2002-10-14
8:22 p.m.
happy
So I'm home, in the bosom of the loving family and all that. My nephew is ten times more adorable and brilliant than when I left, and he's freshly two and showing his age. His use of the word 'happy' is the best I've ever known. Tofu is either too hot or it's happy. Shoes are either too small or they're happy. Books are either not being read to him, or they are happy. Happy means that all is right with the world, all is acceptable and joyful and fascinating. (Two-year-olds give fresh perspective, hmm? Two-year-olds give tugs to my already-envious uterus and make me long, long, long.) Happy is so secure in the knowledge that dozens of people are around you, love you, and will fix the things that are too hot, too small, and not offered to you. So I guess it could be said that I'm happy. (I guess it could be said.) (good fucking guess.) I'm also terrified of this happiness, and terrified of being - for the first time since the whole weakend (diary not days) debacle - so exposed and scar-able. I'm not good at vulnerability; you guys saw what happened last time. I'm good at melodrama, at romance, at future-gazing and eyes that shock me, for once, into stillness. It's an interesting feminist question, this issue of giving up oneself to one's love. It's always the poetry vs. the political, battling it out inside me, and I can't find a balance that doesn't scare me to frustrated pieces. * This is Thanksgiving, up here, the harvest celebration, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. you tell 'em about those autumn colours, because I don't think people who haven't seen it can possibly believe it. * I'm thankful for this happiness the way my nephew means it. I'm thankful for welcome home posters, warm beds, yardwork and early-evening visits. I'm thankful for the vision (idea) of future, for the dream (knowledge) of past, and for my most beautiful present in the sweet gaze of Halifax. I'd like to be there, now.
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