LET THEM BE THE INK, INSTEAD.
LET THEM BE THE INK, INSTEAD.
Christine, the strawberry girl
Christine, banana split lady
Christine, the strawberry girl
Christine sees her faces unfurl
She is pretty, but she is not a prettyface and despite she knows she doesn’t need make up, she feels she needs a mask nevertheless. A few times, in front of the mirror she wonders what is she is really hiding from…
She thinks of him. He certainly does not wear “New Wave” make up, or dark clothes, and probably he doesn’t even know who The Cure is, or Siouxsie and the Banshees or Joy Division, like she does. He is older, like really older and his style is impeccable, presentable if you will, well mannered and serious behind some round glasses.
She feels inadequate, but she likes to listen to him. He likes to read out loud, despite his class is totally uninterested on listening to him, but she likes to listen to him, she likes to think he reads only for and to her –and at some point he notices that, and eventually, he notices her.
She tries not to shatter, kaleidoscope style
Personality changes behind her red smile
Every new problem brings a stranger inside
Heplessly forcing one more new disguise
When he leans his head down and peeks over his round glasses, the light´s reflection on the glass disappear; when he leans his head down and exposes his eyes, she can see blue oceans looking at her -talking to her. And when he turns his eyes to the book and keeps reading, his moving lips mesmerise her, her mouth opening slowly, watering…
Why the boys her age are so… clueless?
Now’s shes in purple
Now’s she the turtle
– Silvia, you have to treat people like fruit.
-What do you mean?
Dad loves his sayings, and as I grow older they make more and more sense. Conversations with him turn most of the time on tools to meditate when I am alone in bed, and this time is not different. This year has been a very special one, for the good and for the bad.
– You like the healthy fruit on your bowl, right?
I have been a single mom since my first child was born. Despite being married, I was alone; despite I have made peace with it, some days are harder than others. For some people, like for me, alone is a
perfect good equation. When alone becomes a couple, and alone is the only equation one knows, things get very complicated. Concepts like patience, negotiation, compromise and love reach a whole new level. Aware that I am totally handicapped when it comes to (grown up) relationships, this year, with A moving on with us, the equation has been a tough one to change.
I am totally overwhelmed with the positive this math had brought into our lives.
– What do you do when a piece of fruit starts going bad?
-You can´t fix it.
-No, but I can cut the bad part and keep the rest.
I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, remembering dad´s words, and I continue thinking about people, and fruit, and friends. Friends… Those ones whom this year were close have become closer, others whom (I thought) close, have become rotten fruit – or maybe there were rotten to begin with but I didn’t see it from the beginning.
-When a piece of fruit goes bad, throw it to the garbage. There is where it belongs.
-That is radical, dad.
-No. You keep it in the bowl, you risk that it will rotten the other one fruit, so the smartest thing is to get rid of it, once and for all.
I have a bit of a doubt taking such a radical decision -on my personal scale lays on one side the naive part that thinks I can save the world and on the other, the one that says “fuck it. I am done with this shit”.
My dad loves his sayings, and I begin liking them also. In fact, my favorite right now is what goes around, comes around… But since I am quite busy, I will let people screw up and let karma shit-slap them on the face…
It doesn´t hurt, but I feel it physically in my body. It is like an implosion in my deepest core, bending my body at the waste. My chest fills with air, my breath stops until I sneak my face from behind in between your hair and I exhale “I love you”
It doesn´t hurt, it doesn´t,
but even if it did… I wouldn´t want it any other way.
I posted this laying down at the beach with some friends while they were grilling dinner. I had a great Sunday: I took the kids to town in the morning, had some lunch, took awesome pictures with my new lenses, and we ended up the weekend grilling at the beach. I needed this chilling, I tell myself, when I started driving back home. It is some minutes over 7pm when I hear the cell phone.
– Are you home?
– Not yet, we will be there in some minutes… What´s wrong?
– I am bleeding- really bad, I think I need to go to the hospital right now.
It is no secret that I am not Mr. K, my ex-husband´s Nr. 1 fan, but Sandra, his new wife, I am really fond of. She is from Brazil, a kind, sweet and patient woman whom I feel absolutely comfortable leaving my children with. Sandra is pregnant for the second time, she is due in a week and her mom and sister are in town.
Sara, her sister, is supposed to go back to Brazil tomorrow. She is quite happy that the baby hasn’t given any problems, and she hopes that it stays that way until she leaves. She came to help mom across the ocean, but that is pretty much it. Now Her sister is bleeding bad.
– Get in the car right away, Sandra.
– I am bleeding so much…
I try to push away from my mind the pool of blood I have just seen and I squeeze her hand. It´s ok, I tell her. Is it? I ask myself silently.
I can see the hair on he arms raise when the nurse spread the contact gel on her belly. I squeeze her hand again. I think I smile. I hold my breath for endless seconds until we hear the baby´s heart. I squeeze again. I know I smile. She does also.
I listen in Norwegian, carefully and I know now what it is going to happen before they tell Sandra in English. The placenta has erupted, she has lost way too much blood and the baby must come out now. NOW! She cries when she hears cesarean, but she has to stop, because things are so bad there is no time for emotions.
– Do you want to be with her in the OR?
Sara is completely overwhelmed, scared and freaked out. I believe my help has to be put aside and bring forward the consideration that she is the sister and she is family and I am just the husband´s ex wife. And the ex wives are not supposed to be wearing scrubs in the OR comforting the new wife and wiping tears. Ex wives are not supposed to be the first person holding the new wife´s baby, taking pictures or memorizing the APGAR scored.
– She shouldn’t be alone, Sara.
– You go, you speak the language, if something happens…
So l am in, full scrubbed, and I am doing all those things ex wives are not supposed to do -and I feel honored I am sharing that moment with Sandra.
I move back and forth between the OR and the room where the baby is, information, passing information between doctors and Sandra, trying to reach Mr. K, taking pictures…
– Do you want to bring him to her?
I take the baby -my God, he looks so much like
my our son, and I bring him to her, and I hate for a moment that she can´t hold him, because her arms are spread full of catheters and she can´t hold him, and despite she can caress his face with her lips, I feel like an intruder and I hate that she can´t hold him…
– 10 fingers, 10 toes – he is a mini version of our son.
I tell Mr. K on the phone, and I feel for him, because he is unfortunately out of the country, and because despite I am not his Nr. 1 fan, he is the father of my children, and now he is the father of her children, and I like her, and I like her children also.
She has lost more than 2.2 liters of blood, so she remains in the intensive care unit. I drive to her house, take a bag with toiletries, bring it back to the hospital, do one more round between doctors to make sure she is ok, call Mr. K and update him, pick up her sister and bring her to their house. I get my children and bring them home.
Is past 11.30pm. Kids are finally in bed. I am still wearing my bathing suit and I have a pounding headache but this time Jim Bean will be more effective that Paracet. I feel tears in my eyes but I keep smiling. The whole thing has been completely like an Almodovar movie, moreover the conversation with the midwives:
– So you are the ex´s wife.
– And you are here with her.
– You have children also?
– Yes, 9 and 6
– And where are your children?
– Her mom is babysitting them…
It is nearly 1am and I cant sleep. I need to call the hospital and check with the doctor if Sandra is OK and if the baby is OK. Sandra and the baby are OK and resting now. Mr. K is coming soon to take over. Now I can rest.
So welcome to this world, Enzo Gabriel, you (we) made it! -I am so proud of you, of your mom and what the hell… I am so proud of myself.
“You aint playing football, buddy. Whatever you want to do, it has to be indoors”
This I told MissAttitude when she started school. Being a single mom with a 6 year old and a baby, being in the middle of a bitter divorce and a cancer treatment, this was my only condition for her: I am NOT standing under the rain every Wednesday watching you kick a ball.
The selected activity turned to be karate. And last year, handball.
“I want to play handball.”
“Where do they play that?”
A hall has a roof, I figure.
“Ok. Go for it.”
Nearly 5 years later, she holds a blue belt, she is grading again in a couple of weeks and she kicks ass with the handball.
This weekend I spent several hours watching her playing “beach handball”, not on a beach, but in a field full of sand. It was not even 10 degrees and a north freezing wind. I am still shivering -and still wondering why I do agree to those things. And it all comes down on compromises. The compromises we parents do when we give them the freedom to choose and the compromise for us, parents to encourage, follow, comfort and cheer them.
We come home and I vacuum at least 3 kilos of sand from the floor. I am exhausted…
LittleDumbass will start school this fall. I wonder what his deal breaker will be, but the conditions remain the same… My deal breaker is seeing MissAttitude cheeks reddened with the wind and the sun.
Fucking sand all over the place…
Hi havia una vegada…
(Once upon a time…)
“Once upon a time” is how one begins to tell – not to explain, but to tell – a story that will make you believe in magic. “Once upon a time” coming out of your grandparents mouth, means that you need to hurry up and get a seat – or to seat on their lap, to cross your legs like a Buddha on the floor, or to lay still in bed. Something is about to happen.
Escolta amb atenció (listen carefully)
Aaah! Heart pumping.