Reverie

So Stephane Dion is on his way out. A CBC commentator had a great line about his political career. She said that cats have nine lives, but Dion seems to have nine deaths--political deaths. I'd heard his address to the nation via radio, and it sounded a bit stumbling, but okay; only seeing a clip the next day on the television did I realize how truly awful it was. Poor man. What an ignominious image to have define your political career: his face was out of focus. It was like he'd already been condemned to political purgatory, ghost-like, blurry, trying desperately to communicate his good message. 

I feel a bit that way myself. Not the good message part; the out of focus part. Exhaustion's blur. There are entire days when I feel too interior, like I need to be shaken, woken from this dream. But, then, it's a pretty sweet dream. Yesterday's reveries: Rolling out cookie dough, flour-covered children, Fooey piling pink icing on top of a tree-shaped cookie, slowly devouring it, licking icing off the counter; snow falling, fat flakes; pushing the stroller through uncharted sidewalk snow; pretzels in the church basement; Kevin home by naptime; rolling out stretchy pizza dough; utter chaos just before supper's served, hungry children weeping, fighting, and pretending to explode various inanimate objects; Fooey eating two bananas instead of pizza; washing dishes in hot water; nursing a baby to sleep in front of the television; So You Think You Can Dance, Canada; tea with honey. If I weren't writing this down right away, the whole of yesterday would disappear utterly. That's the blurry bit. That's the part I can't reconcile myself to. How fast it's passing.

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