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Long time no talk.

September 20, 2009

I’m listening to The XX. They make me want to write. I want to write a poem. It’s so much harder than I remember, though. No one hands me topics or deadlines or libraries that are quiet and all mine on a rainy afternoon. Life hands me a 12 hour work day, a million and one distractions, and this album by The XX, which makes me want to write.

My head hurts. I have stumbled on the idea of the Moro Reflex. I think there is a poem there; I just can’t find it. The only innate human fear. The fear of falling, and of loud noises. And the abduction, then adduction, of arms. Millions of babies gently falling backwards into the large palms of OB-GYN’s or RN’s or whoever gets to test a baby’s ability to be fully human, fully afraid, at birth.

I stumbled on the Moro Reflex somehow, while researching Ticklishness. I am extraordinarily ticklish. I mean it. There is something inaptly wired in my body. The thought of being tickled make me squirm and panic. The dentist always tickles the roof of my mouth. I can’t get pedicures. Intimacy is fraught with fight-or-flight laughing fits. I know that this ticklishness is another in a long line of symptoms of my hypersensitivity. There since birth– the inability to regulate my temperature, my achingly sensitive skin– everything hurts me, or at the very least overloads my system. I like to pocket my extreme ticklishness as another Social Darwinistic proof that I was a good cave-buddy. No bugs crawling across everybody on my watch.

So tickling led to innate human nervous responses, led to the Moro Reflex, apparently.

But, I have other things on my mind. I’ve revived my genealogy bender, flushing out my family trees with raked-up birth and death certificates. I found a cousin, thrice removed in the process: a childhood friend of my late grandmother’s brother, also passed. Mr.P, as I’ll call him has been inundating me with wonderful diagrams of the Marion of the 1930’s, when they were all kids, as well as newspaper clippings, records, and context for the dozens of photos that sit around our apartment. All of this makes me feel good.

Simultaneously, M has decided to make his bold move back to school after years in the workforce. I am so proud of him. I am worried, despite my total faith in his ability to land on his feet, always. I’d follow him to the moon.

And, inevitably, the weather is turning cooler, so work will begin to pick up soon, and before you know it the studio will be crammed with hundreds of people a day getting their Christmas pictures made. Something that is so obviously social and not religious in nature that it makes me crazy over the banality of it all. For me that will mean 10-12 hour days, 6 days a week, for three months. . . and praying to God I don’t get H1N1 flu virus.

So there.
That wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be.
I need to write a poem.
I’ll be back.

new shot from my NEARLY COMPLETE 365 project:
(more soon on what i’ll do when that’s over. . . )
308/365

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