Made major laundry progress tonight. I’ve been writing about this all week, but seriously, there are no words for how many pieces of clothing were in my house. Two little girls, times fifty-million socks and seventy-five thousand pairs of underwear, times eleventy-thousand onesies and footie ‘jamas equals Big Time Mama Job. Check my math, Mom. I’m pretty sure it comes out to = Heck of a Mom Job. #Math.
Anyhow, it feels great. Stuff weighs on us. It sucks us down. Also, it gets dirty. Found some yucky shit tonight.
I’m working on a infusing a unit on Modernism with articles from the commemorative Atlantic WW1 edition, which I’ve poemed before, and the headlines are eerie: “Could It Happen Again (Yes, Easily)” by Roger Cohen, and “Is Permanent Peace Possible? by Bertrand Russell, and “The War and Gertrude Stein”, by…well, her. It puts me in a wayback state of mind:
What Now in 1918
What now, when the news works, or doesn’t, what now, what to know, when we’ve gathered up babies and given them guns, but no hospitals, what right do we have to expect safe haven, now? What transit have we invented? What a strange idea, that this would be the last skirmish, and how dare we call it that, and what a strange idea that this could ever calm, and slow, and stop. Ask us all, “could it happen again”, and of course we say “of course”, because that is what we know for sure. Ask us, “Is Permanent Peace Possible?”, and we will say “of course, because it has to be”. I had a little bird. It’s name was Enza. I opened up the door, and in-flew-enza. What will we skip too, when it comes to the doorsteps? What rhymes will we jump to then? What now in 1918?
Wow. That got way, way back, and pretty much present at the same time. Huh. Happy Friday, poem people. Tomorrow I go to a glitter tattoo party and my friends’ production of Frankenstein on stage. Winning. Internet’s all wonky and slow. No cool stolen picture tonight.