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Map to Eden.
Eden.
My word could have been check. Cause I did everything planned. Almost.
Tai chi in the kitchen waiting for the electric kettle to boil, then grounds to blossom in the french press, more between sips of steaming Peets. At least a cup.
I could show my 70's vinyl ottomon, gold in front of the butter chair. That my feet are on right now. The flowered hand-thrown 12" earthen ware bowl from Costa Rica, the metal plant stand I am using as a side table. The two lamps, 8am finds at the Historical Society rummage sale. Twelve bucks. I missed the Catholic kneeler by 2 minutes--the man is going to use it as a place for his toddler to pull his boots on and off.
Then the craft talk, focusing on time.
I could show the pictures I took in the ER waiting for the resident, because there is no urgent care and regular doctors can't just see you, without a well check first, and it takes a month, so we were at the hospital for an earache. Yep. Rural America, a health care black hole. Excellent for people watching.
Then an almost missed meeting, in Adirondak chairs in the sun. And a prescription run, and finally time alone in my car, at a house, by a lake, on the sand, in the water, and under, purple bathing suit and sunset towel, reading aloud while children laughed and played tetherball, staring and listening. Lorca, Poems of Lake Eden Mills, at Lake Eden Mills, VT.
This day seemed days. And I missed a call from a friend. But talked to my daughter, while waiting at CVS for a presciption. Things added to the list.
Now I am skipping an artist's slide talk, because I am going to turn in my thesis to the binding company. Finally. Out of order in the day, but all this dithering is done.
One note, before I give you a few lines I love, because it is about love:
it's just called marriage now. Not gay or straight. Marriage. Perhaps the true delerium of the day.
Baby steps sometimes lead somewere, big decisions seem small once the steps have been taken. My daughters can both marry anywhere they want in this union. Twins. Such a beautiful thing.
So some Lorca. He has such strange and lovely lines that are unknowable yet I feel like I know of what he speaks: you go moaning without north in my eyes. He was killed six yeats later, in Spain, a huge portion of which was for being a poet, being gay and unashamed. Some random bits, not even the wild and wooly ones, just poetry written where I swam:
I know the most secret use
for an old, rusted pin
and I know the horror of wide-awake eyes
on the concrete surface of the dish.
I want to cry because I feel like it
as the boys in the back row cry,
because I am not a man or a poet or a leaf
but a wounded pulse that probes the things of the other side.
No I don't question, I desire,
freed voice of mine that licks my hands.
In the labyrinth of folding screens my nakedness receives
the moon of punishment and the ashen clock.
I won't complain
if I don't find what I was looking for,
but I'll go to the first landscape of dampness and pulse
to understand what I seek must have a target of joy
as I fly in the midst of love and sand.
It's enough to touch the pulse of our present love
so that flowers may bloom over other children.
This is the way I spoke.
eden
[eed-n]
noun
1. the place where Adam and Eve lived before the Fall. Gen. 2:8–24.
2. any delightful region or abode; paradise.
3. a state of perfect happiness, contentment, or bliss.
4. a town in N North Carolina, or a lake in Vermont.
origin
C14: from Late Latin, from Hebrew `ēdhen place of pleasure, Hebrew 'ēden delight, pleasure
