He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
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I figured something out yesterday: The closer I get to someone, the more of my name I lose. It's not the first time, I admit, that I've had this thought. I’ve often been concerned with the apparent fluid boundaries of what constitutes Identity, especially where names are involved. I got it naturally; after all, I’m no average Chris…I’m Kris…with a K. I even wrote a song about it once. It was always a delicious fantasy for me, though, in grade school, to change the spelling of my name on my homework assignments. I mean, Chris (with the “Ch”) was as foreign a person to...
Persistence has no pesticide.
It all started with the handmade oatmeal soap my sister-in-law gave me, in the guise of a present. I must say, wrapped as it was in that beautiful red gift paper, it was quite a thoughtful-looking Christmas present. That’s the allure of wrapping paper, though, isn’t it? I learned this early on: people will take anything on this earth if you just wrap it pretty enough. It can be a thoughtless happy, a re-gift (as American as the NRA), a genuine present, anything. Many is the household item, kitchen utensil, family portrait, that I, as a child, took and re-wrapped and gave to Nana...
The Crawdad Convo Back Slap, and how to recognize it.
So, for some reason, lately, I really don't know why, I find myself seeking out these, elements of personality, shall we say, that I disapprove of in others. I have no reason to saddle this high horse; god knows, I irritate people...rarely, of course, but still, I'm sure I do. I guess it's just one of those things we can keep to ourselves (minus the blog) and morally hold over others in our private opinions? Except our best of best friends and anyone who sits too close to us at the bar...anyway, that part's not fun; who really cares why? Let's...
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...
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