Practicing Domesticity: Under Pressure

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Under Pressure

"March 24. So here's the thing about tire pressure: it's not a constant. Now, as scientists, we're surrounded by constants: K, c, g, etc. But that's not how tire pressure works. Tire pressure is more like a variable, if that makes any sense to you. It could be at 36 psi (Sven's manufacturer's recommended value---yes, I still have the manual). It could be at 30 psi (the low end of what Kat's dad says is permissible). It could also be at 22 psi. Enough said. As a responsible adult, I decided to check my tire pressure. Turns out, there's a reason why Sven's gas mileage has been suffering, and it's not (completely) due to the ridiculous driving I have to do due to California drivers (yeah, in Washington we honk to say hi. And use our blinkers. And y'all should learn how to count cars at a 5 way stop. Hello, Olive Mill). So, Katherine and I took responsible measures and filled up Sven and Helen. I have never used one of these cute little tire sticks before, and I hope now to use one every week now to check Sven's tires. Basically, for you irresponsible people out there, you put this little guy up to the spout on the tire and he shoots out a little white stick telling you the tire pressure. Note to Padre: why isn't Smart Stem technology on these cars? Anyway, super cute; I recommend it to all. Now Sven and Helen can save a little money when they go out together. On a final note, my favorite part of today's adventure was Charlotte's review of the photos: 'Wow...I guess some people are concerned about their low tire pressure, and others are excited...?'"
- Michelle

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What I Learned From My Mother

by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love

the living, to have plenty of vases on hand

in case you have to rush to the hospital

with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants

still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars

large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole

grieving household, to cube home-canned pears

and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins

and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.

I learned to attend viewing even if I didn’t know

the deceased, to press the moist hands

of the living, to look in their eyes and offer

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.

I learned that whatever we say means nothing,

what anyone will remember is that we came.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

awful pains materially like an angel.

Like a doctor, I learned to create

from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once

you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every house you enter, you must offer

healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

Source: Sleeping Preacher (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992)

Alone

by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

The Silence

by Wendell Berry

Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud
with the labor of words.

Though the season is rich
with fruit, my tongue
hungers for the sweet of speech.

Though the beech is golden
I cannot stand beside it
mute, but must say

"It is golden," while the leaves
stir and fall with a sound
that is not a name.

It is in the silence
that my hope is, and my aim.
A song whose lines

I cannot make or sing
sounds men's silence
like a root. Let me say

and not mourn: the world
lives in the death of speech
and sings there.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Under Pressure

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