It’s a Thursday, girl’s night at our house, and my girls aren’t here. We shipped them off to their grandparents and it is making me sad and a little sketched out. I don’t know how to act in this house when they are not here. I could just let the dogs bark that those uppity deer and not worry about it waking anyone up. I’ve forgotten how to just be, or the better part of my brain that is always trained on them is now free to think about other things, but it can’t just pick something already. It’s a little weird how quickly my mind can go dark, imagining all the things that could happen to them while they are away, and reminding myself that those are the exact same tragedies that could happen here, or anywhere, at any moment, does not help. I am an anxious person.
What I should do is go hang out with HP, and we can learn how to be in the house without kids again. Hafta poem instead. About what? What do real poets do when their brains have been torn between their kids and lice for the last 48 hours? Poem about lice? No, thanks. Poems about kids are hard, and sappy. What else?
Listened to a podcast on the placebo effect while doing tons of laundry, that was fascinating. From Stuff You Should Know: http://www.stuffyoushouldknow.com/podcasts/how-the-placebo-effect-works/
My favorite part of that one is the “nocebo effect”. Really, listen to it. It’s when a harmless substance causes a harmful effect, like eating chalk and being told it’s arsenic and dying of fright, kinda.
Gotta get going. There’s so much to clean.
Maybe these old books can be my placebo, we are so similar, spines cracking and volatiles in breakdown, give me chocolate snake oil and low jazz and boisterous love in early evening to turn on the night and fight back the nocebos, those fearsome niggles that grow wings and great, sharp talons, growing from “how are they doing” to tragedies in flames, with scripts and everything. Or maybe a fine dose of mercy blues and lamplight will be enough to release me again to now. I’d gladly let the wings make shadows on the wall while we dance in the kitchen and you touch me with your naked hand
and everyone is fine.
Wow that took to long. I blame Pandora. Space out to music a lot. Happy Thursday, poem people.