That darn windstorm durn wrecked something. The dude at the help line said "that light on your modem shouldn't even be on! If it thinks it's synching, that's a real problem!" He said it in incredulous tones, like as if I had called him to tell him I walked in on Wyatt reading Monkee The Kite Runner from atop their litterbox. Alas, the house is gloriously internet-free, in case you are wondering why I didn't write you back.
I went to a soccer game in the suburbs--it was actually a tournament, I think. I had never been to that kind of a thing and it made me think of what activities turn little boys into who they are later on. Into dudes. Sports dudes. Team players. Femmes. What makes you a normal kid and what doesn't and is it your duty, as a parent, to put yr kid on teams and socialize them that way? I was deep in my brain on it--sports and teams are the locus of many a childhood trauma; gym class and a summer sports day camp stint c. 85 might be the entire reason I grew into being a punk. After the game, all the boys got medals and prizes for the season, everyone got to be recognized and special and I kept thinking about the poem in the new poetry mini-book of Jordan Davis, the one about his name and his sons name, and another poem that had a idea about becoming, or sonning-- or rather, being a son, I guess. Around all those kicking kids swimming in their polyester team shirts, I drifted in an Updike-ian hangover--or that same certain familial fatalism; wondering which families will explode, sensing that they all will, inevitably.
Posted by Jessica at October 21, 2007 02:41 PM | TrackBack