parking

September 28, 2006 | Filed Under ordinary | 1 Comment 

we’ve found the park of our dreams. sometime last week a mountain of sand was piled in the soon-to-be (too soon) sand-volleyball court. last night we climbed it, the white and sparkle of it sticking to our legs and arms, feet and fingers. henry dove down the sides of it like a penguin on ice. jude stomped holes in it, rolled down it, threw sand off of it. the other mother at the park gave me dirty looks because she didn’t want to let her own children get all sparkly in the sand.

we like to take soccer balls to the fields and kick them up and down, back and forth, in an effort to get some of that aggression and energy out of these boys of ours.

we like to climb up in the three story (two and a half?) tree house with fast tunneled slides, one that curves and bumps your shoulders, your knees, your face if you’re not fast enough. if you stand outside this slide you can hear the bumping, the protests, the giggling.

we like to walk around the gigantic rocks, around and around the playground.  henry’s toe is bleeding but he continues around.

henry likes that glider, the one that he is not yet tall enough to reach, that swings him across to the other side and bumps him back again. we give him rides and our arms hurt. he and isabelle glide and slide across and they laugh. again and again they glide and they laugh and we laugh, too.

we like to jump in the puddles after the rain. even new sidewalks have uneven places for puddles.  we like to find gigantic acorns, miniature pine-cones, and drown them in the water.

we like to swing, and the swings are sturdy and flexible and allow for great heights to be reached. henry swings his head back, down, and looks at the trees, his hair standing on end, upside down, curling. i like to swing higher and higher until it seems as though i’m swinging over the edge of the hill that rolls down to a soccer field. jude likes to run and jump with his belly onto the swing, sometimes flipping over, most times not.

the white sand was the best yet, though, and this morning when we came the mountain was gone (”i want to climb the mountain, mom!” jude mourned), leveled out around the poles for volleyball nets. i was glad that i didn’t care about the evil looks from the sparkle-free mother and that we spent a good forty-five minutes climbing, rolling, swimming on the mountain, that it was dark when we left, watching the moon(coming out of a keen city in the sky), shiver, in the black above us.

there’s a ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon

September 24, 2006 | Filed Under ordinary | 4 Comments 

this morning i drank the first pot of mediocre coffee while staring out the window at the rain on the grass, the little tent blown over in the breeze, the soccer ball, the table. jude opened the door and splashed in a little puddle, sogging up the pants of his pajamas, laughing, refusing breakfast. the house was quiet, the cousins still sleeping with their parents, the whip of the ceiling fan propelling against the stale air.

“look henry, a hobo,” i direct his eyes out of the drizzle of car window. two people, a man, a woman(?) trudge down the highway with their belongings strapped to their backs, carried in bags in their tanned arms. “what’s a hobo?” he asks. “people without a home, who travel from place to place in search of somewhere to sleep, something to eat. carl sandburg was a hobo for awhile,” i say, blurring together my thoughts in the way only my mother, my husband, noel, melanie can follow. “we need to buy the american songbag.”

we are people without a home, though all of our belongings are stacked in my brother’s garage, though we travel from sleeping places and eating places in a volkswagon called pearl, though our arms are sheepishly pink, decidely untanned.

i miss my stuff, my french press, my velvet jacket(s), kneesocks, the clink of familiar dishes, the comfort of a desk mess to call my own, to leave for days undisturbed, to complain about. i miss the world wide web sitting and spitting out a blue light in my direction, clicking my way through information and image whenever i feel like doing so. although the coffee is better, vagabond, coffee-shop internet usage is hard to do.

we are filled with the sog of the ground, the inconstant swish of the trees, the cold moonlighting its way through the screens in the early hours of the morning, the long stretch of road curving secretly in front of us, the soar and slope of our spirits, unpredictable, faithless.

thunder on the mountain, rolling like a drum; gonna sleep over there, that’s where the music coming from. . .

there’s a ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon

September 24, 2006 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment 

this morning i drank the first pot of mediocre coffee while staring out the window at the rain on the grass, the little tent blown over in the breeze, the soccer ball, the table. jude opened the door and splashed in a little puddle, sogging up the pants of his pajamas, laughing, refusing breakfast. the house was quiet, the cousins still sleeping with their parents, the whip of the ceiling fan propelling against the stale air.

“look henry, a hobo,” i direct his eyes out of the drizzle of car window. two people, a man, a woman(?) trudge down the highway with their belongings strapped to their backs, carried in bags in their tanned arms. “what’s a hobo?” he asks. “people without a home, who travel from place to place in search of somewhere to sleep, something to eat. carl sandburg was a hobo for awhile,” i say, blurring together my thoughts in the way only my mother, my husband, noel, melanie can follow. “we need to buy the american songbag.”

we are people without a home, though all of our belongings are stacked in my brother’s garage, though we travel from sleeping places and eating places in a volkswagon called pearl, though our arms are sheepishly pink, decidely untanned.

i miss my stuff, my french press, my velvet jacket(s), kneesocks, the clink of familiar dishes, the comfort of a desk mess to call my own, to leave for days undisturbed, to complain about. i miss the world wide web sitting and spitting out a blue light in my direction, clicking my way through information and image whenever i feel like doing so. although the coffee is better, vagabond, coffee-shop internet usage is hard to do.

we are filled with the sog of the ground, the inconstant swish of the trees, the cold moonlighting its way through the screens in the early hours of the morning, the long stretch of road curving secretly in front of us, the soar and slope of our spirits, unpredictable, faithless.

thunder on the mountain, rolling like a drum; gonna sleep over there, that’s where the music coming from. . .

migration

September 11, 2006 | Filed Under ordinary | Leave a Comment