Mr. Curry and I celebrated our ten year anniversary this weekend quietly, subdued by the pounding of bipolar the past year, but still together, still loving each other. We are so broke that it felt romantic. We ate steaks that my mom had brought over earlier in the week and bought a very, very cheap bottle of dry champagne. We ate on a blanket spread out on the living room floor, by candlelight. It was very sweet; it was hard for me not to cry. I love him so much. I hate bipolar so much. Lola spent the night with my mom, Ian and Dakota were gone for the night, and so it was Ever and us two. I nursed her to sleep next to Mr. Curry and we watched Homeland. We cuddled and laughed and talked and nursed our wounds. I thought of our four children. I'm not a cheerful person right now. Going through one of my Scorpio, neurotic periods of morbid dwelling on suffering. That is true, but it is also true that most truly good and compassionate people go through these times. The world and it's suffering is at my doorstep and as I work to find a balance to help all I can and still find joy in my life, I fall into the cracks sometimes. Hurricanes and dead children and shootings and cries unheard keep me awake at night. I'm in pain from my right side off and on, still. These things come together uncomfortably and knead at me. And still when I am walking into the 99cent store and an old man runs into me and growls at my children, I want to scream at him like a lunatic. I love humanity and I don't want suffering, but the individual asshole really chaps my hide. xo Maggie
"Poetry has nothing to do with poetry. Poetry is how the air goes green before thunder. Is the sound you make when you come, and why you live and how you bleed, and The sound you make or don't make when you die."- Gwendolyn MacEwen
"Her looks fading, the vain Lispector became increasingly reclusive and demanding. Addicted to cigarettes and sleeping pills, she exhibited erratic and sometimes imperious behavior. She would call friends in the middle of the night and flee dinner parties for little apparent reason. She had a reputation for being a liar."-<em>NYT on Clarice Lispector
My dear child, who can tell? One can only tell that, by remembering something which happened where we lived before; and as we remember nothing, we know nothing about it; and no book, and no man, can ever tell us certainly.
Some couples don’t ask much of one another after they’ve worked out the fundamentals of jobs and children. Some live separate intellectual and cultural lives, and survive, but the most intense, most fulfilling marriages need, I think, to struggle toward some kind of ideological convergence. Norman Rush