Ah, America

Why is it that sometimes, or I mean often, I feel like Ruth from Six Feet Under. I must be at least twenty years younger. I have one toddler, not three grown children. And my partner is still alive. I think.

Well, I do have red hair. Maybe that’s it. When Ruth has her whacked-out, freak-out moments in her perfectly “other” era preserved kitchen, I feel like I’ve somehow transported onto the screen and into her size ten Hush Puppies, although I only wear a seven and would not, could not wear Hush Puppies.

I don’t mean to divulge in television but I’ve watched the DVD’s and there is something about this show that echoes in my own life or is it the glass breaking from Ruth’s mad toss? Am I just being taken down by my family – squelched, sucked, stoned to death? Sometimes I just can’t catch my breath and when I should be breathing, instead I’m screaming. Really I think it’s the problem of memories – memories we cannot shake – memories that break us.

It’s all too heavy, this act of raising children and cleaning kitchens and being surrounded by the dead. Ah! America – how far we’ve come; sending our children to war, packing around useless crap, prettying things up like it matters and pretending that it makes us happy and proud.


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