October 21, 2007


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