the form of the question, intricately woven with intent and anticipation. and a bit of fear. never forget the fear, always there. the form of the question is a rose. but not just the petals and the pollen and the stem, it is also the thorn, the pin prick of having indulged. the bead of blood pooling through the swirl of the fingerprint, the impression already made, the mark of a stain yet to be made after leaving.
the form of the question to be decided, to be told, how to unfurl. a curtain draped over abandoned furniture, what’s under there? the scattering of dust, motes flung into late afternoon light, the gathering of refined wool, or is it linen, cotton, what makes the question and the thing it asks heavy enough for a snap of the wrist to bring it to the fore for the revelation? pock marked legs and scoffed cushions. velvet or leather, arm rests slightly out of alignment and the overwhelming feeling that something that was once there, once there often day in and day out, is now irrevocably gone.
the form of the question begs the question, where to begin, how to phrase it just right, to know what i want to know and do i even really want to know?
Monthly Archives: March 2021
table turning
i was thinking the other day, how weird it is, to go from being admired by your daughter to admiring her. to go from expecting your daughter to impress you to wanting to impress her. to go from getting her to meet your expectations to realizing you can never match hers. it’s not meant to sound sad or morose, it’s more of how pleasantly the tables have turned.
liminal seventeen
3/2021
lim-i-nal
/’limenl/
1. relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.
2. occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.
So last year was a dud. Sweet sixteen and all that, but, you know, COVID and pretty much a near collapse of the world. No European world tour. Ok, not European world tour, but no Italy. No Rome, no Cinque Terre, no Florence, no Milan or Naples. No party, that was the trade off wasn’t it? No big coming of age gala at some hall with ridiculously loud music and awkwardness and maybe your parents being there or not. Preferably not. But again, no. Instead, COVID.
A year later, to the day, still COVID. And seventeen doesn’t seem as special. Seventeen feels like the day after something big and expensive. Seventeen is like the day after a parade where all the pretty floats are gone, the wonderful costumes are gone, the streets are empty but full of debris.
Seventeen feels like the guy who has to clean up all the confetti.
Now why the definition at the start of this little message to you? Why liminal? I can hear you in my head “What does that MEEAANN?” It’s where you are right now. It’s what seventeen actually is. Sixteen is really just symbolic. On paper, nothing really happens at 16 when you think about it. All the pomp and circumstance is just that: manufactured importance and arbitrary timing. Nothing really changes at 16.
Nothing really changes at 17 either… but it’s about to. It’s right at the cusp. It’s the transitional stage in your life. You’re not quite an adult, but you’re getting ready to be one. Making decisions about college, about to get your driver’s license, about what you want to do in your life, where do you want to go.
The “transitional or initial stage of a process” in this case is you. The becoming-you, the you-you that’s figuring itself out. That inbetween moment just before one thing ends and another begins. You are “occupying a position at, or on boths sides of, a boundary or threshold.”
And here’s the thing about liminality: YOU are the border and the threshold and the crossing. You are all the states of this transition, you are the baby, the child, the teenager, the lady and the woman. Seventeen is where everything, literally everything is in flux, it’s a wild storm. In the thick of high school but preparing your exit strategy. Laying the ground work for college but not sure which college to go to. Near home? Far away? Within driving distance? Excited to be free. Well, maybe not free as much excited to take ownership of yourself.
Seventeen is the year where all these morph and change and harden only to be recast over and over until the mold is set. It’s hard work. It’s effortless. It’s beautiful. Whether you like it or not. You’re being made and re-made right before our eyes.
It’s happening and I can’t stop watching.
-love, always
me