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sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Twenty-Third Entry
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Blew the thistles off my hands, and into the night air. Blue shapes
took form in the foggy London town. Though it's become
nothing so much as a haven for those who
have no identity left. They blew around our favorite lamppost
and around the leg of a local mist.
What is the obsession with intellectuals and the "real"? I sat through class today, listening to "Edward" argue over America's reality, their roots, their identity. Who do they identify with? Can Baudrillard, Eco, or Lyotard really place such a complex label on the ideal of reality? I know I have no say in America's history: who am I to talk about having culture, when my ancestors came from the same stock as everyone else's in England? Why is it such a bad thing that there is no such pinpoint in America? I did not speak, for fear of being thought pretentious. Who am I-European? And, a woman no less? I, myself, have no identity left. But it does not seem to bother me.I would much rather my children identify with many different sorts of groups, rather than only their English heritage. I feel as if identity is a much more personal, individual thing that we create as we get older. Perhaps, I am not so worried about the rise in "camp" such as Disneyworld and television shows because it does not seem to me that the fake should be shunted from our lives. What is so horrible with a little hyperreality? With a stage in which we are able to push out our other worries and enter into a realm that is much more aesthetically pleasing? Perhaps I do not know enough about my own history to mind not having a solid background. I'm sure my husband would disagree with all I am saying. However much the literary critics shun it, I still feel that the individual is just as important as the community, and the community does not have to be lost just because the world finds they are very attatched to their individuality.
"Edward" asked me to have coffee with him today, but I refused. My children were waiting at home for me. Now that their father will be at the hospital all day, and most of the night, they have only Rev and me to rely on for attention. (Not to mention their sitter, whom they enjoy, but whom they couldn't love.) Trinity will be over, as well, teaching my children the meaning of tranquility. She is so small and fragile, such a little personality against my big, roaring tigers. I love the way she calmly looks at them, as if to say, Sometimes quiet time is best. But, even she has her fits. I wonder how we will do without Harry's strong gentleness engulfing them. They will, no doubt, take advantage of the fact that I love them too much for their own good. Belle will look at me with those mischevious eyes and try her best tricks. Quite the sprite.
Later:
It's later at night, and the children all went to sleep by 8 o'clock. Quite a feat in my house. The day was relatively painless; only one fit of crying from Ginny who has been so tired lately. Being the youngest of five noisy brothers (and the noisiest of all-sister) cannot be very relaxing. She usually takes it in stride, but today was just a little too much without daddy there to comfort her. She clings to Harry as if he were her god.
I missed him terribly today.
He called me around seven, sounding fairly cheerful, but with busy noises in the background. Are you still alive? he asked, chuckling. At that moment I was trying to make the children eat, but with the exception of the older twins, refused to put anything into their mouths. We're fine, I answered stubbornly. I won't be home tonight, he said. But tomorrow morning, I'll wake you with a shower of kisses. I smiled into the phone, glad he couldn't see me. You're brothers are winning, I said to Gabe, who refused to eat his mashed potatoes. He attacked the next bite with gusto. I love you, Harry.
When is your next party? "Edward" asks me. Not soon, I answer, laughing. I'm swamped here with the kids, and the work
you
assigned me. He laughed. I'm afraid it's the policy, he said. Besides, you wouldn't respect me if I didn't give you a lot of work. You'd think I was a liberal slacker. Well, aren't you a liberal? I asked. For publicity and confidential reasons, I refuse to comment, he answered. I imagined his beard brushing up against the phone. I miss you, he said. I'm too busy to think about that, I answered. I heard him laugh quietly. I don't want you to think about it, I want you to remember it.
Don't settle, she yelled at him as he walked out the door. Don't have a life or a love
or a fact in your damn head. And leave us in the silence of our own,
dark failings. I ran down the stairs to follow him, but realized
I wouldn't fail anyway. Both of them would be my undoing, if I didn't first
realize I had already overcome.
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