Suffice it to say, I was spanked, a second time, OR The 100th Blog.
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I didn’t get spanked, as a child…much.
U.L. didn’t really believe in that, unless you’d done some really horrendous thing, which I never truly did because God, you know, also rented a room at U.L.’s house, and so it was really hard to get away with much of anything between the two of them. And then there was Jesus. He was always like, Hey, we'll fix it later. I liked him the most. I hated that he moved out.
I’m not saying I never got spanked, kids being kids, but I tried really hard to be a good boy. And, for the most...
The lure of the maraschino cherry, and other things I learned this weekend.
Here's what my weekend was like. (Besides, busy). Because busy needs a body. Friday started early, for me. I headed to Jackson to visit with my dear, sweet friend Lora. She's staying for a week at this resort and spa known as the University Medical Center. It's all on account of her cancer diet (her joke, by the way). I stayed there for a good, long time, sharing stories with her about faith, the future, etc. She had quite a busy day: former students, new acquaintances (everyone knows and loves Lora), and pleasant doctors all stopping by to offer well-wishes, and to...
I feel pretty sure God said He was going to stop doing that to people.
I love bad weather. I hate flying. Putting the two together does not help, because the spectrum on which they reside is of equal value. Both haunt my dreams, and continuously. I'm hoping...against hope I would imagine since we're entering that stage of the season where thunderstorms lurk around the farthest oak trees, down the highway, and then appear suddenly, from the limb tops...still, I'm holding out that the weather will be nice toward the end of June when I must board a plane and fly to Tacoma, Washington. For funsies, you say? No. Not for funsies. For competition. The community theatre I work with...
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...
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...
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