She could smell me, couldn't she?
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I don't mean to brag, but my hometown has what appeared to me, yesterday, to be the cleanest and most organized landfill ever in the entire world. At least from inside the truck. I'd taken the day off and driven home because, ironically, I'd not managed to make it there on Sunday for Nana's cooking. I intended on staying an hour at most, a quick lunch, a few updates, etc. but instead, I found myself at the landfill. Here's how it happened. I was making myself a sandwich from porkchop leftovers. Nana and U.L. were under the carport cleaning. I have never...
You can go home again…it's just frustrating.
Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You can't go home again." (At least, I think he did). But you know what: you can. I do it every Sunday. Mainly because I don't want to miss Nana's cooking; it's in a class of its own...and I love going home, I do, but you want to know a secret: It's also quite often very aggravating. Why is that? Why is going home such a frustrating experience? Sometimes, I think, it's because as soon as I open that front door and step inside, I'll see that nothing has changed, and I'll feel like I haven't changed either. And I hate that feeling. Despite...
Keep off the grass, or don't "go potty" on it.
Yesterday I saw what may very well be the most delightful thing a person can witness in a given lifetime: 3- and 4-year-olds playing baseball. Actually, what they play is called Buddy Ball, it's apparently the first rung on the ladder up to full-blown T-ball, and in Buddy Ball: no one loses, each child a winner, everyone bats twice, everyone, en masse, runs after every ball that's ever hit, and then...then, the game is over. There are no field positions, no short stop, no catcher, no pitcher, just small children in a chorus line across the in-field, waiting, fighting, pinching, talking, constantly,...
Well, so, I got podcasted.
I make no promises that I sound intelligent or even fully aware of what I'm saying; still, we're heading to Nationals, in June, and as the director, I had to answer questions...I think I started out all right, but well, things tend to start at the tops of hills, for me, and then...well, roll...downward. You can hear it for yourself at the link below, and if you listen really closely, and truly believe in your heart of hearts that you hear the point at which it turns for the worst, I'll fully pretend to give you all the money in my right...
…tomatoes who show no pity.
I'm trying to go green, but the cats won't stay out of my small, slightly ergonomically designed box garden. I've considered several ways to get rid of them: BB guns (but that's hardly a green attitude); a tin pie pan tied to a 2x4 (but that would ruin the aesthetic); placing lime, lemon, and orange rinds around the exterior (my fading grandmother with all her southern gentility and, now, senility, swears this is a feline deterrent - I'm highly doubtful and so have yet to choose this option); or simply leaving Max in the yard (he's a 100+ pound white German...
The Mercy Blog: The Split Man Speaks
There's always some ledge I seem to be standing on. Some ledge of extreme human possibility or capacity.
At times, it’s a wonderful place to stand, when I’m thoroughly engrossed in a play, or a poem, and I’m truly making that effort to connect to the writing, to the theme, to the universality of it, and ultimately, myself, right?, but there are other times, when all it does is remind me of how terrified I am of heights: literal and those of accomplishment, or rather, the fear...
The Educator-Writer-Procrastinator Gives an Opinion
There’s a monologue, mostly in my mind since I’ve not put it to page yet, about this man who’s still young but held, gripped, by this fear that he’s losing language, losing words, and throughout the entire monologue he struggles with confessing this because he keeps forgetting what to say to express how he’s feeling. It’s a tragic little piece of prose; at least, in my mind. I keep procrastinating when it comes to writing it down. I procrastinate a lot, and I don’t know why; it’s obviously an illness as yet to be fully defined the APA. I like to...
Sometimes I hate having to wake up even to eat.
I was never a fan of naps. Not at first. I didn't take them because every time I took a nap, it meant I was getting sick. I'm older now, and so it should come as no surprise that Saturday, late afternoon, something unprecedented happened: I took one. I wanted to. I'd been embarrassingly at an Arts Festival all morning and early afternoon, tagged as an emcee, though shamefully not a good one at it, mostly because no one needed an emcee; at least, not at the performances at which I was posted. I'll tell that story another time, though - it...
I was framed in the third, or fourth, grade maybe.
Whether I like it or not, I am just not me without these frames.
It is no secret that I cannot see well. Now, there might be some other mystery about me that is less recognizable or understood (such as why I detest feet so), but sight? No mystery there. Starting in third, or fourth, grade, maybe, for some reason unknown to me, my eyes began to betray me, sometimes with less than desirable results. (I feel betrayed only when I forget to wear my...
Let's talk about snow cones a second…
Let me start by saying, that as far as I knew, from my own personal experiences, there was no one on the green, green planet that did not know how to properly eat a snow cone.
And then let me follow that by saying, I was wrong.
There is, at least, one person, whom I know personally and quite well, who does not (correction, did not) know how to properly...
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