Age (or) What the Hell do I Write About Now – As Told Through the Weekend Binge
And drinking is a revolution
when I am first free,
when my thoughts are suddenly my own,
when the calendar is my own,
when I can quit on a dime or spit on a dollar,
when I am telling you and not being told,
when things are split, reconfigured and split again in hours, in moments,
when there are things I have to tell you right now,
when I know well what concrete, pencil, myth and creation are,
when I walk with no leash,
shuck influence, no matter how sound,
when I ask,
when I answer,
when I am dissatisfied with the response,
when I firmly choose fight over flight.
This is when I write it all.
Because the world should know.
And drinking is a secret
when I discover I am not free.
When my thoughts become my children’s thoughts,
when days are minutes, hours and wooden blocks of time I carry
to give to someone else,
when children come or not come,
grow or not grow
and the anxiety is felt or not felt,
When you are thus mother or father or you are not,
when you talk to your mother or father or not,
when you compare many things,
when you attend conferences and pay attention because that is what adults do,
when you contemplate church,
when your progeny is on the vine and you are unsure what the harvesting process is,
when things are harder than they should be,
when you’re too tired to search,
when you’re making it,
when you’re barely making it,
when people rely on you and you don’t rely on you.
That is when I write what I can.
Only for me.
And drinking is something I’ve earned, dammit,
when I’ve taken care of the things I can see,
when I worry about things I can’t,
when people might worry with me,
when people won’t care or believe,
when I question myself,
when I have the wrong answers,
when I’ve done my share,
when I plainly see injustice I extol upon but not fix,
when you have a point of view,
when I have a point of view,
when things rely upon me somehow,
when I am felt,
when I must clean up and make amends,
when I fully understand the consequences,
when I am cleaning this mess I’ve created on Friday.
And when you, me and Lionel Richie are all wondering,
what the hell should I write about now?
Margaret Crocker is an artist, writer, wife, mother, daughter, sister and thief. She collects stray animals and has this weird fantasy of being on The Great British Baking Show, despite the fact she uses a bread machine. She knows little but proclaims much. There is much we don’t know about her.