Daily – Page 74 – Stephanie Sicore

March 24, 2006

DFW Intl. Airport

Into the relentless sunny wind, Chas ran towards the distant airplane as it lifted off the tarmac. “DET! DET!” he shouted, pointing, and Ford translated it for me: JET, JET! HE reached the end of the berm and stopped still, apprehensive, as the jet loomed closer. But the roaring became intense, and Chas turned round and trotted back to me, quietly frowning to the ground, pink cheeks bouncing. I scooped him up and together we tracked the gleaming silver jet as it thundered over us.

Ford is into jet turbine engines. He likes to describe their operation, and tell stories involving turbines. He will pick up a gall off the curb and tell me, “Mom, do you know why this gall is so fast? It’s because it’s a jet TURBINE-powered gall that shoots through the sky and into your eyeball!” or “I’m so fast because I have two jet turbine engines, spinning like huge atoms, on my sides.” He has been into jet turbines for while, but I can’t remember what set it off, this fiery interest. These days, he’s all about atoms, particles, molecules, jet turbines, and electromagnetic forces. I’m not cut out for this.

March 23, 2006

SPT: time :week 3

We left the house on Sunday at noon.

The fog loafed through the canyon without much hurry,

and in our own haste I thought breathlessly about 101,

driving into town just before the tunnel above sausalito,

before hitting the traffic awaiting the Golden Gate bridge,

around 5 o’clock.

I was sad for a while after that, missing the eucalyptus,

thinking of how ridiculous is was that we had to move away from that place,

where Ford was born and where I enjoyed salty air in my lungs

simply because housing was too expensive.

The thought was fleeting, though, because the quality of life is good here.

And I like the smell of juniper about equally.

Around midafternoon we ran into thicker rain, to explain the mounting traffic.

When we arrived in DFW, cars were swimming in feeder lanes,

and flashing lights from towtrucks, fire trucks and squad cars reflected in the flood.

The following day, we spent much of out time in the car.

Why? Because I forgot how big DFW really is. In fact, we lived out of the car,

collecting disposable stuff and growing stinky.

Chas would go to bed later that night exuding that patented

deep-fried Twinky chimichanga funk, still in his day shirt, but too tired from

a fatty dinner to take a simple bath. Which is okay, because we were tired, too.

Damon had two exhausting days of training. A difficult thing for an introvert.

On the way home, I picked up my needles

and a skein of Peruvian kettle-dyed wool.

I smiled as we passed Willie’s Bio Diesel truck stop, in the middle of nowhere,

happily having left that muddled maze of people-clutter behind us.

While the kids were awake the ENTIRE trip back to Austin,

Chas occasionally would point to my needles and frown, reminding me to be careful,

by saying, “ow. ow. ow.”

SPT

March 19, 2006

Sunday

Onions slide around butter in the shiny, black cast iron skillet. I throw in some red peppers, steam rises. It is dark blue outside the window, behind the black silhouettes of leaves. I light a candle on the counter, beside the stove. Next to the candle, the fish glides in a tall column of water, backlit a glowing orange-pink from the lava lamp. Migas, black beans and brown rice. Habanero jack cheese. Strong, dark coffee.

Downtown Austin, 6th street. In the rain, a circe 70s tour bus is parked in front of an old bar. Painted a sandy brown, with a cheesy airbrushed panorama on the side panel: Moab? Hipsters crowd the sidewalks, carrying universal messenger bags and wearing standard issue neutral clothing with close-cropped, tousled hair. Retro eyewear. Shades representing the many faces of a gray day.