mouthed-squinted eye-skelletal shouldered laugh, the same gas (maybe even more), the same values and appreciation of family and heritage, and the same hair--just a foot and a half shorter; but my heart is different. I think the scariest thing of going home is facing the music of change among the people who you thought would be consistent until death do you part. C'est la vie; this is life.
Either way, there is no turning back now. Hello Christmas baking in the oven, Mariah Carey Merry Christmas dominating the airwaves of the country home, down-filled bedding sandwiches, a screaming mum, a silver fox Grandma, a lack of staple siblings, a plethora of staple friends, a patient second mom, an even more patient dad, an aunt who blows through more rolls of film than I do, a quiet uncle, another quiet honorary uncle, a beaming Grandpa, and the other uncle and aunt who would have stayed except that their babe 'halfer' shat his baby pants beyond repair on the airport slide. Damn.
Fly away home.
Best, all.
Frances, Her one-eyed Madgesty has returned at last.
"Thank you, thank you very much".
post script: You are all gems for reading this chaotic mess. I applaud you heartily for your continued effort and feedback. Pictures are 'acoming. In the meantime, go scope my gal Rabbi Boozedick69 (Rebecca Budyk aka 'Lil Audrey')'s blog for some digital picture delight... www.rags-and-feathers.blogspot.com (copy paste it, gems).
post post script: This photo was taken right, right now, this second. God bless tent dresses and winter for making it acceptable to "cover that shit up". Blessings to all, and to all a bon nuit.
1 comment:
my queen,
A tent-dress clad & bespeckled vision of you just drowned my heart with homesickness for your company. To say that I miss you would be the understatement of 2007, as it draws itself to a close at the seeming speed of light. It feels like only yesterday we were lazed upon the mansion couch, stuffed & entangled with nikos goodness; getting ready to ring in what turned out to be a SHITSTORM of a new year, with you in the coat room & I in the cab. ha. I hope that 2008 & twenty-two will be just as sweet & forever young for the both of us. & keep macchupichu well stocked, though you are prairie home. I miss you I miss you I miss you. nous allons parler suivante. lb.
Post a Comment