Love is a husband who, ensconced in front of the TV watching AMC will call out to you who are busy in the kitchen making supper that your sexual fantasy figure Willie Nelson is on the screen in Barbarosa.
Love is you not telling him you have the movie on tape along with every other movie Willie ever made.
I’m very late in posting this morning, yet I’ve been up since 2:00 a.m. I’ve been reading. And, thinking. Seems I spend an awful lot of time thinking lately, and here’s another odd thought, as I move along from step to step, painfully slowed by research of a sort instead of spouting off from sheer emotion: Will any of it matter if my family script leaves me with Alzheimer’s just when I’m beginning to understand some of the questions, and cuts me short, far short of reaching any glimpse of a conclusion?
I suppose the answer must be a definitive affirmative. For all of it, and none of it, really comes to any conclusion that is conclusive more than transitorily. So the goal then, is not the answer, but the quest.
I’m working on a brief essay on Hurston’s story, and will return with that and some more good thoughts later on.
I am Woman!
Hear me mewl.
Up and down and up and down: Whoever coined the phrase that life is like a roller-coaster ride must surely have been a Scorpio on the astrological chart of life. Like me.
Thoughts today are pensive. Relaxed by removal of some stressful things like institutional goals of education and a return to self-tutoring, or more accurately, self-selection of subject matter as I fully intend to continue formal education, but more on my terms.
Relaxation (as much as any Scorpion can allow–usually operating on or off, no medium allowed, the range simply goes from hyper to asleep) also from the missing sight of boxes to be taped up, affixed with labels and shipped back to wherever Christmas mistakes originated. That’s done finally.
Computer parts that didn’t fit anywhere amongst the living systems have been amassed and carried to a building site hidden in a spot down in the cellar that suspiciously resembles a mad scientist’s creative lab. I can only hope it waits for me, its engineering genius, to put itself together into one living breathing mass of robotic fury, resentful of the human race that spawned it.
Longhand (according to Webster’s latest) – n. ordinary handwriting, in which the words are written out in full, as distinguished from shorthand or from typing.
Printing, script, typewriter, shorthand, and on to keyboard. I’ve learned them all, and marvel at the thought of classics written in longhand. And wonder this: With ease of copy, paste, cut, etc. versus cross-outs and erasers, would the classics have become what they are, or would the authors have employed these modern tools of revision to make them something else instead?
I’m up to forty-three single-spaced pages of January postings with five more days to go.
Geez, I love blogging! And I’m so looking forward to Christmas…
Oh. You say I missed it? And in the past four months even the youngest member of our family turned one year old, and the oldest ninety-two? But…how can that be?
Relevance of Time—that eternal demon that sends me flying after him because he pokes and prods me into worry that I’ll lose sight of him even as he fondles my brain in constant foreplay that brings me up and up yet offers no sigh of satisfying release. Rarely, very rarely have I managed to grasp his tail and with a swish he breaks my hold and leaves me staring at my hands newly cut and bleeding from its pointed tip.
Is it any wonder that madness looms for those who try to catch him?
Good thought for the day at i spy gemini in her post “two minute warning.”
While I may have gotten off the subject here, as I am prone to do now that I’ve learned to read with the thought in mind of looking to all the various paths ahead, it brings to mind the perception of our lives and how we view our time alone within the realm of our routines and the world around us.
Good post, good links, good thoughts not just for the day or the two minutes recommended.
Not wanting to tie up space in Spinning, but justification is not needed In Talespinning for its purpose there is practice, I lead you (if you are of the mind) to a show of effort in “My Refrigerator.”
Please bear in mind though, if you venture over, that I warned you long ago about my sense of poetry.
I just know I’m going to be sorry I brought this one up, but,
Anyone else out there suck the air out of a plastic bag of fresh rolls?
Just pulled out Ann Charters’ The Story and Its Writer, the textbook used in my last Contemporary Fiction course as one of the easiest spots to dive right in and start learning to read and write.
I admit, I chose by title and page length to select a story, and “The Gilded Six-Bits” by Zora Neale Hurston caught my fancy. Written in 1933, the dialogue catches the language of black Americans of the Florida town where Hurston grew up, and as is often the case of cultural and regional based fiction, the reading is at first difficult until by the end of the first page, you’re more in rhythm with the style and feel completely comfortable with it as you go along.
Another couple we know is getting a divorce—this, after nearly twenty-five years of marriage. I understand it, yet it’s still a sad place to be, for them and all that know them. J and I married late in life, at forty-two, both for the first time. I did my screwing around before then, lucky to meet J at a time when commitment was not quite a dirty word anymore. And J, well, his mid-life crisis I suppose, was me.
Another long-drive-thought I had, wrote down, can read and remember is the word, “friggin.” (Yes, that right, and I can say it here because weblogs are lightyears ahead of TV on what’s allowed under censorship, and friggin’s rather tame compared to what else is being said out there, and TV shows have taken almost two years to work the word “ass” into almost every show. Now that Mr. Rogers has passed, I’m sure that aside from old reruns not a day’s viewing can go by without someone’s ass being mentioned every hour.
But what does a word mean to us once it’s heard and sometimes later, understood more clearly? Do we absorb the circumstance, the situation that surrounds the initial hearing or reading of a word, and does it take on that little nuance of the moment to be everlastingly entwined with recall of dictionary meaning at it’s mention? Does “love” hold different subtle values and emotions dependent on the first time we hear it rather than feel it, and does it affect our relationships because of that?
With “friggin’ ” I have this image of a British Royal Navy man, epaulets a-swinging as he masturbates to “God Save the Queen.”
I won’t enter the debate of whether car phones are a hazard, but I don’t have one. I need my driving time just as my shower time for inspiration. As far as hazards go, try peeling off the price stickers on a bagful of grocery items as you’re driving down Route 8 at 80—oops, that’s 65—mph just so you can look straight into 92-year old baby blue eyes and tell your father that thirty dollars’worth of groceries cost only $7.50.
Ah, here’s another scribble: “Car names” reminds me to ask you if you’ve ever named your cars? My Honda’s name is Greenie. His soulmate which belongs to mine, is Whitey. What can I say, Honda is a practical automobile, and the CRVs don’t come in a large palette of rainbow colors. Our choice in each purchase besides our final picks were Blackie, Reddy, Bluey, and Taupey-Toupee. The only one we’d concede and assign a different name is Hi Ho Silver!
Well, that was an experience. Managed at my Dad’s to fix a clock, a microwave oven, decide where I can drill into the den wall upstairs from the downstairs family room to snake through a cable for the TV, rewire a light fixture so that it still won’t work, but at least there’s no danger of crossing the wires, and shovelled the rest of his driveway.
Stopped by and saw my mother too. Had anyone seen me standing on the snowy hillside they would have thought me praying, and maybe wondered at my smile. I smiled at deer tracks in the snow, pausing for a while at the dark granite that bears her name. Wondering as well, why the snow seemed so much deeper in this spot, not of grave concern as this past summer, despite a 5-lb. bag of grass seed, her small patch of allotted earth refused to grow lush and green like that of her neighbors. But you’d have to have known my mother to understand. It took maybe five full minutes before I realized that the deer that would have pleased her so if she could see them, had munched upon the greenery of a Christmas basket that I’d made and left her, leveling it down except for bitter juniper and a rather now-bedraggled golden bow.
Discovered again the real need for a car-computer. I brought back with me and am now typing from notes scribbled while I was driving to and from my dad’s. I also took my time to write them as legibly as possible, since half my shining moments of inspiration are lost in undecipherable “key” words that search as I might, cannot find the original meaning or idea contained within. However, I do understand this one that says “retortrer” which is Susanese for “recorder” and has already prompted me to find my mini-cassette recorder and thrown that in my car.
What motivates us?
Time. Demands on our time.
Snow Forecasts. Affecting travel plans.
Needs. Of others.
Desire. To fulfill expectations.
Desire. To meet responsibilities.
Desire. To use time wisely.
Needs. To see those we love.
Snow Forecasts. Changing plans.
Time. To be with those we love.
I’ll blog later. Right now I’m going down to see my Dad.
It’s been a long time since I’ve submitted anything for publication, but I just finished up and submitted “Sad Endings” to Written Impressions as a Parody of Margaret Atwood’s “Happy Endings” which I started here on Spinning back in October. It is more a case of getting into the habit of meeting deadlines, working up the courage to submit and rebuild the thick skin needed for rejection than anything else; except of course, to fulfill that nagging impulse to finish up a writing that was at least good enough to bother you ever since you turned your back on it.
Feels good.
(I’ll post a link to this on Talespinning if you care to read it.)
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology