Gun jumpers.

My mother, sister and I are all educated women. We all hold graduate degrees. We are extremely intelligent, dumb women.

Years ago, my sister spent a few weeks trying to figure out why the light in her stove would come on when the door was open, but turn off when she closed it. She wanted to see her food cooking! She sat on several occasions with her nose up to the door, wondering how to get the light to come on. It finally dawned on her that there was, in fact, no window in the door.

Months ago my mother made a cheesecake. My father had cut himself a piece - no one else had had any yet. She was doting about how he had cut the perfect piece - not too small, not too big. She wanted everyone to have a piece precisely that size, but she just couldn't figure out how to cut them. She dragged him into the kitchen to show us how big to cut it. He looked at her, shook his head in disbelief and said, "Cut it the size of the hole."

A few days ago I was disappointed to find that my cute little ceramic salt shaker was empty. I needed to refill it. Oh, but how? There was no screw top? Am I supposed to submerge the thing in a bucket of salt and press the granules into the tiny little holes? Fill a syringe and shoot the salt in? Could the little artsy ceramic salt & pepper shakers my mother bought me in a fancy art gallery really be one-time-use shakers? Well, fuck it. I threw it in the trash. It hit a glass jar and shattered. The little plastic removable cap from the BOTTOM bounced around a couple of times and settled on the top. As it bounced, it sang to me "You stupid idiot. La la la la."

Poor Claire. Her father is truly a brilliant man, yet there is just no escaping the Wilcox women dumb gene.
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My medium is oil. Claire can not be around the paints, varnishes, flow enhancers, turpentines. I fear she may sprout a third ear or grow glass hair. Since her birth, I set up studio in my basement. To accommodate color and light issues, I am forced to keep the lights off, with one single flood light directly behind me. This makes for a terrifying scene. It took me months to become comfortable with this arrangement. I am a scaredy-cat. Eventually, creepy noises became comforting. Moving shadows became inspiration. And the thick yellowish spider who travels from corner to corner spinning webs has become my friend, Rose.

Well, certainly I am thankful I have conquered my silly basement fears, but now I am worried that being a basement dweller is affecting me in undesirable ways.

Last night I was lying in bed, my eyes shut tight. No colors! Typically, rich colors swirling around my head is a lovely sight to see as I drift off to sleep. But, no colors tonight. Just pure, deep black. I panicked. Am I blind? Am I dying? Is it the Nyquil? Have I lost all creative inclination? No colors! "Quick, think of a face, a bird..." Suddenly, Rose appeared. I smiled, my eyes still shut. "Oh, Rose. How nice to see you." I think I dreamt about her too.
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Jen inadvertently invented half-chaps last week. It is a fucking hilarious story. I really wish I could tell it to you and still remain close friends with her.
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Claire's hands look like mine and her legs, too. The rest of her is an incredibly authentic and stunning mix of her immediate family. She is my child. Mine. But, also, no one's. Herself. Sweetness. Just pure. It hurts to think about her. Her voice is so small. Like a squeak you're not certain you really heard. When she says "peeease" and "hanku" and "coose me" I want to put her back in my womb to keep her safe.

It is the most violent love I have ever felt. Violent because I would, in all sincerity, rip the flesh off of someone's bones and squeeze their organs to mush with my bare hands if they ever tried to hurt her. If you cannot understand why that sort of love is the most pure and the most beautiful, please do not have children.
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Liz thinks an internal soundtrack would be advantageous for all of humankind. I agree wholeheartedly. She also pointed out that it would be necessary to adapt your soundtrack when on vacation in order to properly experience the whole of the culture.

Liz is flying off to Paris tomorrow. Please, Liz, do not bring pictures or gifts back. Bring us back a playlist of your internal soundtrack.