I carry a small, sari-purple moleskine ruled notebook everywhere I go. I bought it on Long Island this summer, in an independent bookstore in the Hamptons. (I’m not sure which Hampton, but one of them!) I am constantly scribbling words on any available scrap of paper, so I hoped it would allow me to always have at hand a place for my consolidated musings. It does, and I am grateful. Here are some snippets from the last six months, out of the Notebook:

My oldest son, on our trip to Florida in August, bought a bona fide cowboy hat in a western store in Georgia. Looking at him as he walked out of the store, I realized what an amalgam he is: shoes are skater, skinny pants are skater, shirt is surfer, dog tags are military, hat: cowboy.

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Signs on Long Island:

Wine a little, you’ll feel better.

Take baths.

Swimmers beware- mermaids in the water.

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J-, who found her soulmate at 44, on how to have it happen, “When someone comes into your life- don’t block the blessing. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have dated him. ‘Too straight- too goody-two-shoes.’ Watch out if you feel more comfortable with men who aren’t good for you.” Her man, B-, chimes in about when they get married. J- laughs and playfully pokes him, “I can’t just say yes willy-nilly to the first person who asks me!” He winks. The audience melts.

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Things to incorporate into my life (scribbled as I fall asleep one night listening to the L.I. Sound):

Lavender

Teatime

Cuisinart panini maker

A wooden door, painted black, with a baby’s breath wreath

Pies

Local fish

Pottery

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J- stops at the farmstand near their home for eggs. The farmer comes over in his green collared shirt and dusty Levi’s to greet her and lead her to the chicken coop, “Let’s see how the ladies did today…”

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When telling one’s story, one never knows how it will be received by the listener- by his own experiences filtered and shaped. I tell the story of adultery and divorce as the one left behind, when the listener may at one point in time have been the leaver, or the coercer.

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In the hair salon, I wait with a magazine. She walks by, so dignified with her cane, maybe in her early 70’s. She sits down slowly but with grace, a little-girl-look of fear in her eyes at the thought of “What to do with my hair? A perm?” She leans in and pulls a few strands to show me. “What to do? I’m scared of a perm- they used to look so silly on me. My husband used to say…” She shakes her head. Steve comes out, his glossy long hair swinging down his back. “Hey, Mrs. B-! C’mon back…” I see it in her eyes- the child afraid of the shot, the animal being put into the cage, fear. I give her a reassuring smile, “You’re going to look beautiful!” I squeeze her hand. I want to hug her, take away her fear. She is beauty.

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I write the grocery list. Firefall comes on the radio, “You Are the Woman.” “I saw your face and that’s the last I’ve seen of my heart.”

lettuce

cukes

ranch

2 pizzas

mint

bandaids

cream cheese

noodle soup

bacon?

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Talking to a friend about my frustrations with a man. “Does he understand what your life is like? I mean, does he…” she trails off. “Never mind, Jessica- I can’t understand what your life must really be like. How could he?”

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Coming in at night- like I usually do- I am struck again by the difference in our topography- our terrain- our geography. On my planet, 3 hours southeast, all is flat and the air is piquant with salt. Here the air is a breath like a drink of cool, clear water; the ground is humped up and roads curve in esses slowly, precipitous drops approaching the car at different turns. Still my body knows the twists and turns of coming to you- the last lilt left before the car pulls itself into the drive.

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“When we were in love… or whatever it was… With a shiver and chill, it haunts me still- what a fool I was to have almost lost most of what’s dear to me.”

- Cheryl Wheeler “Must Be Sinking Now”

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In the midwife’s office:

The young mother comes in, pushing a stroller which holds a six-week-old baby. Her mother follows, baby bag over her arm. The young woman is told she is 30 minutes late for her postpartum appointment. “But she told me 10:45, not 10:15!” The receptionist assures her the doctor will likely be able to see her still. “It’s for an IUD!” she says, and you hear the new-mother-wrung-out-pleading-tone in her voice. The receptionist asks her to take a seat, and disappears into the recesses of the office. “It was REALLY hard to get here,” the young mother says to the waiting room, really, but to no one in particular. “You have no idea,” I think, sagely, tiredly, mutely.

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“When you look at a moose… the only thought is ‘knobby.’ It seems poorly designed. Like it was put together by a committee…”

He is making breakfast and has me in stitches. Laughter is always the best medicine.

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9/28/07 Friday

The 26th passed with no notice- seven years later, but truly, truly, did it to my body? Or is that part of the “ashes, ashes, all fall down” emotions and physicality I’m experiencing?

As I blink into the sunset, and drive by the big Catholic church with the Mass: 5PM sign out front, I wonder how it all slipped by so fast? How mistakes were made? How- with my one chance at my 20s and 30s- I let it go? Seven is the magic number. Seven years is enough. It is time. When do you stop being a hollow person? Fill in your own spaces. Now.

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Somehow it comes up. OPL. Other Pussy Land. He laughs and instantly creates a dictionary entry for the new acronym: “OPL- Other Pussy Land- as in ‘Extract yourself from your spouse and marriage BEFORE you venture into OPL!’” We are gasping for breath with tears running down our cheeks. “That was a good one!”

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Today, my best friend reminds me that I spent awhile digging through the bowl of little pocketknives in the antique store 2 weeks ago, finding some of horn, some of bone, none in good working order. I bought one anyway, for a special gift.

A few days ago I have a date. Mexican food. He brings a gift. A tiny keychain pocketknife. He says he usually brings a flower as a gift for his dates, but I get a knife. I can take the nudge from the Universe (I seem to need this one repeatedly)- I will continue to pare away the unnecessary. The perfect token. Okay.

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