I had an hour. Chase said, I’ll bring the child sprouts to their tumbling class today. I’ll get coffee. The car inches out of the driveway and I slide down the rabbit hole into the opium of the creative. This poem, this poem I’ve been wanting to read, wanting to touch mothers’ faces.
Put the iMac on the desk, click iMovie, amaze at this technology,this new touching and not touching. I can make a movie! But the light from the window is harsh. I haven’t washed my hair. Is that my face in the computer? Run to the bathroom, trip over pajamas. Frenetic hygiene: wash, brush, powder, lipstick. Run to the bedroom, frenetic costume change: bra, shirt that strikes the right blow between lovely and unstated. Leave pajamas and striped socks on.
Setting: right. Hmmm. No to the big windows that leave light splotches on one cheek, rubbing it out. Run with the iMac into the bedroom, the kitchen. Take down a painting and sit against it in the hallway. No. Swirls coming out of my head. Downstairs, in the children’s rooms? On the stairs? A Blair Witch possibility: grainy, frightening, lost in the woods. Perhaps for the Insomnia poem but no, this poem is not lost in the woods, it is a heart surge.
Run to Cassius’s room, too dark. Jonquille’s room! Yes, a possibility.The sprouts are tumbling now, hanging from bars, delight surging in their little running legs. Set the iMac up on Jonquille’s rocking chair. Sit on the floor. My face, wrong; the lighting, wrong; the aesthetic, mediocre; colors a Malarial wash.
Bring the upstairs bedroom lamp down. The one that casts pink. The one that looks like God‘s boudoir lamp. Yes, better. The sprouts are getting on their shoes and coats. Hurry, don’t hurry. Write the introduction on two pieces of typewriter paper (typewriter?) with a black crayon: 1: Dear Little Fish, 2: A Letter to My Unborn Son.
Brush hair. Do ten jumping jacks. Sit. Turn on the movie icon. More lipstick. Create? Yes, create. Hold up sign one, sign two. Begin the poem. Remember when he was in the belly, remember that beautiful heat. Flub the poem halfway through. Head down. Concentrate. Begin again. Signs, poem. Flub on the same line: the love that I’m to learn, Little Fish. Damn. Do ten more jumping jacks. The sprouts are sitting with their Papa having a muffin now, little legs dangling off chairs.
Sit. Hit the movie icon. Create? Yes, please, thank you. I want to touch a woman’s face somewhere, I want to touch my mother’s face with this video. I want you to hear me hold this in my heart. Hold up signs: Dear Little Fish. Letter to My Unborn Son. Recite poem. Flub less perceptibly. No light splotches. Back hurts from sitting on the floor. Select movie.
Have I done it? A poem iMovie in my daughter’s bedroom? In my pajamas that drag the floor? Honey happiness, a yip, a howl. YouTube, with all your strange magic, here I come.
But wait, the thumbnails. There it is, the biggest flub of all. The signs: Dear Little Fish reads Dear Litte Fish. It’s a wash, it’s all a wash, the little being lit and my movie, my hour is gone. A small slump, head on the floor is all, a stillness. Damn.
Put the painting back up. Return the boudoir lamp to the bedroom. Shove the dresser back against the wall. The sprouts have tumbled and muffined. They are in the driveway, their little voices bird-like, flying into the house.
My first YouTube video failed. Too much Litte, too little light. Unwashed hair and pajamas in my daughter’s bedroom. Hardy har har.
I will try again. When another toothpick of time comes. I will try. I will not write Litte.