Friday, January 22, 2010

Occupational Hazard

I sat in front of cat lady's apartment last night for a good half hour inside of my warm car watching the freezing rain fall all around me. I was safe inside the dark car, listening to one of my favourite songs on full blast. I was safe from the rain, but also from the cats who wanted warmth and shelter from the pouring rain. The man singing was gaining momentum with his lyrics and they sunk all the way into my head.
"I feel more like a stranger every time I come home..."
I felt more at ease in my beat up silver Matrix than in my own apartment last night. Just sitting there, white knuckling the steering wheel, although the car was not in motion, made me feel at home. The violins enveloped me and the man's voice is a raw one, with purpose and a real message to give to people.
"You'll be free child once you have died. From the shackles of language and measurable time..."
I feel like I am a prisoner of both language and time. Language either grants me a momentary window in which in I can see the words I want to form in a tangible way on paper or it fails me miserably. Time is the endless but ever fleeting enemy right now. My oldest daughter is going to be eight this year. I keep thinking of all of the things she has seen so far in her short life and of all the things she will see as an adult. I try to filter the things but she's going to have to see the negatives at some point. I just want so badly to prolong the good. It's an uphill battle to try and filter anything away from that kid. She's smart and insightful and she can feel my heavy heart through walls even. She knows just from the tone in my voice or a small glint in my eyes if I am unhappy and she wants to fix it. I try and explain to her that it isn't her job as a kid to fix anything, that she needs to focus on Play-doh and childrens' books and stomping in puddles. Her occupation is recreation. My occupation is making sure her occupation is in ever high demand.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Business in the front, party in the back.