The Attic: Posts from Seba’s original WordPress blog
It would be much easier if I were made of something else, something more sensible and human. Most of the time, I do not enjoy being here. There is too much pain and carelessness and self-indulgence and all of it cuts and beats and blocks the sun too often. But then again, once is too much, isn’t it?
Picture me, drinking my morning coffee on the day that same-sex marriage became legal in Alabama, stumbling onto this article while searching for the original video of Hozier’s song. At first, I was intrigued. It didn’t hurt that he wrote brilliantly. What really irks me? He’s wrong. Plain and simple. Let’s break this down a bit.
I don’t know how old I was when magic tripped across symbols upon a page and flipped in the air to land in my heart. I do know that it made me hungry for something my birth had forgotten and that I felt certain that the moment was somehow a tragedy, as if I had found a hole that would never be full. I was right.
Leave it to me to get exactly what I asked for . . . and then be confounded by the answer. How long had I whined: I don’t want to teach anymore . . . I want to stay home and grow things and write things and cook things. Long enough that the echo of it is still haunting me. And: I cast for it.
And then . . . it was spring again. Funny how it always seems to be so far away. This year, I was convinced that it had taken the last train to Georgia, then hopped a boat to Jamaica. I reckon most of us magical folk knew something was beginning. As always, beginnings are the harder part for me–mostly on account of they always ensure endings.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I’ve blogged about this before, but today: I feel my friend standing behind me. Skinny. Blond. Troubled. Bullied. And now, gone. But I feel him, and I remember the first time I stood up for someone. It wouldn’t be the last.
I’ve always known I had no choice about one thing in my life. While others mitigate, ruminate and speculate I burn. An Aries according to Greek astrology, the rare Fire Horse according to Chinese theology, I am fire. Period, end of story. And I, according to legend, am cursed.
No matter how long I hang around, I am always stunned at the bad manners and shoddy home training of the general population. I reckon, the only Southern element gnawing here is: my hurt-ass feelings at human cruelty. But even that can be attributed to the condition of being human.
Last night, after practically drooling over the dormant bees the teacher brought for “show and tell,” my son was the lucky (?) recipient of said bees. They came home in a jar–I was forced to “pet” one (lawd) and then? Tears. Away from their hive, the instructor had noted to the boy, there wasn’t much hope for survival.
It happened again. The hubby and I were curled up watching a movie on t.v. that was continuously interrupted by the most inane, graphically-disabled commercials I had ever seen. He stares at them, helpless to turn away and trained by a different generation that rarely moved two feet from the bright lights of techno junk. Until he noticed me doing what I have always done: head turned, humming to myself, in another world.