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Ending At Every Moment But Never Ending Its Ending
Posted by Lizzie
on
Saturday, July 18, 2009
So... since neither Ryan nor I have succeeded in updating in OVER A MONTH (God, summer is just too precious to waste on a computer), I've decided to take a few minutes of idle time and blog about safe places. I'm also signing us up for something extravagant in the near future, so we'll see if anything pans out regarding that. I feel like we have no readers at this point due to inconsistency and these words are just echoes in an empty space on the outskirts of the internet galaxy, but that's probably what all blogs are about. To be honest, I really don't give a crap about what most other people have to say. And really, I expect the feelings are returned.
ANYWAY...
There's something comforting about knowing that despite your major differences with your parents, they'll still drive 10 hours in the middle of the night/early morning to save you from an emergency and make sure you're ok like my dad did today. And buy you the ice cream cups that come with little wooden spoons to make you feel better after taking me to the ER like my mom did.
And even though I can't go out when the sun's in the sky because of the medication I'm rocking for the next week, it kind of doesn't matter. Because there's nothing more soothing than walking out on to your porch, which is half-eaten by your mom's hostas which are overgrown but in a neat way, when the sun is setting... to eat a little ice cream cup with your puppy who's lonely because both of her brothers died and she's the only dog in the house now. And then walk barefeet with your puppy around your huge front yard to the huge side yard to the huge backyard to the gravely driveway and back to the front. As the sun is setting over the WNY hills. And all you can hear are noises that come from the woods. And all you can see are the woods and the sky and the little apple tree. Minus a few little houses and a tarred and chipped back road. And I'm really bad at describing things, but trust me, it's bliss. And it's safe.
And joking around with my brother is safe. And talking on the phone with my sister is safe. And hearing my mom tell stories about her kindergarteners at school is safe. And showing my dad the videos on YouTube that absolutely everybody has seen at this point except for him is safe. And my bedroom on the corner with the three windows that overlook the backyard/woods and the hill across the mini-valley is the safest place of all.
And the laundry chute in our house is literally right outside my bedroom door. And I used to HATE the fact that every time someone opened it, I would hear the creak, and then the slam as they closed it. But today, I walked past the laundry chute and thought to myself, "Oh, what a novelty a laundry chute is. I miss throwing my clothes in it. I almost forgot all about this." And so I opened it up and stuck my head down in the hole like we used to do when we were kids and the wood that it's made of smelled exactly like it always had. And sticking my head in the hole felt exactly like it always had. And then I stood in front of it and opened it and closed it and opened it and closed it for probably almost two minutes just so I could hear the sounds that I always used to hear. And I realized how much we really are fortunate if we're able to love the home and place that we grew up in and under circumstances similar to these, I'm really surprised that anyone would ever leave permanently. Especially when the safe place is a lush expanse of nothingness in the middle of July when the sun is setting. But damn, adventure calls sometimes. I'm a proponent of the "leave then come back then leave then come back" method.
Because in all honestly, could I move back in with my parents and be content for an extended period of time? No, definitely not. We all move on from some things. But if I had the money, I would buy this house in a heartbeat and raise my kids on these meager two acres in the hopes that they might have the chance to love the safe place as much as I do.
In the last couple years, I've been reading a lot of Latin American fiction in the "magical realism" genre. Right now, I'm powering through 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And there's a lot of pain in that book and a lot of life in that book and a lot of love in that book and a lot of magic in that book. And that's kind of the same feeling I get when I'm here, when the sun's setting, in the middle of July, with ice cream and my puppy. There are so many sad things associated with this place and my old life but it was real life, the kind where perfect situations are few and far between and things either work out or they don't. And despite the sad that I still carry around from those days regarding almost everything under the sun, it can never be said that there was ever a situation lacking in love. And the feeling of walking around on evenings like this is sheer magic. Like you actually could meet the dead people you love under a tree and talk with them or take off into the sky, flying in bedsheets, or have some crazy passionate unfettered love affair or love something/someone enough that in the end, whatever it is, actually does work out the way you want it to. Oh, and reach for the stars and partake in the things that are entirely asinine to everybody else. Like crazy aimless expeditions into the jungle and such. Metaphorically speaking. Or not. Depending on what your definition of absurd might be. Create your own safe place by wasting your time in the way that's most beautiful to you.
And while I sit here and foolishly ponder these things about life, which is something I indulge in more frequently than is probably psychologically healthy (but like I said, do what you want), my puppy, who's lonely and exceptionally clingy because her brothers have died, is on my floor, next to my bed, sleeping and snoring her little puppy snores and the light is dusky and it's perfect. And sad. And life. And love. And magic.
OMFG, I think I'm the sappiest kid alive right now. Blame the Prednisone. It seriously makes you weepy. I'm an emotional roller coaster of tears and hyperactivity. You have no idea how long I can go on about what my sister and I have deemed "the waiting place," i.e. the old family farm where we pseudo-grew up in the early early summers of our lives and where all the cousins seem to spend their post-adolescent/pre-"real life" time. I'd blog about that next, but the schmaltz would wear you out. You, dear reader, need a break. I know.
"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."
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ANYWAY...
There's something comforting about knowing that despite your major differences with your parents, they'll still drive 10 hours in the middle of the night/early morning to save you from an emergency and make sure you're ok like my dad did today. And buy you the ice cream cups that come with little wooden spoons to make you feel better after taking me to the ER like my mom did.
And even though I can't go out when the sun's in the sky because of the medication I'm rocking for the next week, it kind of doesn't matter. Because there's nothing more soothing than walking out on to your porch, which is half-eaten by your mom's hostas which are overgrown but in a neat way, when the sun is setting... to eat a little ice cream cup with your puppy who's lonely because both of her brothers died and she's the only dog in the house now. And then walk barefeet with your puppy around your huge front yard to the huge side yard to the huge backyard to the gravely driveway and back to the front. As the sun is setting over the WNY hills. And all you can hear are noises that come from the woods. And all you can see are the woods and the sky and the little apple tree. Minus a few little houses and a tarred and chipped back road. And I'm really bad at describing things, but trust me, it's bliss. And it's safe.
And joking around with my brother is safe. And talking on the phone with my sister is safe. And hearing my mom tell stories about her kindergarteners at school is safe. And showing my dad the videos on YouTube that absolutely everybody has seen at this point except for him is safe. And my bedroom on the corner with the three windows that overlook the backyard/woods and the hill across the mini-valley is the safest place of all.
And the laundry chute in our house is literally right outside my bedroom door. And I used to HATE the fact that every time someone opened it, I would hear the creak, and then the slam as they closed it. But today, I walked past the laundry chute and thought to myself, "Oh, what a novelty a laundry chute is. I miss throwing my clothes in it. I almost forgot all about this." And so I opened it up and stuck my head down in the hole like we used to do when we were kids and the wood that it's made of smelled exactly like it always had. And sticking my head in the hole felt exactly like it always had. And then I stood in front of it and opened it and closed it and opened it and closed it for probably almost two minutes just so I could hear the sounds that I always used to hear. And I realized how much we really are fortunate if we're able to love the home and place that we grew up in and under circumstances similar to these, I'm really surprised that anyone would ever leave permanently. Especially when the safe place is a lush expanse of nothingness in the middle of July when the sun is setting. But damn, adventure calls sometimes. I'm a proponent of the "leave then come back then leave then come back" method.
Because in all honestly, could I move back in with my parents and be content for an extended period of time? No, definitely not. We all move on from some things. But if I had the money, I would buy this house in a heartbeat and raise my kids on these meager two acres in the hopes that they might have the chance to love the safe place as much as I do.
In the last couple years, I've been reading a lot of Latin American fiction in the "magical realism" genre. Right now, I'm powering through 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And there's a lot of pain in that book and a lot of life in that book and a lot of love in that book and a lot of magic in that book. And that's kind of the same feeling I get when I'm here, when the sun's setting, in the middle of July, with ice cream and my puppy. There are so many sad things associated with this place and my old life but it was real life, the kind where perfect situations are few and far between and things either work out or they don't. And despite the sad that I still carry around from those days regarding almost everything under the sun, it can never be said that there was ever a situation lacking in love. And the feeling of walking around on evenings like this is sheer magic. Like you actually could meet the dead people you love under a tree and talk with them or take off into the sky, flying in bedsheets, or have some crazy passionate unfettered love affair or love something/someone enough that in the end, whatever it is, actually does work out the way you want it to. Oh, and reach for the stars and partake in the things that are entirely asinine to everybody else. Like crazy aimless expeditions into the jungle and such. Metaphorically speaking. Or not. Depending on what your definition of absurd might be. Create your own safe place by wasting your time in the way that's most beautiful to you.
And while I sit here and foolishly ponder these things about life, which is something I indulge in more frequently than is probably psychologically healthy (but like I said, do what you want), my puppy, who's lonely and exceptionally clingy because her brothers have died, is on my floor, next to my bed, sleeping and snoring her little puppy snores and the light is dusky and it's perfect. And sad. And life. And love. And magic.
OMFG, I think I'm the sappiest kid alive right now. Blame the Prednisone. It seriously makes you weepy. I'm an emotional roller coaster of tears and hyperactivity. You have no idea how long I can go on about what my sister and I have deemed "the waiting place," i.e. the old family farm where we pseudo-grew up in the early early summers of our lives and where all the cousins seem to spend their post-adolescent/pre-"real life" time. I'd blog about that next, but the schmaltz would wear you out. You, dear reader, need a break. I know.
"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."
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