But still the minority.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Thursday, June 13, 2013
The Under Sail Urge
"Those who work their land will have abundant food, but those who chase fantasies have no sense." Proverbs 12:11
Definition of Isolation.
Is it a baby that sucks vigorously and bangs on my breast like a tom tom drum every two hours? ( I round down) While being the victim of a one car family trapped behind a locked door, scared to crack a window for the coastal humidity will suck me and my drained body into a puddle of salty water. So I sit at port...with a 16 pounder attached to my soft body, rebuke daytime television, and take advantage of the rare quiet time to sift through rising air condition bills and soiled diaper covers.
What?
We've moved again. Yes, again. And my husband has positioned my writers desk under a front window (like I had it on St. Mark's) in hopes of higher spirits. A pathetic and far cry from the East Village color and a distant third to Walden Pond, I make no excuses for my lack of muse, creativity, and for that matter, discipline.
I wrap the boy up and strap him to my belly for a walkabout. It is 7 AM. The southern sun is still deceiving as it filters through the Live Oak's Spanish Moss. Production Trucks, Wardrobe Bitches, and the smell of the Grip's cigarette smoke lures me down the block. The sight of PA's walkie talkies and the sound of the generators working overtime to cool first team's trailers brings a bittersweet taste to my mouth and a sense of belonging I've been lacking.
How the hell can I miss this work?
And when can I get back?
Grand illusions of the dutiful housewife fade with the shade.
The wide open sea beckons me.
I clutch this sweet anchor around my neck and wonder just how long is his chain.
Definition of Isolation.
Is it a baby that sucks vigorously and bangs on my breast like a tom tom drum every two hours? ( I round down) While being the victim of a one car family trapped behind a locked door, scared to crack a window for the coastal humidity will suck me and my drained body into a puddle of salty water. So I sit at port...with a 16 pounder attached to my soft body, rebuke daytime television, and take advantage of the rare quiet time to sift through rising air condition bills and soiled diaper covers.
What?
We've moved again. Yes, again. And my husband has positioned my writers desk under a front window (like I had it on St. Mark's) in hopes of higher spirits. A pathetic and far cry from the East Village color and a distant third to Walden Pond, I make no excuses for my lack of muse, creativity, and for that matter, discipline.
I wrap the boy up and strap him to my belly for a walkabout. It is 7 AM. The southern sun is still deceiving as it filters through the Live Oak's Spanish Moss. Production Trucks, Wardrobe Bitches, and the smell of the Grip's cigarette smoke lures me down the block. The sight of PA's walkie talkies and the sound of the generators working overtime to cool first team's trailers brings a bittersweet taste to my mouth and a sense of belonging I've been lacking.
How the hell can I miss this work?
And when can I get back?
Grand illusions of the dutiful housewife fade with the shade.
The wide open sea beckons me.
I clutch this sweet anchor around my neck and wonder just how long is his chain.
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