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Fall heaved a big breath outside this morning with a quick, forceful downpour that made my bones smile. Opening the front door, I could barely see through the darkness, yet I continued to stare, mesmerized, as each long, wet streak of water, glimmering in the early morning black, made its way down to the Earth to sustain both our stomachs and our souls.
I wanted to run out and embrace each drop, to feel the slow cool of wetness on my skin and absorb the first feeling of fall through my body. To drink it all in until completely full.
Woke up with "Hello, Bonjour," on the brain, which means it's going to be a day reminiscent of Woodstock, filled with peace and love, right? Okay, even if that's not true, it will at least be another day in the glorious month that is September, which is good enough for me. In fact, yesterday during my daughter's swim lesson, the song "Get Together" by the Youngbloods came on, prompting me to smile and think, "Yeah, this is my people!" Of course, later they played "Pour Some Sugar on Me," by Def Leppard--fun, sure, but a complete and total disconnect.
Each whiskered face tilts at me in utter bafflement, questing my sanity, wondering if I'm the same Human they've been whispering about, attempting to assassinate, and stealing drinks from since the beginning. "I know," I tell them, "I have completely lost it." I can feel spittle dribble down my chin as the wild, rabid foam coats my teeth and I bite back the sudden desire to howl at the moon, shaking like I'm battling withdrawals from a different sort. My eyes scan the clock over and over again, obsessively, like I expect it to sprout fur and howl with me.
Completely wants an adorable farm just like the one on "Nanny McPhee Returns," but perhaps without so many animals and poo and with many more vegetables instead! What an adorable arrangement. Could you imagine living out in the country like that, living off the land and the sun, using wind power and elbow grease and not much else, working in conjunction with the earth and giving thanks every day for what comes your way--much like that sagacious fellow in "Taran Wanderer" and his brood? Every day I am more surprised at where life leads--and what I now want.
Open windows may invite fresh air, joyful sounds, and fall coolness--but allergies are on the wind as well. Anti-itchy, no-sneezy pills are not in the budget, so what to do? Suffer in silence with hot tea is the likeliest of bets. Awaiting family members to awaken for breakfast is tiresome; if not for previous promises, oatmeal would definitely suffice. Non-paid word weaving shouts out for my attention while I must get back to earning bill-pay funds. At least there is hope around the horizon: two full days off next weekend, followed by more in October!
Things to do when you don't want to do what you're supposed to be doing: read a book; peruse dozens of blogs about topics of interest (homeschooling, cryptozoology, food); play on Facebook--play on Facebook--play on Facebook; call your mom; clean off the built-up residue on your glue, whiteout, or other craft bottles; do laundry; sweep the floor; go ask your husband random questions; blow your nose; seek out pretzels; make lemonade; go outside to check for hummingbirds; write a letter; organize your comic books; play with your child (especially in something messy you'll have to clean up).
I wrote this and it was deleted, so I don't remember it all, and am annoyed, but basically this is how it is for a writer with a fuzzy head: You stumble in, mumbling to your partner, "What is that word that means poop you put on flowers?" And he suggests manure, compost, others; you say, "No, it's one syllable..." And he says, "Mulch?" "Yes!" you exclaim, only to return to your desk to write about the planting methods for a particular flower and then call back to him, your brain still fuzzy and mush, "What was that word again?"
So Zyrtec and nasal spray have not been all that helpful, though I'm definitely better than I was on Monday... I found some Sudafed in the cabinet and am now going to see how that works out. I realize this is the most mundane post I've written yet--something I'd hoped to avoid--but I'm up to my ears in for-work-writing, still not well, and very, very tired, so I'm giving myself this one free pass to just ramble on about my silly little issues (I realize others are experiencing much more, and I don't mean to undermine).
Messrs. Moony, Padfood, and Prongs-- Oh, how for you my dear heart longs! To run with the pack and play many a prank, To ridicule Filch, to tear up the dank Recesses of the Shrieking Shack, Have a Fire whiskey and never look back-- To play Quidditch and mess with the map Of the great Mauraders, and then hap To stumble across mystery and madness, To chase away the darkness and sadness- Embrace the wolf, pet the dog, chase the deer Across Hogwarts and then have butterbeer-- Oh, the craziness of wizardry and youth, I wish--and that's the truth!
Sara is tired. Sara has a sore throat. Sara feels like writing in the third person today. Sara has the song, "New Attitude," annoyingly stuck in her head this morning. Sara wishes that all of this morning's errands were already complete. Sara just wants to grumble. Sara is writing about sweet alyssum this morning. Sara is curiously into sudoku puzzles now, which makes her think that A. maybe she does, secretly, like numbers and B. that the gender stereotypes and asshole comments from math teachers in high school were just that--stereotypes and asshole comments. Sara wants to nap now.
Violent twangy odes, video reels of chaos and burning, and screaming protests against people different from you will not bring back the dead nor honor them. To truly commemorate the day, peace and universal brother and sisterhood would need to be extended; understanding, tolerance, and acceptance spread; a tangible evolution from fear and hate toward respect and love complete. We stand not one inch more learned, not one second more close to this time, even after nearly a decade following the earth-shaking tragedy. Instead, we'd much rather invite such bloodshed yet again with our own ignorance, apathy, and hatred.
I wonder if any grown person would enjoy being belittled, humiliated, and spanked by a spouse. "Didn't I tell you to take that trash out? Bad husband/wife! How many times do I have to tell you, clean out your hair from the drain! I'm going to spank you now!" Or, in the case of the small girl in my daughter's swim class, "I'm going to let go of you! Everyone will laugh at you!" I'm sure if that cow's husband did these things to her, she wouldn't put up with it--yet, it's okay to do do her kid.
She tucked the babe up to her breast, protectively shielding his soft, downy head. "I need to pass... Do you have a boat?" she called. They mysterious stranger rippled out of the water, his long torso making her think (Animal?) he wasn't quite human. His long black hair hung down to his waist and he grinned at her as he floated. "Why would you need a boat? Hop on," and he indicated toward his back as he made a swirling movement, diving back into the water again before resurfacing. "We don't need that, thank you very much!" she called back.
Bleary-eyed, sugar high streaming in my blood, trying to squint at the spotted screen and making little progress. So sleepy, yet so much to do, and so very, very little of it; attempts at slowness only seem to be laughed at by time, twisted into rushed half-moments of sleep depravity and lost feelings--where did it--we--go? How can it already be this day? The first of the month was seconds ago... No net, no trap, not even some red lipstick and heels can catch this moment; it is gone, traceless, even as it strikes the clock.
Listening to She & Him gives me epic goosebumps. Eye twitching and burning, particularly during deadline week, suck. So does being tired. Seeing condescending privilege and bias, even so thinly veiled, revealed through old friends (particularly ones you thought to be compassionate) is one of the most startling slaps of reality you'll ever experience. I heart orange ink pens. I'm in procrastination mode, anything but good. I really want some Skittles--the kind with the yummy lemonade centers. I am so thankful that my family is healthy and safe, as am I. So totes want to watch The Neverending Story. Badly.
Everyone wants a piece of the pie, but their mistake lies in believing that any of us actually have pie to slice up. Only a handful of people have any pie, and they certainly aren't the ones being harassed day and night by collectors (of both reputable and disputable circumstances), being called names simply because you're down on your luck, being ridiculed for not having enough money for debts you accrued before the layoff, the garnishments, the strain on your health and marriage, and the collapse that bailed out the banks and fat cats, leaving the rest of us behind.
I've decided to renew my license plates with a donation to either the conservation or child abuse fund next summer, complete with a new personalized touch: "1Tribe." Completely heart this. After spending the morning playing with a four- and six- year-old, I came to the rapid conclusion that this is pretty freakin' fun stuff, and I don't think I'd mind doing it full-time at all. Preparing activities, teaching kiddos by playing with them and catering things to their own interests and enjoyment... Yeah, those were the days. Of course, I still get to, but work calls as well.
The hypnotic thump, thump, thump of the side-view mirrors as the bass humped the dashboard jostled the glass on every beat, distorting the worldview from the mirrors with a rhythmic pull, and for a second one could almost picture what it would be like if time stopped, if a disaster struck, if the view shattered and people froze in shock before the chaos kicked in--and you have to wonder how such morbid, macabre thoughts could possibly creep in when all you're doing is waiting outside the post office for stamps, listening to something that's supposed to be fun.
Aha, you are an hour ahead of me, trickster 100 words site! I am onto you now. Dare you challenge my ability to fulfill my 100 words for the day only because I am a mere hour behind you in time, and you have only passed 15 minutes until the next new day while I am, in fact, still taking up residence in the previous day? "Stop living in the past!" you might advise, meandering into the early morning light; but it's still night, say I, and therefore still the day before where I sit and ponder your cheeky tricks!
Crossing over to the dark side by drinking diet soda in order to keep my ass awake tonight. Utterly exhausted, as ever, without a nap today, and feeling rather yucky, to tell the truth. Could seriously use a full night's sleep. Tests to grade, papers to file, cleaning to do, lessons to plan, correspondence to catch up on, and piles and piles of writing are all resting on my shoulders--each so gently, buzzing with its own rhythm; but together, a cacophony of noise, a weighing pressure that sinks me down into my chair until my own ass starts hurting.
Photo uploader, how thou mocks me! Do I not show my love by thinking up creative words to feature on your page? Do I not provide vigilant, diligent work in locating an appropriate photo for you to inhale and then cough out onto the page? Why then, o beloved photo uploading tool, do you continue to eat my pictures, time-out my page, or simply run so slowly that I begin to fall asleep as I wait? Rabid writers like me cannot sit idly, photo uploader friend; we must continue at bullet speed, which your puttering simply does not allow.
I feel as if I'm in a perpetual state of being behind these days, something that I haven't felt in a few years, since before my hidden-blessing layoff. My time is torn between so many things I don't even feel as if I own it anymore, and I'm having nightmares about taking on even more things. I miss the slowness. I miss the close, casual spending of days, the quiet giggles, the easy breathing. I miss one-on-one, and when it's here it passes so quickly that it's almost as if it never happened; did it, indeed, happen?
Well met, fall, my friend! (No, I haven't been reading Lloyd Alexander again.) It's so wonderful to have you with us officially today. What activities do we have in store? A talking stick, for sure. A dream pillow, perhaps, or a corn necklace? Apple printing, or perhaps a dried apple wreath or door blessing? Storytelling is a given; and renewing the pet blessings of last Mabon would be a fun activity. We made a Mabon mobile last year as well; I daresay we can do that again, too! Some delicious grape juice, and of course a thanksgiving, will work well.
Ziggy or Bob, that is the question; whether 'tis more fun and joyful to enjoy the soulful, slow strings and vocals of Bob's three-bird medley, humming along and nodding as the pulse slows, the heartbeat calms, and the day gradually dawns over a cup of tea; or to jam out to the poppy version of son Ziggy's ode, with it's clapping, toe-tapping, perky backup crew and soundtrack status as the car windows roll down, the speakers thump, thump, thump (causing both the mirrors and neighbor's heads to shake) as the day is faced head-on, with no fear?
Sneaking Sudoku in the loo is not the best way to start the day; however, when you're pooping, what better thing to do than stimulate your brain with the first nine digits? As the family continues to sleep I spend my time weeding out my Reader (and finding gobs of cool lesson ideas in the process), cleaning out my inbox, killing spiders, fending off (and petting) the cat from my drink (and my lap), rearranging things on my desk, making lists, and pretty much doing anything possible other than the writing that I'm actually supposed to be doing for work...
With only four days left of the month, it seems as if the only consistent thing I've done so far this fall is write every day for this challenge! I'm not sure if that's something to be proud of or something to be saddened by; perhaps a bit of both? Though it's been a highly productive week in terms of housework, bills, teaching, babysitting, and doing a million things with the kiddos, it's been one of my worst weeks at work. If only we had more time... Still, we each have 24 hours, and that should always be enough, right?
I am weary of overwhelming myself. I am tired of scheduling more work than I can possibly accomplish in one day--and then not even succeeding in completing that I could have accomplished at the very least. I am suddenly hit by a headache that doesn't seem to want to leave anytime soon and am left thinking that perhaps I should just go to bed and rest... But there are miles to go, as Frost said, before I lie down and capture that commodity that continues to elude me more often than it allows me to capture it: blissful sleep.
Ever since seeing the goosebump-inducing "Once Tongue Tied" Pocahontas mash-up on YouTube, I can't get "The Colors of the Wind" (perhaps the only thing I really enjoyed about the movie)out of my head. This would be a good thing if it conjured images of peace and sustainability rather than my anger at Disney for creating such an awful, stereotype-fostering, truth-hiding film based on a porn star (yes, the cartoon character of Pocahontas was based on a pornography actress who was linked to Disney, at least at the time). Will our children ever understand our history?
Dearest one, I apologize from the inside of my being for the lack of attention, the ill-contained rage, the dripping resentment, and the outrageous expectations I've been bestowing upon you this month. Though September is supposed to mark the most joyous season in our home--indeed, it has been each previous year--it has instead been filled with stress, disrupted routines, and confusion. My little heart, how I wish I could take so much back, to start your autumn with joy rather than this chaos, but I cannot; that I have learned, and will change, hopefully will be enough.
I'm learning about paraprosdokians on Facebook via In a Sentence, and though I've posted a couple I thought of, I keep thinking of perverted ones I'm too embarrassed to share--such as "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Of course, if the bird vibrates, one should suffice." I immediately thought of Stephen King's paraprosdokian that I love so much as well--"I have the heart of a young boy--in a jar on my desk." What a fun concept! The others I've read are even funnier. I want to play with this, but work calls!
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