Welcome To My Bed

A black eye on Easter Sunday.

I have an epic string of adventure photos to show from Spring Break New Hampshire 2010 (otherwise known as my two-day vacation to Cassandra's parents' house in Durham), but I am only going to give you a preview of the kinds of wonderful to be had when you poke around the junk shops adjacent to the train tracks, the used bookstores with bigger poetry sections than Barnes and Noble (sadly, it's less difficult than you might imagine), and a city whose past is heavily tinted by the glare from its red light district (Portsmouth, not Durham).

I found this poster for a movie based on the book Spinster Dinner. I've been thinking a lot about black eyes lately. The intersection of factors proved too serendipitous.

Photobucket


Jaws here is a little concerned for Carole Lombard, but I assured him it was only stage make-up.

In other news, I memorized a poem while at work today and scared my co-workers half to death by mumbling under my breath for most of the day about shiners and seizures and all manner of strange conditions of the body. It has a line in it about Easter, and I kept dropping the poem when I got to that line, a stutter I'll attribute to the fact that this will be the first Easter I won't be able to spend with my family in my entire life. I hadn't thought about that until right now--"my entire life" is an inordinately huge thing. My little sister is angry because she wanted to reinstitute the egg hunt this year. (She is nineteen.) I am angry because although I do not see the point in dragging myself to mass over it, as I always must when I drive down to Jersey, I miss meals with my extended family. I want to have a couple glasses of champagne with all those aunts and uncles and cousins, get down to that real talk that worms its way in among the jokes and old stories. Maybe the real talk is just the jokes and stories. I'm just rambling now. I sent my mother an Easter present in the mail today, which I guess came from rehearsing the poem but ended up being a little too emotional for a trip to the post office. I keep ascribing giant meanings to very small envelopes. There aren't enough stamps for these things.

Speaking of mail, I ran into my former roommate at that same 24 hour post office (I KNOW, I had no idea they existed either) and she didn't even recognize me. I had completely forgotten that since we last spoke, I've died my hair three times and essentially dropped off the planet where people with social lives congregate.

So much gets lost, but when I take deep breaths, I find that it all comes back to me in its own way without so much as a complaint. It's the remembering my lungs that's the problem.