the voices dying with a dying fall

The Scenario:
Joss and I are going shopping for someone’s birthday present. As per, the boy’s bottomless stomach is growling. I, being the conscientious mother I am, stopped for gas and took him into the McDonalds connected to the gas station for a healthy snack- a caramel sundae.

We’ve sat down for maybe 60 seconds, and he’s already wearing half of it on his face, dutifully smearing it over greater surface area with his napkin after every bite.
I ask him about a couple things, he’s in a chipper mood. After a 20 second conversational lull, the following exchange blossoms out of the preverbial nowhere in a twisted shock of un-joss-like clarity.

Licking caramel off the spoon handle: "Papa’s still mad, you know."

This could be anything: "Mad about what?"

Smearing frozen yogurt from mouth to ear "Gramma." (pronounced "gram’muh" btw)

oh shit. "what about her?"

slight shrug "that she died."

"hmm. don’t you mean sad? he loved her very much."

he thinks, "no, mad."
he thinks a little more "well, mad AND sad."

His jaw pops as he opens his mouth wide enough to encompass the mountain of sugared milk on his spoon.

"Well Joss, he really misses her. You should hug him when he’s feeling like that."

He’s trying to actually chew up icecream. With his mouth full, "I know".

A brief lull. A pause, another bite, then he speaks again; a slightly confessing tone, but also lighthearted. I, for the record, because it’s important, match his lighthearted tone throughout the exchange. What he’s saying is interesting, but irrelevant somehow.

"I’m the one that gave her sugar, you know."

"You mean like hugs and kisses?" for that’s what she called it.

"No, like sugar. Paper…" his brow furrows in concentration, searching for a word, "…packets.
sugar packets."

"Are you sure it wasn’t sweet&low? The pink packets?"

He stops again, trying to remember. "No, well, sometimes. But mostly sugar. That’s what she wanted."

"Huh. really? when did you do that?"

"In the morning. She said she’d give me some of her bacon if I got her the sugar. It was our secret."

I smile "How’d you do that without papa seeing you?"

"He cooked at the stove. Not looking." Slight conspiratorial smile in return.

"And that’s why she always gave you her bacon?"

"Uh huh." More icecream, he’s slowing down. Stomach finding a bottom.

"Well, that was sweet of you."
He just looks at me.
"Get it? SWEET of you?" He laughs. Quick on the puns, that one. "I’m sure it made her verry happy."

He nods, putting his spoon in the container and passing it to me. "You don’t want any more?"
"No, my tummy’s full."

While tossing it in the trash, I notice that my car is still parked in front of the pump where I got gas like ten minutes before. I’m a genius.   There’s a line. We left, and it hasn’t come up since.

But I can see it in my head now, I remember. Every morning, my mother wanted the same thing. Grits and bacon. I always worried, because she didn’t eat half of it, and was always feeding Joss. She’d have her legs crossed in the kitchen chair, leaning really close to Joss (so she could make out his face) and they’d be grinning and whispering, keeping secrets. He was 4, maybe 5. 

Does he understand? Does he understand what diabetes is? Did he tell my father about their secret?  Is that why my father was angry?  Dear god, does joss feel guilty? He didn’t act guilty.  I can’t tell what he knows, and if I ask, I worry I’ll have to explain it. I’ll give it a couple days and then maybe ask again. See what he really knows. 

But I remember a night years ago, joss was going to sleep and Brian was with him. Joss was lying with his eyes open, quietly, and Brian asked him what he was thinking about, and I swear, he said, "I was thinking about the bad things I’ve done."
Brian, alarmed, obviously asked, "Like what?"
And Joss said,"Like throwing mommy’s cell phone out the window of the car. That was bad."

Now, to clarify- actually, it was a pager. It was that long ago. I was driving back to raleigh for the weekend on I-40 and he had it in his carseat, and he threw it out the window. I probably yelled at him , frankly I don’t remember, but the importnat point is, that he was TWO. Just turned two. And he remembered it well enough to feel bad about 3 1/2 years later.  He’s so moody sometimes- I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s thinking about and i cannot get him to tell me. Is he feeling bad about stuff?  like guilty?   Christ, what goes on in that kids head?

parenting advice needed. no experience necessary.

    Song of the Hour: Biomusicology by Ted Leo & the Pharmacists

I didn’t want to post anything really until I had slept and was in a fantastic mood. It’s thursday now, I’ve finally slept, but I made the mistake of a) getting a migraine and b) watching this photo-essay on the kids of Chernobyl - which all around kind of shot the perky mood. If you’re strong hearted, check our the essay- the pictures are amazing. If you’re faint hearted, well, you decide.

Anyway, I finished my final project video & portfolio at 7:30 tuesday morning (due at 8). My last all-nighter for, dear god, at least 3 months.  That’s the only class I haven’t gotten my final grade for, but I’m optimistic and suspect a total  3.75 overall for the semester, which will bring up the year to a 3.5 (stupid biology class).  Are these numbers important? No, not at all. But I think of them constantly, worrying and fretting like a parent over a child with a delicate constitution.  So, might as well share.

I’m not sure how I feel about my video. I think I hate it. It’s choppy, and horribly edited because I don’t know how to work the program very well. And if you’re not up on beatniks, it really isn’t very interesting. But I’ll let you see it nonetheless, because I love you and know you will judge fairly.  Please remember, it was after dawn when I called it done and just couldn’t  care anymore.  And I really, really wish I had been able to download Moby Dick, but I couldn’t.  Enough apologies.

Now, I’m staring down summer with a quiet sigh. My boss is really sick, so I expect to be working like 12 hour days for the next week or two. I also have an enormous amount of house cleaning to do, and I vaguely remember a child I should check on.  It’s going to be good. I also have a number of birthday books I can’t wait to settle into (I’m halfway through Stephen King’s "The Gunslinger" and while I’m not ordinarily a King fan, the delicate mix of a "Carnivale" , "Firefly" and interesting allusions to "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" makes it incredibly absorbing). I’m so excited about being able to sit and down and read whatever I want  I could shout or scream or dance or something. It’s good. I’m still a little in shock- antsy with lack of deadline worry- but Uhaul in summer will undoubtedly beat it out of me. We’re understaffed. I don’t want to think about that. Maybe I can just close my eyes run in circles and hope I can keep it up til September when things settle down again.

Otherwise, I have friends I need to call. Everyone who got a "can’t talk- studying" answer in the last 9 months when asked to visit, watch your phones. They’ll be ringing shortly.

Since I still have a couple hours to myself, I think I’ll get back to my Gunslinger.

love to all.

    Song of the Hour: Mona Lisa by Grant Lee no Buffalo
                                      Annoying Belltower Chimes by UNC

Well, I just took my third and final, well, final. I have completed all the testing I will be subjected to for the semester, and the relief is palpable. So what if I didn’t do well on any of them, they’re over, right? The Feminist Geography final I just took- tell me, how does one "spectulate on the lives of mexican immigrants who leave their children with grandparents in Mexico so they can send remittances"? how do you grade a speculation? Anway, fun while ambigous class, it’s over.

All that’s left to me is my Literature in the Media Age final project and semester portfolio, due, that’s right, 5/9. 5/9. 5/9.  My final project (this is the class the podcast, playlist, collages, and film review were for) is to make a 3-20 minute video related somehow to literature and/or culture. I’ve pretty much set my mind on a soundtrack running of ginsberg reading selections of Howl and America, while scenes of real world 1956 (when it was published) play, hopefully with some kind of ironic juxtapositioning b/t the images and the words. I hope. 1956 is a cultural goldmine. I’ve been cutting up clips of Tom and Jerry, Elvis videos, I love Lucy, Foghorn Leghorn, and my personal favorite, The Ten Commandments (may charlton heston roll over into a grave). I’ve been trying to get my hands on some digital version of Peck’s Moby Dick, but I’m not having any luck with it (if you can help, please do. Do you know how long it takes to get the 10 commandments off of limewire? Who the fuck has the  10 commandments on their computer? Well, I do now. Anyway.)  I’ve got a ton of beatnik pictures to use (ginsberg, burroughs, and bob dylan haning out on a street corner. what’s not to love?) and will soon be collecting whatever I can of world news images from the time. lots of countries were fighting for their independance from britain and france that year. I haven’t put much of it together yet, so for the love of something, feel free to contribute your collective genius. Ialso have to have some text running throught the video, and I have no idea what to do with that layer of things. putting up the words to the poems being read feels lame. well, if it’s just snatch phrases to emphasize irony, it could work. i dont know. help me out. I think I’m gonna run dj spooky’s remix of ginsberg singing "end the vietnam war"- never even know it was ginsberg until I heard the original. rocks.

otherwise, I can taste freedom just around the weekend. I’m so happy I could dance. cry. sing. graffitti a never-ending-chiming belltower. (wait, is that related?) I’m also sad to report, that I think my engagement to Dr. Armitage is off. Part of my canadian lit final involved organizing all of the poets we read by region- ontario, british columbia, quebec, maritime, arctic- things I never payed the slightest attention to, nor did we really focus on in class. I got maybe 1 out of 5 on that one. And it was evil. I’m not sure I can marry a man capable of evil, no matter how cute, 74, and british he may be. I just might have to call of the wedding. my final grade will tell. (sniff).

And for jenny-s out-of-the-ordinary activity for the week, I’m going to a party. Anne/Martha is graduating, having finally after much toil gotten her master’s degree in architecture, and is throwing a party on a scale and scope I wouldn’t ordinarily set foot in. People from every imaginable walk of life have been invited, and no one excluded. Not even that guy that hangs out at bell tower mart up the street that alternates between catatonia and hysteria, that is always complementing his wardrobe with either vomit or urine because I’ve never seen him without one or the other- he too, has been invited. Don’t for a minute think I’m exaggerating. Anne’s party. I’m really hoping the professor she TA’d for shows up too. Anyway, against my usual grain, I’m going. And I’m sure anyone who reads this meandering nonsense is also invited, out of state though you may be. come on. it’ll be a blast.

As for now, I have to go meet a friend at Yeats. I’ll update you on saturday for party antics. In the meantime, if you have any ginsberg/1956 jenny’s first production advice, please write or call. preferably write, seeing as how I have to work all weekend.

rounding third, almost through. 5/9. 5/9. 5/9.

love.