Paper and Fire

Because I spent the weekend painting my kitchen and foyer (that's fowh-yay although it really shouldn't be because split-level rentals don't have those but a kitchen is still a kit-chen no matter the design of the house), I am now behind in reading. I don't regret it. Much. Aesthetics are important. If aesthetically pleasing to me, I can study better. I will be a better mother. Especially in the fowh-yay will my reading and mothering flourish. In the kitchen, the food will gather outside of the pantry and refrigerator and assemble into consumable parties.

Friday I took my van back to the service station that inspected it for The State of Missouri. The rear wiper (ummm) wasn't doing its job and apparently a license plate bulb was out, as in hanging out. While those two very important issues were being addressed, the Belarus station owner told me how lazy American women are ("Excuse me. I am sure you are exception.") and how he was so happy his son married someone not-American. She works and cleans the house and cooks beets and cabbage. I want to ask what his son does when he's not working, but from the corner of my eye I can see my van through the window in the door between the office and the garage. I brought a book this time so he would only look at me from the corners of his very blue eyes instead of the front of them. Because I was obviously not a lazy American woman, he was happy to fix the things (he unfixed last time) for free. I thanked him and drove home to take a nap in which I dreamt that his not-American daughter-in-law came to my American house and cooked beets and cabbage into a bloody green soup. Sometimes I awaken happy it was a dream.

Jocelyn once said to me, "What if words are in your blood and you just have to write?" I immediately envisioned single letters, morphemes, phonemes moving through my veins like superhighways, stopping occasionally at dictionary and thesaurus toll booths, and if travelling in large groups, a full investigation by Harmon and Holman for authentic classification. But maybe there are no rules and the words are just there in all the languages of my genetic contributors and the confusion and osmotic struggle of translation?

The fowh-yay I painted the color called "parchment." The faux finish is named "candlelight." In differing light, it shimmers. When wet it smells like dog shit. I hope it dries soon.