I had a fantastic weekend, thank you.
Today, I decided to read an essay first, and not continue to any other ingredient in the cocktail until I'd read and discussed an essay. That way, I am not tempted to just fore go the essay part of this. So, I read an essay on Teen Ink called Better Barbie by Jesse K. out of Grand Ledge, Michigan. As I was reading it, I thought, why do we feel the need to make references to things when talking (or writing) about ourselves? To form similes and metaphors and analogies about the greatness or lack thereof of our lives? As a poet, I'm sure this is blasphemous, but it was just a thought that crossed my mind.
I thought it was a great essay. I loved the imagery the writer incorporated into her piece; the sepia-toned memories, the muted through words emotions. It was more than I was expecting from a piece that had Barbie in the title. In fact, the author did a fantastic job of showing that she is both travelled and educated, which should have been my sign. I got to the last paragraph and almost lost my mind and my breakfast. Of course this was turning into a feministic "women must have wild dreams of travel and education to be real women and not want to be moms" kind of thing.
I'm sorry. I've just read too much of this lately. The author threw in the names of Emerson, Thoreau, Carroll, Angelou, and a well-placed reference to Rip Van Winkle, as if those of us who chose the path of wife and mother could not possible have the brains enough to know those names, much less have them on our bookshelves. Indeed, what bookshelves? This person cannot possibly fathom that I have so many books on almost every subject in my house that my husband is building me a new bookshelf in the bathroom so that they won't keep falling off the back of the toilet, and so I can move some of the stacks from the kitchen, dining room, and living room onto the shelf. She cannot appreciate the endless hours put between my full-time job, which I both adore and despise, as I long to be home with my children, then being home with my three sons, two of whom are under 2 and still in diapers, and the slightly sad relief when they go to bed and I have a little while to read whatever book I happen to have my nose in at the time.
No, choosing to be a wife and mother is not indicative of a lack of brains or dreams. I dream of being a writer, which is why I started this blog. I dream of moving to a more Norther-ly place where my children can see snow, before they are too old to appreciate the magical, mysterious quality of a quiet snowfall, the glittering, sparkling morning after. I dream of sitting on a porch, old and gray, with my husband, rocking in our chairs and drinking hard lemonade and laughing at memories. I dream of taking my kids to places that I've never been to, to instill some culture in them. I dream of passing on to them my love of literature and history. I also dream of my sons finding nice, caring, loving wives, but according to our current American society, this is a horrible thing to wish upon a woman.
The short story I read was The Brass Teapot by Tim Macy. Oh my goodness. At first, I thought it was sweet how these two elderly people still cared about each other after years of being together and raising children. The husband accidentally slams the wife's fingers in the trunk and he tries to kiss them. I just thought that was so sweet. But then greed sets in and it just soured my stomach how these two treated each other at the prospect of money. The ending seemed abrupt and unfinished, but this is definitely not a story I will soon forget. It's not too long, so, read it if you get a chance.
There is even a whole website on The Brass Teapot with more stories and links. How fun!
I read Wicked Weed by Dark Butterfly. I have to say, the rhyming threw me off a bit, but I did like the overall piece. I can't, however, say I entirely understand what the author was trying to convey. I would have liked to have read the piece before the owner of the site got hold of the poem and ripped it to shreds, which he is oh-so-famous for. Someone commented and mentioned "all that a man can offer," which I did not get at all.
If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson is the classic poem I read today. If you were to ask me why, I could not fathom an answer for why Dickinson was one of my least favorite poets. This poem seemed genuine enough in itself, the subject appearing to pine for a lover... Yet, at the same time it felt like a farce, something conjured up to fill empty space on blank pages. For those of you who adore Dickinson, please forgive my honest opinion here, and refrain from throwing the tomatoes.
No comments:
Post a Comment