one of the reasons...

...I like the Internet is because it can follow the way my mind jumps in making word or topic associations. I read a year ago that copper has an antibacterial property to it - that viruses, germs, etc have a shorter lifespan on a copper surface than any other metal. Hospitals were eyeing it as an alternative for surgical surfaces, etc. The article also mentioned how the current craze for stainless steel by homeowners as a kitchen appliance metal of choice may be bad for health reasons since stainless steel almost was a harbor for viruses, germs to live and propogate.

So I jokingly commented to Greg how we should invest in copper futures. (Since marrying this man, I continue to become more educated and conversant about the stock market and world trends/news). This type of investment discussion also coincided with the news of property values in Searcy, AR going through the roof because people were selling their homes/land/mineral rights to companies searching for this vein of natural oil, hence the mining discussions (copper, oil, etc).

Stay with me, people...although I don't know if you'll think it worthwhile ultimately at the end of this post, but just an insight into my crazy synapses.

So today, watching Gilmore girls reruns (gotta love it) I see Rory get the Birkin bag gift from her boyfriend, remember seeing it mentioned in Sex & City episode too, and I proceed to go to the wikipedia article on Birkin bags. There I see that sometimes the metal fittings on these astronomically priced leather travel bags is palladium, and that is akin to the same metal family of platinum.

Now, when I got my first piece of serious jewelry, it was platinum setting (which I had never heard of, being a poor memphii girl) I had only thought gold was literally the gold standard. So when I had Greg's wedding ring crafted, I asked that it be made of platinum. The reason Hermes uses palladium in its fittings is because it does not tarnish like silver can and does.

Then I see palladium in the news article section of google and it informs me that copper and palladium investments are improving in the markets, etc (still don't understand it all) as recent as four days ago. And that the major places to mine for platinum are Russia, S. Africa, Montana, Canada, and that you have to mine extraordinary amounts of copper/iron ore to get a bit of it. And its applications are endless - from once a bizarre treatment for tuberculosis, to lowering auto emissions.

This thread all centers around these core metals and their points of interaction with international markets as well as personally as Greg's wedding ring.

So, there you have how the synapses fire in my head...sturm und drang to be sure. And that's why I love the Internet - it feeds, informs, and coalesces my random thought patterns. And whether or not it helps you understand me, it helps me communicate to those who care to follow me down the rabbit hole of my thinking. Maybe this is why only some people like poetry - because it takes a lot of work to understand the thought patterns and associations of another's artistic mind. Aaaah, the challenges of understanding anyone other than yourself. But that's a whole other discussion...

Lie

On days when I have an appointment to keep (and I'm trying to keep those to only one a day now that the baby is here), I prepare myself for the outside world. Sometimes wearing armor to hold me in; strategically placing fabric folds, ties, and angles to divert and fool the casual eyeing-over of strangers. (what an invasion - their judgement, and how tiring my gauging other's response/impression of me). Some actually voice it - the well-meaning comments of nurses ("Nursing the baby will really help you drop all that weight") to family members who have access past some of my armor unfortunately ("So when can you start to exercise again?" or "Don't get too casual in front of your husband - you've got to keep him interested") to casual acquaintances ("Just let that baby eat off all that fat, you eat smart and let it melt off").

By all this artifice and effort, I feel that I lie. I tell a story with my presentation of self - my clothes, jewelry, shoes, hairstyle, makeup. I play roles - casual/unaffected (blue jean jacket, one piece painted floor length casual dress underneath, drop silver artisan earrings, worn leather cowboy boots), top professional (sharp cut suit, but with diamonds and crisp shirt), sister of the groom (impossibly high heels, pleated soft over jacket to a short sheath dress, pearls), errand gal (cute ball cap, jeans, long sleeved t-shirt, tennis shoes), mission trip understatement (tiny stud nondescript earrings, no other jewelry except a stand-in silver ring to show I'm married and clothes and bags that are not notable or immediately identifiable as AMERICAN, key is anonymity) and the symphony attendee (black velvet floor length Ralph Lauren, silk wrap/embroidered coat).

I color my cheeks to portray a constantly-blushing fair haired girl, I blacken my faint, blonde thin eyelashes to not look like I've just woken up, all weak-eyed; and I still hear my mother saying "put on some lipstick - you look like you're dead!" Deep in the hottest water of my bath, I try to artistically assess my post-birth body - how soft some of my skin has become in waves, the purple markings on my fair skin's surface, like the healing of a scar (but no wound), failing to appreciate it when I'm honest with my self-inspection. My husband also knows my reality - the woman who literally heaves her healing body out of the depths of our king bed to tend to the newborn prince. He knows how my hair curls up unmanageable and wantonly from the steam of a hot bath or the steam of boiling a pot of spaghetti. He has seen how under my blue eyes I have the matching blue-hued skin from sleep deprivation. He has learned of the magic of how a nursing mother's milk actually behaves - the spurts and drips and floods that startle even me. Reality - the truth.

In that sad and faded city where I grew up, there were colored girls who would cry out "You a LIE" or "You a story" to call a person out into the truth or at least point out the other person's attempt at deception. Nothing seems to me more powerful/dangerous/compelling than a woman who tells the truth. It's one of the reasons Greg fell in love with me - my unvarnished truth-telling. I let him into my interior world of assessment, judgement, opinion, and abandoned my artifice and diplomacy.

Once on a walk in that wood
around the lake, I witnessed
a doe. Her movements were
delicate, dainty; but surefooted
through the trees and fallen
vines, despite her slack belly.
Shamelessly that mother made
her way among far younger
than her. In her right, she claimed
her queenly rank with her fawn at heel.

My mother would say of sick people "his color isn't good" or "you need to get your color back", like when someone gets bad news or goes white about to faint. I never thought of myself as "fair" in the poetic meaning - it always translated in my head to sickly, 'couldn't stay out in the sun too long', pale, colorless, never "fair". That was too complimentary. That is until my Christ sister in midtown Memphis, who herself has color - a lovely deep color, said one day to me with cocked, appraising eye: "You just like a porcelain doll - so beautiful, just like a porcelain doll!", touching my cheek gently. She transformed me.

And I think of that doe sight - walking confidently and no shame swaying her slack belly, stepping out boldly on the daintiest of hooves, and I claim the truth of what has occurred in me to view rightly my innate form, my color or lack thereof, my new rank and role as mother.

Entry

you kickstarted
new life outside
the womb by placing your feet on
the last rung of my
ribs and
surged into this suprised world

your fierce first cries were abruptly quieted
when you landed sideways on my skin
and we opened our eyes to each other

your father stood over me
and you
baptizing us in his tears
gasping at the reality of you

grandparents sailed in and
formed a circle of prayer over
your hastily made crib

and then you were back in my arms,
my mother holding onto my arm,
transferring her years of mother's tears over
to me with joylight in her clear eyes
and my sight suddenly clouded with the water wet
of relief and release
crossing over to this new unknown
of you.

seth larkin perry
november 5, 2009