Good as Gold

Good as Gold: Royal seals on secretive missives, the edible confetti that resist bite on the wedding favors, the retro leggings on the twiggy legs of high-schoolers nostalgic for something they never knew in the first place. This color doesn’t really exist in nature or in my quotidian.

Metallic polishes are hard to pull off, they streak, get goopy and clump easier than other colors somehow.

This new moon is supposed to be epic.

This entry shall bear a haiku quality to it.

No flow, just threads laid beside one another.

My golden child turned eight and we held the quietest, nerdiest strategy games party known to the hipsterhood.

He has taken a liking to Duck Rillettes and oysters.

My god, what have I done. A gastro-snob before puberty.

The glint in his eye as we watch Monty Python skits.

The groan in my throat as I receive undue attention.

The gargoyle that takes over his face when I cover his gashing wound in iodine.

He’s not mine.

I make a point of not answering all his questions so he knows I am not the oracle, but an occasional solace buddy.

But I indulge him in home baked goods and inappropriate anecdotes.

Precious.

Clambake

Fiery orange, electric clementines, sweet peppers and non-standard poppies. A lacquered Milanese chair, the scream as one descends Space Mountain, the frenzy to take one’s clothes off before a lake dive after the game.

That’s right, feeling vigorous and full of options. Internal flame operating to full capacity. Taking a nosedive into a pool of optimism. Not expecting things from others, nor assuming I deserve favorable conditions. Just feeling even keeled and like I am up to the challenges ahead. That might just be sufficient for now.

New York is still experiencing a prolonged chill, but internally, I have made the decision to ignore this altogether. My powers of denial will not be outdone by nature’s unkindness. I will come out of this unscathed and will eat warm pozole in your face. Smokey chilies, like exorcists reporting for duty, will help me get the warmth going.

My son thinks I rehearse poses in the mirror when I ask him not to come into my room and wake me early in the weekend mornings. Maybe I should set my alarm earlier and try to catch him in that act. I look forward to the fun times ahead with him as he grows into more of a peer than a charge and mourn the distance he will inevitably take from me once his friends start to matter more. 

Resort Fling

Smoked Salmon, Cantaloupe with yogurt, something I could have found in my grandmother’s medicine cabinet, little girl underwear, a particularly splendid winter sunset in the Northern hemisphere.

The first day of spring went off with a bang. It was suddenly one of those days for which you are either overdressed because you can’t be bothered reading the weather forecast or you are so optimistic and ready to shed layers that you end up coming out in a T-shirt and cotton skirt and freeze your legs, stiff calves and icy ass.

But even that doesn’t detract from taking in the melting snow, your skin breathing through every pore and your dry lips shedding for the last time. You can start looking forward to the warmer months and realize you’ve already been sold out to the summer’s best concerts. The airfares are already very high to go abroad or even to visit your friend in Portland.

The thought of pre-packaged resort experiences is not that repulsive altogether because I just want to vegetate under the solar heat, in a stretcher that won't creak, chip or give me splinters.

My head summons up a seamless, pleasurable experience.

Truth or Flare

Truth or Flare

A severe slate blue, grey perfectly entwining its fingers with a mild blue, think retro wool coats, metal filing cabinets, blue chalk on an abused blackboard. You ain’t had it blue until you’ve had that mood. 

Long winter taking its toll on me. Undersunned, underjoyed, spending too much time under my covers. So much so, that I became too aware of the linty dots making my jersey sheets, also chalky blue, beg for replacement as they press against my idle skin.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time this week thinking of that moment when my son’s eyelids stop their argument against tone and relinquish him to a state of abandon in his deep sleep. He’s always had that wrestling dynamics with sleep, as if when he was gone the most wonderful things were allowed to happen and escape his tender grasp.

The hardened snow boulders line up the block making everything chromatically dimmed and I have to keep nagging my son to stop climbing the thick ice platforms right beneath the boulders. It’s a funny rhetorical game, where I remind him how badly it’s going to hurt if he slides and he just keeps bounding up and managing ever more adroitly after each admonishment. I, of course, showing Jewish momma training complete, fear the worse.

I realized I had dressed all in denim and neutrals, which made for a monochromatic ensemble with Truth or Flare, so I decided to offset with a tomato red lipstick, like one does when trying to make a sleepy decision look intentional, by design. As if I had decided to bring all eyes in the room to my lips and therefore dressed to optimize that color pop. I’ve never made such a Checkovian entrance in my life and can’t think of a good reason why I should start now.

That tomato red lipstick, which paired so nicely with the slew of blue, was bought under Tommaso’s advisement at a make up emporium which never fails to make me nauseous with choice. I miss him, his scraggly voice, rolling eyes and color assertiveness. 

End slate.