map three

drawing souls or just discrepancies

On my first date with Charles we argued so vehemently that we ended up sitting on opposite ends of a public bench in Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, seething. Pink cherry blossoms fluttered past as I vowed to never date this man again, ruing the fact that we attended the same parish. Looking back now it is clear that the same dynamic that fueled our anger was also the impetus which brought us together.

Nowadays it goes something like this:

Me: I don't think Isaiah should go out like this, he needs his ears covered.
Charles: It's not that cold, he'll be fine.
Me: Yes, it is cold. And babies get earaches easily.
Charles: You are such a worrier.
Me: Well, the books say that their ears... er, well, I'm just trying to be a good mom.
Charles: Every mother has some thing she obsesses about.
Me: I'm not obsessing! Why do you always disagree with me?

It seems like every conversation is a more or less dramatic version of this, ending in me yelling, "Why don't you just agree with me?" Which is where it gets confusing, because then Charles says he does agree with me. And has all along.

If he did agree with me, though, I imagine a scenario more like this:

Me: I don't think Isaiah should go out like this, he needs his ears covered.
Charles: Oh, of course, it's cold. Where is his hat?

I was thinking about this yesterday in the shower (being the only place where I can think anymore), and when I got out I sat down next to Charles with a pad and colored pens. I said I had a few questions to ask him, and he looked at my pad and markers and said, "oh, no, is this one of those things where we have to draw our souls?"

I rolled my eyes and drew a circle. I said, "How often do you agree or disagree, in general, with what people have to say?" He said it was fifty-fifty. I cut the circle in two and colored the section for agree green and the section for disagree pink (see figure 1 above). Then, "Well, how do you think people perceive your response to what they are saying? What percentage of the time do they think you agree or disagree with what they are saying? Like here, on a pie-chart." Charles figured that only 25% of the time they thought he agreed with them and 75% of the time they thought he disagreed with them (figure 2). Then I asked, "How often do you agree with what I have to say?" "Ninety percent of the time" he said comfortably. I raised my eyebrows, and drew another pink and green pie chart (see figure 1a). Then, drawing the fourth circle, I said, "Well, here is how often I think you agree with me." I drew a small sliver for "agree," indicating that I assume he is agreeing with me only, say, 15% of the time (see figure 2a).

I don't know what conclusion you would draw from this exercise, but I'd say that this neat little discrepancy is why we argue so much.

inventory II

fighting the mice and a little airplane

I'm taking a break from ridding myself of mice. Sitting at my computer in the living room, German pop music playing: Sie kann fliegen.

I have a mouse or two. They nibble at the bottom of the plastic grocery bags that hold my garbage, making holes large enough for themselves to burrow into a paradise of fair trade coffee grounds, used lemon-ginger and Moroccan mint tea bags, discarded strawberry stems, empty organic milk cartons, torn-up receipts, old nylons.

My garbage bags hang from a clever wire rack on the inside of the counter door under the sink. But today I bought a metal garbage can, which will hopefully deter the wild foraging of my little furry housemates. I stuffed a whole package of steel wool into the crack at the back of the cupboard floor against the wall, hoping to keep the mice out. Empty paper bags, cleaning supplies, plastic gloves, cleaning rags, and unused rolls of paper towels are scattered across the kitchen floor. This sight tired me; I came into the living room and found 2raumwohnung on itunes.

I don't think Mary's suggestion of making new body memories is helpful in this particular case. What's the point: they aren't my memories. My dad wasn't that person, and I wasn't any other than the stubborn, serious-eyed girl who despised her father mainly out of self-protection. And I don't despise him now anyway, I've mined my childhood for every beautiful memory—every camping trip, every tree lovingly identified, every early morning dig for fishing worms—and these have become the map I use to remember.

On Saturday night I dreamed about Little. I dreamt I was waiting in a sunny field that served as a runway for small aircraft. A little airplane flew in, landing in the green grass. Little may have been flying the plane, although this was not clear in the dream. I watched, waiting beside some sort of white sign or barrier. Little walked from the plane over to me. He wasn't skiddish, but calm and confident. He smiled and gave me a warm hug, and his chest smelled of summer and freshly washed cotton. Things are definitely going to be OK.

It's late and I need to put the kitchen floor back under the kitchen sink.

inventory

four trees, a fountain

mapping

It’s been warm and windy today. The exhaust fan creaks as a gust of air pulls through the building. The office smells of the new carpeting downstairs and, faintly, of earth. I look out the little window above my computer and watch the pine branches wave.

Four years I’ve been waiting. It's not that I've been doing nothing: it’s been a busy sort of waiting, energetically waiting. I've been busy mapping the space around myself.

It takes a long time to make new maps.