Life in the Coderre Household

My dad is in London so there it is his birthday!


Happy 40th Padre!


In approximately 6 days my mother will also be turning forty. For her fourtieth birthday she will be going to Florida with her three friends from her childhood. The four of them grew up on Hagen Lane in Flossmoor. One of the four grew up to become a millionaire investment banker. She owns a condo on the ocean, which is where they will be staying in two weeks for a weekend. In the end, my mother will be gone for a weekend. This means that the house will be a complete disaster, my dad will most likely lock himself in his room with his laptop and watch sportscenter on his new TV that we got him for his birthday, and I will be left to care for the crap loads of random Coderre children that will be running through the house. At least Mel can help…oh nevermind… she has a social life.


 


poop.


ang

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*Intro to World of Chemistry videos*

Roald Hoffman is my hero. He is not only a chemist but also a writer, poet, Holocaust survivor, lecturer, and much much more. ( and he’s in the World of Chemistry videos )


Anyway, I decided to read some of his poetry. So you all can enjoy I will post my favorites here:


 


 


WHY DOES DISORDER INCREASE


IN THE SAME DIRECTION OF TIME


AS THAT IN WHICH THE UNIVERSE EXPANDS


by Roald Hoffman


It has something to do


with looking down the blouse


of the girl painting the boat, tracing


in a second the curve, wanting


to slip a hand between cotton


and her warm skin.


Or seeing a glint of sun


off the window opening across


the bay, calculating the speed


with which the reflection


skims across water.


The girl runs her hand


through her hair, the immemorial


action, this time arrested


as she spots the hummingbird


taking its hovering time


to sample each larkspur blossom.


Or the oil storage tanks


across the water, seeing


them ignite,


silently, the shrapnel


already on its way here.


 



MEN AND MOLECULES


Cantilevered methyl groups,


battered in endless anharmonic motion.


A molecule swims,


dispersing its functionality,


scattering its reactive centers.


Not every collision,


not every punctilious trajectory


by which billiard-ball complexes


arrive at their calculable meeting places


leads to reaction.


Most encounters end in


a harmless sideways swipe.


An exchange of momentum,


a mere deflection.


And so it is for us.


The hard knock must be just right.


The eyes need lock, and


glimmers of intent penetrate.


The setting counts.


A soft brush of mohair


or touch of hand.


A perfumed breeze.


Men (and women) are not


as different from molecules


as they think.



 



STRETCH MARKS


1


It is said in the Talmud that the child in the womb,


flexing her floating sac of the world, knows all, knows


the name of the angel who wrestled with Jacob, knows


and dreams, dreams all molecules her hands will make,


bowties of atoms centered by platinum, carboxypeptidase.


She remembers the constellations’ pause as Abraham


held the knife over Isaac, and later, Dachau trains.


Reaching, through her mother’s eyes, she blows life


into weeds and carbon chains from comets’ tails;


and marks the lust, just that, of her father in her


conception. In volutes of gene threads and shells,


what a time to know! And then . . . a time to be born.


As she is pushed into the colder world, an angel


strikes her on the head, and makes her forget all


she knew inside. The mark of the angel is on our lip.


2


Why does the angel do this? Today they don’t announce


themselves, these wheels of God, and, if questioned,


they say: I’m just following orders. Is he Ialdabaoth,


the workman demiurge, who without a host of technicians


and genetic engineering knew, just knew, how to mold


muscle, sheathe a nerve, the nitty-gritty, bone fitting


into bone, of creation? No one’s left to believe in him.


So Ialdabaoth, unemployed by this sexy human trick


of procreation, strikes out at children. Or maybe


it’s Yahweh, not my Hebrew one Lord, but his dark Gnostic


mask. He keeps men from unhusking the fallen sparks within,


knowing the blue sky that is also the sea of their spirit.


 


3 Rabbi Baruch of Mezbizh explained it thus: If



the child were not made to forget, she would brood


on her death, the count of years and seconds left


audible like a repeater of death in her mind.


Contemplating her death she would not light candles,


or build a house. So the angel makes her forget.


4


But I think God, who knows, doubts (which is to know)


his design works. His winged observer marks the


onset of contractions, hydraulics of the amniotic


fluid. The angel is drawn into timing, hears


breathing, hoarser, instructed. He touches, an angel’s


touch, the dilating neck of the womb. The child’s


head is pushed against her own breast, the occiput


leads, rotates into the pelvic floor until bones


won’t give, forcing the head to turn, shaping


a conformation that angles up; all this takes time


even if it is not a first birth. As the head emerges,


a thin shoulder slides into the place of resistance;


more pain, a push turning the face into the mother’s


thigh. Confronted with this congruence of form and motion,


the angel is the one struck dumb, forgets, must attend


every birth. The mother stirs, unprompted, to the after-


birth; the daughter, like a seal coming up from its deep


dive, depressurizes, gasps for this unforgettable air.



 


 


haha stretch marks


 


AnGiE


 

so… there’s this guy i know… and i have decided to dedicate this post to him…


Remember that one time when…


we stayed up till four o’ clock in the morning talking on the phone during a thunderstorm


we tried to get your mom to let you sleepover at my house


we had a waterfight


we tried to get into a rated R movie but they wouldn’t let us


we played video games and I killed myself with a grenade


we went to the caboose and your stepdad yelled out of the window


we watched saving private ryan


we went to Aly’s house


and she wouldn’t let you play her brother’s video games 


I put on your clothes


your sister thought I was/am a lesbian


oh and her boyfriend


oh and your mom


haha good times…


AnGiE


 

so I haven’t updated in forever but I decided that in the spirit of a four day weekend, I would…


So I went to Tori’s house for an ethnic foods party thing and I made tiropitas(these Greek cheese triangles) and I spent three and a half hours making them but it was worth it cuz they rocked. So at Tori’s house it was all girls and Julian haha Julian. He didn’t seem to mind… at all. and we ate tons of food. and I don’t think I have eaten that much since like the night before but whatever. and I dressed up as a gangsta PimP named LuLu cuz I’m just that cool. and Rachel took lesbian pictures of Krissy and me. so ya it was pretty funny. the end.


AnGiE

three and a half day weekend was nice but the finals sucked… i saw rumor has it again, watched high school musical on disney, called caroline a penis, celebrated my popsie’s 70th birthday, and watched desperate houswives after running home in the snow…


AnGiE

the weekend was good- played videogames and killed myself with a grenade haha, went to see narnia and it was fun, played soccer and we beat andrew and their mean nasty coach who insulted mi padre… just the usual… i dont want to go back to school…


i hate finals


AnGiE

my sibs are officially obsessed with Liz. Great, another one of my friends i can add to their “list of idols”*. woo hoo.


AnGiE


*”list of idols” (aka a list of my friends they adore) actually exists, this is not a lie, i know it is creepy i should burn it.

xanga revisited