What a feeling it is. Gently resting on my lap, the opening a book, the paper cover and inner pages under my dry fingers. I rub the pages feeling and listening to the noise they make. A sort of groaning. A swooshing sound as I flatten the pages with my hand to look closer at the ink on the pages. Real ink. Real paper. I move the sticky note that I’m using a bookmark to reveal the title of the story that I read so many months ago and that I’m finally getting around to writing about. I take comfort in reading that it’s by Oates – perhaps she can propel me back into this project as I’ve been corrupted by digital devices. Phones, laptops, tablets, TV. Giving my brain what it unconsciously calls out for—inflicting damage that will only surface over time.
I’m sad that I have fallen so deeply into the pit of digital
distraction – and isn’t it funny how I find myself typing out these characters
to be posted on precisely the medium that I concern myself with. Perhaps I can
find a happy point of coexistence. Discipline myself enough to exist in the
real world and enter into this digital world to conduct this bit of
record-keeping.
That’s what this exercise is about. It does serve a greater
purpose. Someday, my children will find it…and in doing so, they’ll find a
little bit more about me.
It’s now the second week of 2023, and I’ve found the mental
space to begin writing here again.
How I love to encounter an Oates story in anthologies from
the late 80s and early 90s. She does such an excellent job transporting the reader.
The world I encountered through this particular story was
one that I found very familiar.
Back in my early 20s, I encountered middle-aged women,
mothers, wives, that fit the description of Mrs. D, a wife and mother in the
90s - perfectly.
I saw them mid-day with their children at a country club
pool – passing those last few hours of the day before their husbands came home.
Swimsuit covers flowing, hats shade faces, and sunglasses shield puffy eyes. Gliding
through the hot, hazy summer days of south Jersey. Bestseller in hand, flipping
pages on the lounger, scolding kids between chapters.
I wondered if they were happy. I could sense that there was
some effort to mask the strain of their lives.
I was only in my early 20s…what did I know of their lives?
I had it all figured out.
Not- really though.
Written in the 90s, read by me in the 2020s, I can easily
see the strain (through their contagious laughter) burdening suburban homemakers
today traveling across time from beside a pool in south Jersey.
