"Pickled sausage isn't on my Wake-Me-Up Stuff list."
Glory be. I’m back.
I imagine I’ve been put right on the cusp of being completely forgotten. I could hardly blame you. I almost forgot myself.
First, my laptop (which oddly rarely found its way to my lap) was struck by lightning. This is not , I’m sure you’ll agree, all that conducive to a blogger’s life.
I was still able to access my poetry, scripts, musings, etc. but was unable to connect to the Internet. The techies were no help either, over the phone, as on their end of things it registered as “connected.”
Heck, even on my end, the blame thing was saying “connected.” The truth, though, was it wasn’t. Connected.
Then, as tends to happen, time gets the better of us. I got caught up in this drama camp that I direct each year, and it is a wonderful, all-encompassing event…but leaves little room for other things.
I get so encapuslated with the camp that I’ve been known to neither sleep nor eat for several days in a row: the camp occurs over three weeks, involves high school theatre students from all over the country. They write, produce, and star in their own musical. I’m only in charge of the production side of things. This year we had, roughly, nine days to stage a four-act musical with 52 campers.
I finally couldn’t take it anymore…I mean once you start sharing pieces of yourself on the WWW, you kinda don’t know what to do with yourself when you can’t. So, I broke down and purchased an Acer Netbook, which is both a) a novelty of great purport, and b) a new aggravation for my thick, nimble-less fingers. Also, c) the screen is taking some adjusting to, but d) I’m more happy than frustrated…
This post might not make much sense, and I’ve avoided my typical obsession with over-the-top details and analysis…but I was too eager to wait until later…I had to post something.
So, to compensate for my usual memoir-antics, I’ll leave you with a brief story and a poem. Both of which, I’m sure, need an edit.
This afternoon, my second-oldest nephew, A.K., insisted that I take him to the church parking lot so he could show off his bike-riding skills. He just turned 5, and because of the camp, I was unable to attend his birthday party. I was more than happy to watch him ride his bike. He was thrilled, and told me, more than once, more than, like, eight times, that he no longer had training wheels…he’d been on a “real bike” now, for ten days, he said.
While sloshing through small patches of water that had collected in the lower parts of the parking lot (it had rained all morning), he began to get a little thirsty. I had a bottle of lemon-flavored water with me; it’s a treat-for-the-road that U.L. offers me, every Sunday. I’m not sure why it’s becoming so steadfast a tradition, but at any rate, I was grateful for having a bottle with me today.
A.K. pulled up, quick as a bee, skidded to a halt, pleased with the sound the small back tire made…and reached out for the bottle of water, claiming he was in “real, real need for gas.” That’s what he called the water.
He took a long, gigantic swig of it, handed it back to me and said, “Thanks, it tastes like the good kind of Airheads.” (A candy I was not aware he ate that often). Then, he got back on his bike, prepared to take off, turned back to me and said, “That there’s good water. I’m going to need to get more of it. It’s a lot better than what my daddy gives me anyway.”
“What does your daddy give you?”
And his answer was one I doubt I could have ever been ready for.
I tried to get him to explain in full, rich detail but all I managed to get out of him was that pickled sausage was nasty, and not on his “wake-me-up” stuff list.
And now, for something entirely unrelated, a poem:
Every now and then a Word pursues me.
When it does, I run — either back to bed, or
to the basement, with my books — but, feel free,
I mean this!, to go, do, whatever you can before
your Word catches up to you. Because, then,
legs will be useless, fingers cracked, hands spun.
The zeal that comes when Words pursue can
easily rend the burning white from any sun.
I think language is chief among Horrors. Its reach
such a precipice that it has no Scale, no Height.
And, what, exactly, can you say, without Speech?
How would you sleep, if you couldn’t know Night?
A few races are fine when you’re young enough–
the 100-yard Dash from his bleeding Heart –
other Words, though, won’t surrender a syllable,
unless you give up the Whole for the sake of a Part.