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molecules and potholes

There is a rift between daily life, and the news that trickles across. In our little bubble, this quiet neighborhood, the price of a bouquet of roses does not change. The eggs are painted in shit and feathers, but taste the same. The little fresh market works on the weekends again, now that the weather is not terrible. Here, they sell overpriced red onions, stalks of broccoli, maybe some green basil if we are lucky.  The potholes sit  half-full with murky water. New buildings grow slowly as construction workers stare into the horizon on cigarette breaks. None of this changes, not a molecule.

But the rest of world is upside-down. Wild laws are passed. Prime ministers become dictators. Bombs are dropped here and there, like rainbow sprinkles on a doughnut - the more the better. Great decisions are made over dessert now, fueled by whim.

Being an expat means more than living far from home. There are many distances to bridge each day, and in times like this I want to throw my hands wild i…

a dress rehearsal (landscape of a man, part 2)


When the air runs warm and the snow starts to melt, it is no surprise that I feel restless. If I had long hair, I might walk into a barber shop and ask to cut them everything off like I used to. The streets are crusted with dog shit long hidden in snow banks. Children wander towards playgrounds still wrapped head to toe. They will be in snowsuits until the trees turn green. 

I wake in the middle of the night, listen to N's breathing and then go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I check on E, curled like a fern on top of her blankets, a hand stretched out to some imaginary friend. A shovel rakes against the sidewalk downstairs. I am not the only one up.


Is this a belated mid-life crisis? I ask myself on some days, this fresh urge to create, to be prolific, to follow my muse wherever it takes me with a sort of reckless urgency. Or, did I simply hit a sweet spot? Did I make some soup, did I cook up an alignment of planets, did I keep the motor running all these years and finally it feels like new destinations are just around the next corner? I have no idea. I make dinner. I try to make the bed. I try to find things in boxes that I have misplaced. I try to put my teacup in the sink.

And then the snow returns. This was a dress-rehearsal for Spring. The flakes are flapping against the windows.














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