purge

The thing about being an HSP is that you fill up pretty quickly.  Some folks think we’re shy and withdrawn, but really, we’re just trying to make sure we have enough room inside our minds.  Take today, for instance: I woke before dawn, went to the garden, soaked up all the sights and sounds and scents there, ran my errands, met kind people, and now I’m back at home.  It’s only noon, but I need time to recover—to drain the cup a little—before I venture back out.  And most days, that would be it—I wouldn’t even GO back out!  But there’s a drumming demonstration at the library at 2, a lecture on drumming in Brooklyn at 4, and then a lecture on Weeksville and Octavia Butler at 6, followed by a screening of Pumzi at 8.  Will I last that long?  Not likely.  I *want* to do it all, but I know that’s not a good idea—especially since I have to be “on” all day tomorrow.  So the HSP in me is going to take a moment and purge, hoping that will leave more room for all the stimuli that’s still to come…

I saw a bunny today in the garden.  Did you know that bunnies are disappearing in NYC parks?  And no one knows why…I saw it on the news or heard it on the radio, and had just told Edi about how I hadn’t seen a bunny in the garden in ages.  Then today I was walking in the grass when I saw the tiniest bunny munching on some clover.  This post is really about my childhood, I suppose, and how I feel some days that I may never fully decolonize my imagination.  Like why do I say “bunny” instead of “rabbit”?  Because I always wanted a bunny when I was a child, and I was used to seeing little British bunnies wearing jackets and shoes—come to think of it, didn’t I once have a Peter Rabbit bowl?  I still use the silver spoon I ate with as a toddler–my “boze,” as I called it because it has an engraved ribbon bow at the tip; it was part of my great-grandparents’ wedding silver, I think.  I have the nursery rhyme cup I drank from as a child, I now have the mittens I wore as an infant…have I ever really grown up?  I think writing is a way of playing with time—you revisit stories, or recall certain characters, because they take you back to a moment that was simpler somehow; a time when little things could bring great joy.  I saw that bunny today and immediately thought of writing a story about the last bunny in Brooklyn…and lately I’ve been thinking of writing a poem about the mermaid who lives beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.  I’m doing another series of poetry workshops (courtesy of the BPL—support your public library!), and want to get the kids to think of places they can find magic in the city.  I meant to go to a botanica today; Genna would naturally go there in search of magic, I think.  But I went to the deli and got soy ice cream instead.  See how I’m all over the map?  And now I want to talk about Robin Hood, and how I sat through that rather long but decent film last week all the while recalling the time when I would rush home from high school to watch Robin of Sherwood on TV.  I sat on the floor of our damp basement, the dehumidifier gurgling and grumbling beside me, and completely lost myself in the endless conflict between Guy of Gisbourne and Robin of Loxley—Normans versus Anglo-Saxons!  And, as I’ve said before, I went on to study medieval history in college—and when I spent a semester abroad in England, I dragged my friends to Nottingham—yes, I’ve actually been to Sherwood Forest.  And that trip was only slightly better than our trip to Dover (guess what? you can only see the white cliffs when you’re not actually IN Dover).  So many misguided notions…sometimes I feel sorry for my younger self—what an oddball!  And so easily sucked in by these narratives that yet have a hold on my imagination.  What’s a girl to do but make use of the stories somehow…

On the back of this photo I wrote, “Merry Weirdos of Nottingham—that’s us!”  You can’t see my desert boots, but notice my super-fried, super dry hair turning orange (and not a black hairdresser in SIGHT!).  Rachel, on the left, worked in the kitchen of the manor house where we stayed; most of the Brits couldn’t stand the American students, but Rachel took a shine to me and Kara because we were Canadian…