Straight No Chaser

Uteropia

do not ask about my valentine's day.

i still haven't gotten to the point where i can envision our potential children as beings, as literal combinations of his genes and mine. i see mini-usses, instead; little carbon copies of my three-year-old self and of the infant i saw in the pictures at his house. sometimes i see my brother.

mostly, i can't get past thoughts of making these babies. not the sex parts, which, though anything but hazy, are also not the highlights of this process. i see that, vaguely, but then everything after is incredibly vivid; the telling and the splaying and the planning and the sharing. the wash of unparalleled satisfaction at finally responding to that piece of him that needs nurturing. the gestation of a beautiful being, or at the very least, an offshoot thence.

among other things, i got him pop-tarts for valentine's day because they are his favorite snack, a convenient failsafe during long essay weeks and all-nighters. one pack of strawberry, one of frosted brown sugar. favorites, both. i skipped strange's class to make that purchase, something i thought i'd never do, and to make up for it i tried to write a poem. "pop." not even really a poem, not formally; more like a cheesy wordplay salad wherein "pop" stood for the treats i wanted to feed him, for the enthusiasm behind my desire to feed him, and for, again, something gestational--an invitation for him to fill me up with his art till i couldn't hold anymore and was forced to give living form to his creations.

it didn't work. i tried that once before, dancing around variations on the word "inside." that one wound up being pitifully, repressedly sexual. i scrapped it after the sixth or seventh line.

he likens his poetic moods to pregnancy, knowing i'll like that. when he's contemplating the idea for a poem, almost but not quite ready to choose the words for it, that's when he makes the comparison, starts asking for coaching and support and stuff. i don't like to borrow his language, but it's really the only concept that matches, right now. i could scream a thousand things at or about him right now, but that seems so unproductive. so incomplete. i'd rather incubate something more meaningful, keep my legs shut till it's a pearl rather than just an aggravating grain of sand.

so, don't ask. about today.

the second and third paragraphs of this entry are a pretty blatant lie. i see them all the time, these babies--these humans. skin like brown sugar and cinnamon stirred thoroughly into soft butter. brownish-black hair, unruly but velvety. black moon-eyes. slender builds on sturdy legs, smooth muscles and gentle angles. toothy smiles. perfect ears. minuteglass figures for the girls. wiry, unpredictable strength for the boys. wildcard noses.

i don't know why i said that, that thing about not seeing them. just to emphasize the babymaking part of it, i guess.

anyway, tomorrow promises to be one of my better days. my ipod, the darling, has brightened things considerably in his short half-week of life. it is uncharacteristically ridiculous, how much i love that gorillaz song.