Sunday, July 6, 2008
Posted by Maggie May Labels: Babies To Teenagers
I tried to grow Foxgloves for two reasons: they are achingly beautiful and home for fairy, and the word Foxglove is one of my favorite words ever. I know one day I will use it for the title of something. I want to name a foxy looking cat Foxglove. The word is just beautiful to look at. My Foxgloves won't bloom. They die and die and die, like Ms. Plath's Lady Lazarus. Every time I think they are on the verge on blooming, a brown crepe foils over their skins and they shrivel up like burnt children. I have planted them in the full sun and I think this is the problem. I also recently found that they are extremely poisonous. Hm. I have two dogs, four cats and a herd of gorgeous children. I hope Child Protective Services doesn't haul me away.
Today is so beautiful that I can think of nothing to write but beautiful things, and those are the hardest. My poison poems are easier, the images are abundant and spill out. When I write about beauty, it's much harder to say anything fresh. Hm. Maybe to stay fresh I need to write from the underground of only my personal experience with beauty in the context of the greater and obvious experience.
The 4th was strangely fantastic. I think about the soldiers and civilians and wonder what the appropriate gestures are on holidays like this to acknowledge their sacrifices and suffering.
My son is away at Sea Camp, where he is to boogie board, kayak, snorkel, touch sharks, dissect invertebrates, go behind the scenes at Sea World and in general explore and learn about marine biology. At the actual camp where E and I dropped him off there is an actual pool, like an oversized kiddie pool similar to the one Lola has, full of REAL SHARKS. They were a foot away from me as I looked at them, with no barrier between us, when one of the small grey sharks lifted up it's head OUT OF THE WATER and made a nodding gesture at me. Apparently this is normal for captive sharks but it scared the shit out of me.
I am reading the biography of Anne Sexton and finding amazing parallels between her and I.
The most notable difference is her lack of parenting, her abuse toward her children. I would never allow myself to get that bad with my children, and I have the experiences to back up that statement. My childhood was rotten and when I became pregnant at 19 I could have gone a very dark direction. I fought myself tooth and nail and four years of therapy and other supports gave me the restructuring I needed to be a good mother.
I can relate to her feelings of isolation in suburbia.
It's difficult to be surrounded by beige attitudes, cars, dress, hearts and minds when you are detonating color bombs.