Watching Lola dance I thought about the forward motion of life and how we can be still inside although the world, of course, moves onward. This persistent timeless movement cannot be timeless and movement in the same juncture, can it? Or can it. So my childhood was so terribly hard, but then- Dakota and then the children in succession and my husband and fighting daily for health has given me the freedom and right to say in all honesty life just keeps getting better. So my childhood was terribly hard, and while it all keeps getting better I have one witchy eye rolled backward, to view the other spinning side of the coin... the dark and faceless. No matter how many self help books or gurus or almost dead grandmothers tell me to stay in the moment and stop worrying, my blood is full of cortisol aged as brutally as I did as a child. So that it sticks to the cellular membranes as if it fears for it's life. It fears.
If I am laughing with Ever's little tongue poking in my mouth as it does when I kiss her, and Lola's long arms wrapped round my waist and my family around me and the dogs and music and everything illuminated, then the witchy eye is rolling upward to the sky in fear of a God who might decide I am too blessed and too happy and the pendulum has swung too far from the place of my birth, and lightning will strike and where there was this joy there will only be a sign that says She Was Stupid Enough To Believe It Would Last
I am telling you these things and I have faith that you won't mock me.*
So I come to write about my life and my fingers are heavy and full of fear. I could write i have never been so happy but I must be punished if I do. That's the ridiculous nature of my brain and still, the incessant warnings take iron discipline to ignore, and I am not known for any kind of discipline at all.
Perhaps this is why sex has finally become the torturous ordeal to obtain that we are always warned it will be when married with children. We made it through three kids and still went at each other often, but Ever's CSection and hospitalization and being the fourth and first baby I have to work with, Mr. Curry and I keep promising each other all kinds of pleasure that feels totally out of reach once we actually lay down. We are so exhausted. The fatigue of babyhood and children and illness and working has taken us into another world where we are practically reduced to tears at the thought of truly cleaning the house and making dinner. I think about Mr. Curry all day, his long knotted arms, the muscles of his thighs, the broad thickness of his shoulders and back, the working grit of his nails, the rough of his hands on my skin... and then when we face each other we fall asleep snoring like the grandparents at the nursing home in Raising Hope. We leave each other sexy notes, we sex-t, we whisper into each other's ears and nuzzle like cats, we do everything but actually have sex. But when we do? It's memory making. That has to count for something.
