My life not yet Bayly.

Welcome to my simple, complicated, painless, excruciating, beautiful, gruesome, luck-ridden, tear-filled life.

Right at this moment, I am known as Catherine Angelina Gelso. Yes, reader, I am employing a literary trick known as foreshadowing. Haha. But, seriously, as of September 30th, 2006, I will be Catherine Angelina Bayly. My consciousness will heave a great sigh of relief on the moment I say "I do". We have truly had a tumultuous run of it, and some pleasant stability will be much appreciated. Finally, we will feel complete in the small family we have created together. Let me introduce you to the crew...


Catherine soon-to-be-Bayly, me. I am beyond emotional - there are literally emotions of all breeds sitting ready for action beneath each and every one of my millions of pores. Tears spring to my eyes at the park, watching tv, cooking, drinking water, driving, breathing. My greatest fault is feeling all things far too deeply. My greatest strength is humor. I have the ability to laugh at myself and others - I am not self-conscious, in terms of what strangers think of me. I love books and I plan to someday write my memoirs. Trust me, as you will see, I have much fodder for it. I love bright colors, and also subtle colors. I am a walking contradiction. I am a vegan, but not at all an animal lover. I love nature, but hate photos of it. I believe the ridiculous wivestale that "if you like butter," a buttercup will reflect yellow beneath your jawbone. Never has my soft chin glimmered yellow when taunted by flowers. And, fittingly, I have always hated butter. I love music, but never think about it. I take for granted that I live preserved in the beautiful jukebox that is Bill Bayly. I love words woven in strange combinations. My life is composed of strands of soft phrases, cantering over dappled ground. I look like a middle schooler. I teach middle school. Right now it is summer, and hot with boredom, I rest.

Billy Bayly. My man. Bill has proven himself strong beyond anything I ever could have fathomed. And, yet, somehow he is loving beyond even that. His hands dance deftly over strings tightly wrapped around guitar pegs. He makes music that can only be described as bittersweet. He is vain, and yet somehow coated lightly in the dust of self-doubt. He thinks I am beautiful.


Miles. Miles is a dog - a lab-hound mix they say. He is neurotic. He might bite you. But, he is cute and he loves to snuggle. He eats only lamb-based food to control an odor problem unmatched by man or beast. He likes to walk and run. Red is definitely his color.





Last, but certainly not least, Sophie. There is no way to describe her in words.

She is our angel born sleeping...

"Mama is sitting on the floor of the baby’s room. She was a girl. I can tell partly by the walls, dripping the heavy sad color of overripe peach flesh, and the pastel butterflies floating like sky above the empty white crib. Mama’s arms are empty, as she holds onto what I guess must be an invisible baby. What she is doing is not quite cradling. Not per se. For every so often, Mama’s arms tear out in front of her and she grapples with the empty twilight for something only she seems to see.
It was not long ago that my mama was happy. You see, my mother was swollen. With happiness, that is. More often than even she would admit, I saw Mama’s eyes well with tears. She looked at me. My father. Or at her belly protruding, full of what I can only assume was something that gave her unsurpassed joy and overtook her with a love that caused her to stroke it gently, father to kiss it, and the two of them to talk and read to it incessantly as if it were something surely more than just blood and bone. But, it is spring now, and I am sure that life is just a phantom. I just know I have never seen her."