Happen
First of the all, it's too fucking hot here.
*
There is a lot I want to say.
There is a book called The Very Hungry Caterpillar. People with small children probably know this book. It details, in abridged form, the life of a caterpillar. He starts out small and hungry. And then he eats and eats (salami! ice cream cone!) and then he becomes enormous and gets a stomach ache. Then he eats a leaf. Then he builds a cocoon. And on the final pages of the book, there is a giant spread of a colorful butterfly. The book was given to Beatrice by a dear friend, and she spends time with it often.
Last night we read it before bed, and I could see the words and images entering her consciousness in a new way. When we got to the penultimate 2 pages, which show the big fat caterpillar and the big fat cocoon, I asked her Then what happens? And I turned the page and revealed the butterfly. Happen, she said. Happen. She repeated the word no less than ten times, each time turning from the cocoon page to the butterfly page. Happen.
It struck me as a very difficult word to explain. Cocoon to butterfly works, as a definition. The word doesn't actually appear in the story. But the implication, the urge to ask, is intense.
I think it was near four in the morning when she woke up, as though in a nightmare. There was terror in her voice as she called me, and her crying was breathless. I held her and we both fell back asleep. Sometime around dawn, the room filling with shy light, she sat up.
HAPPEN. HAPPEN. Mama. HAPPEN. Fat. Big. Co-cone. Eat. Buh-fly. HAPPEN. Mama. Co-cone. Big. Buh-Fly. HAPPEN. Co-cone. Mama. HAPPEN.
This went on for a few minutes, at least. I sat up and helped her narrate the book from memory. She wanted to emphasize the happen. I wondered if some conflagration of these thoughts and images had created the nightmare that had woken her up. She tends to wake up talking about the things that make impressions on her (like when her ice cream cone fell a few weeks ago...she still returns to this: I-cream FELL. FELL. I-cream fell).
I got out of bed and got the book and in the pink and gray shadows we looked at it. The caterpillar's face has that Halloween mask/clown creepiness, and his swollen body and engorged cocoon nauseated me a little. The butterfly, though, is pretty. I'm guessing that's the point.
We talked about Happen and co-cone for a while, and then had breakfast and didn't mention it again. I'm sure it'll come back up in conversation before long.
*
I've decided, I think, that The Happen is a scoundrel, a bad boyfriend. I keep waiting for him to call, come over. I cannot see the host of happenings, because of The Happen. The myth of The Happen. The Happen that never happens, that holds me in its greasy thrall.
The only real Happen, I think, is the very ugly cocoon that lives in an undisclosed spot, mushed around my organs. It needs me. I have neglected it. I have been looking for it online.
I have wasted too much time.
I have become nettled.
So The Happen that needs to happen now is a retreat of sorts. I need to make a vow to myself, to the cocoon, to this old internet. I have to make the happen happen because the happen doesn't just happen, out of nothing. Which is what waiting is, which is what clicking is: nothing.
I'll report to this space because this space is mine, it's of the moment. I've tried hard to keep it that way. Minimal links and such. I'll respond to emails because I like responding to emails and because I'm obliged to do so for work. But for a little while anyway, maybe a week for now: goodnight, Facebook. Goodnight, Twitter. Goodnight, Bookmarks. Goodnight noises everywhere.
I need more actuals.
If anyone needs me in the flesh I'll be sandwiched between DFW and Clarice Lispector and Baudelaire. Club sandwiches have 3 pieces of bread.
*
I also want to say, and I'm about 398932 months behind (always): read Shane Jones's Light Boxes. It is a book of deep beauty, violence, and love. The love is what I like best. I read about the war on February as the days were starting to get warmer and longer, and it enveloped me that way, like a long, warm light.
*
There is a lot I want to say.
There is a book called The Very Hungry Caterpillar. People with small children probably know this book. It details, in abridged form, the life of a caterpillar. He starts out small and hungry. And then he eats and eats (salami! ice cream cone!) and then he becomes enormous and gets a stomach ache. Then he eats a leaf. Then he builds a cocoon. And on the final pages of the book, there is a giant spread of a colorful butterfly. The book was given to Beatrice by a dear friend, and she spends time with it often.
Last night we read it before bed, and I could see the words and images entering her consciousness in a new way. When we got to the penultimate 2 pages, which show the big fat caterpillar and the big fat cocoon, I asked her Then what happens? And I turned the page and revealed the butterfly. Happen, she said. Happen. She repeated the word no less than ten times, each time turning from the cocoon page to the butterfly page. Happen.
It struck me as a very difficult word to explain. Cocoon to butterfly works, as a definition. The word doesn't actually appear in the story. But the implication, the urge to ask, is intense.
I think it was near four in the morning when she woke up, as though in a nightmare. There was terror in her voice as she called me, and her crying was breathless. I held her and we both fell back asleep. Sometime around dawn, the room filling with shy light, she sat up.
HAPPEN. HAPPEN. Mama. HAPPEN. Fat. Big. Co-cone. Eat. Buh-fly. HAPPEN. Mama. Co-cone. Big. Buh-Fly. HAPPEN. Co-cone. Mama. HAPPEN.
This went on for a few minutes, at least. I sat up and helped her narrate the book from memory. She wanted to emphasize the happen. I wondered if some conflagration of these thoughts and images had created the nightmare that had woken her up. She tends to wake up talking about the things that make impressions on her (like when her ice cream cone fell a few weeks ago...she still returns to this: I-cream FELL. FELL. I-cream fell).
I got out of bed and got the book and in the pink and gray shadows we looked at it. The caterpillar's face has that Halloween mask/clown creepiness, and his swollen body and engorged cocoon nauseated me a little. The butterfly, though, is pretty. I'm guessing that's the point.
We talked about Happen and co-cone for a while, and then had breakfast and didn't mention it again. I'm sure it'll come back up in conversation before long.
*
I've decided, I think, that The Happen is a scoundrel, a bad boyfriend. I keep waiting for him to call, come over. I cannot see the host of happenings, because of The Happen. The myth of The Happen. The Happen that never happens, that holds me in its greasy thrall.
The only real Happen, I think, is the very ugly cocoon that lives in an undisclosed spot, mushed around my organs. It needs me. I have neglected it. I have been looking for it online.
I have wasted too much time.
I have become nettled.
So The Happen that needs to happen now is a retreat of sorts. I need to make a vow to myself, to the cocoon, to this old internet. I have to make the happen happen because the happen doesn't just happen, out of nothing. Which is what waiting is, which is what clicking is: nothing.
I'll report to this space because this space is mine, it's of the moment. I've tried hard to keep it that way. Minimal links and such. I'll respond to emails because I like responding to emails and because I'm obliged to do so for work. But for a little while anyway, maybe a week for now: goodnight, Facebook. Goodnight, Twitter. Goodnight, Bookmarks. Goodnight noises everywhere.
I need more actuals.
If anyone needs me in the flesh I'll be sandwiched between DFW and Clarice Lispector and Baudelaire. Club sandwiches have 3 pieces of bread.
*
I also want to say, and I'm about 398932 months behind (always): read Shane Jones's Light Boxes. It is a book of deep beauty, violence, and love. The love is what I like best. I read about the war on February as the days were starting to get warmer and longer, and it enveloped me that way, like a long, warm light.
5 Comments:
Kristen!
Hey there! My husband, Tim Lyons showed me your blog the other day and I am am hooked. It's beautiful! You are publishing a book? I would love to read it.
Non-Crusader,
Moira
moira, hello! blush, thank you for the kind words! actually i have so enjoyed spending time over at your blog--i'm happy that tim makes a note on FB when you post. when this ridiculous self-imposed ban is over, i will request your friendship over there. meanwhile, how lovely to meet you here...
yes, there is a manuscript, which needs a publisher ;) but the work goes on...
xo.
Nooooooooo. But yes. And I am engaged in a very undignified wrestling match with the Happen right now, so I get it. I'll email you pictures.
I love you.
Nooooooooo. But yes. I am engaged in a most undignified wrestling match with the Happen, so I get it. I'll email you pictures.
I love you.
I don't understand technology.
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