Everyone in America thinks ‘disorientated’ is a made up word.
Everyone in England thinks the same thing about ‘disoriented’.
Sometimes, I can’t remember which is which and then I avoid using the word entirely in conversation forever. I do things like this a lot.
Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must
take care of what has been
given. Brush her hair, help her
into her little coat, hold her hand,
especially when crossing a street. For, think,
what if you should lose her? Then you would be
sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness
would be yours. Take care, touch
her forehead that she feel herself not so
utterly alone. And smile, that she does not
altogether forget the world before the lesson.
Have patience in abundance. And do not
ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment
by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,
abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,
sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.
And amazing things can happen. And you may see,
as the two of you go
walking together in the morning light, how
little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;
she begins to grow.
Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I’m not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you’ve felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it’s been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
- Charles Bukowski
What Happens When You Live Abroad (via sistacrumpet)
Amen, Sista, amen.
Last night, I went to a graduation for 8th graders. (14 year olds.) At one point, two photomoms behind me managed to interfere with one another’s frames, and a fight started. I missed the beginning, but the middle went like this:
Photomom 1: you look like a big, fat idiot!
Photomom 2: YOU look like a big, fat bitch!
Photomom 1: yeah, well, you’re a cunt!
And you know, this is the America I find whenever I come here. It’s not that nobody in England ever gets annoying or angrily insults someone - they do. I once saw a lady call another lady a ‘silly cow’ on Bonfire night because she had hit her in the head accidentally with her wet umbrella. That was amusing. But the difference usually is that Brits will tut and tsk tsk and ignore the idiot, then go home and moan and gossip about it in privacy. In America, we have to up the freakin’ ante. We must rise to the insult. And Americans wonder why the rest of the world chooses words like ‘reactionary’ to refer to their temperament.
Also, the utter and complete lack of recycling here in my hometown killllllllllllls me. Whenever someone put a glass bottle or a can into the trash, I cry a little.
I’m holding up ok otherwise, despite all that’s happened and despite being rather homesick for The North. I miss my baby kitties, my spoiled dog and Mr. Tea. I plan to spoil the bejeezus (is bejeezus an Americanism? It’s a great word.) out of my new niece until I leave at the end of this month. So far, so good. It’s hard to see how much my family misses my sister. I miss her, too, but I think for me, when I moved overseas, I had to learn how to function even when I miss people, and I’m a little more used to it than my family, who have all been living in the same homes since childhood and don’t go far enough away ever to miss anything. For me, I think the hardest parts will be when I get home and there’s no way to Skype her to see how she is, because that’s our space and the thing we do, and quite honestly, I’m usually so frustrated with everyone else by the time I get back to England that my sister is the only one I DO miss.
It was her birthday yesterday. She would have been 31.