After reading the poetry by Zorlone, I decided we needed a poetry Friday. So all my writer friends, email me your best, or worst, and I'll post all our poetry on Friday. Woo-hoo!
Winter
and who will carry my basket of winter apples
when my father is gone...
julia ward (copyright 2009 - yada yada yada - all right's reserved)
It is clear to me now that the now infamous incident involving my left nipple and a hand-held electric mixer does not come close to making me stupid. No matter how painful or ridiculous it seemed at the time. No matter how often my children bring it up or more to the point - laugh hysterically about it at my expense. I am not stupid.
After more careful research and pondering for a bit... it seems that men are much more adept at becoming stupid after leading what some may consider perfectly normal and successful lives.
Therefore, I want to become a man. Do y'all have a club for that?
There really are some pretty useful tips at How to: Become Stupid in 21 Days.
Be forewarned that most of them do involve the use of plain household items such as a brick and a running car. But it does seem to be a pretty well laid out plan for how to remove any shred of dignity or intellectual ability you ever possessed. And honestly, they do say it only takes 21 days to make or break a habit.
Maybe I can become stupid after all!
You won't freaking believe it! There may actually be a way for smart people everywhere striving to become stupid, to well... become stupid. With a little effort and for a few bucks we can become just average. Thank God. I was beginning to lose all hope.
Check out So you'd like to... Become Stupid , you can follow Antoine on his quest to reduce his IQ, shut out the world, and follow in the footsteps of great alcoholics with borderline personality disorder.
Unfortunately, I won't be able to start this project until after I finish reading Dylan Thomas - Under Milkwood (for the second time). Even though I've a hard fast rule about reading a book more than once, Dylan Thomas is my one exception. I would be lost without dreams of snow and A Child's Christmas in Wales. He holds my hand every year from one season to the next as we roll down together to the two-tongued sea.
Under MIlkwood is a gem. The product description from Amazon reads, ""Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep"" Completed only a month before Dylan Thomas died, Under Milk Wood is an inspired and irreverent account of life and love in a small coastal village in Wales one spring day. Full of raucous energy and lyrical passion, it is the most complete expression of Thomas' unique perspective on the human condition. Called "a play for voices" by the author himself, Under Milk Wood premiered in 1953 with Thomas and five American actors reading the parts and was preserved, almost by chance, in this remarkable recording. Here is the author's greatest work rendered as he himself directed, in his own famous voice that captures the lively melodic essence of the work itself. Featuring Dylan Thomas with Sada Thompson, Nancy Wickwire, Ray Poole, Dion Allen, and Allen F. Collins This is the only recording ever made with Thomas in the cast, and it owes its existence to the chance thought someone had just before curtain of setting up the little tape recorder that was at hand and laying a microphone on the floor at the center of the stage. Although a studio recording for Caedmon was planned, Thomas did not live to do it. That this recording was not erased or lost or thrown away remains some kind of miracle.
I, of course, am reading the book, but have listening to the audiobook on my Bucket List. Yes, I have a bucket list.
Of course, I'll probably leave the getting stupid part for last.
After applying for disability, I was sent for a psychological evaluation. During this one hour event the dry, drippy-haired psychologist asked me, “How does it feel to be just average?” Hmmmmm... let me think. Hmmmmmm. The first thought that entered my mind was, “Wouldn't it be nice to “be” average, something to aspire to”. Somehow, this weepy-eyed, drippy-haired laptop toting mental health professional had stuck my dance card in the “smart” pile.
Now, that's not to say that I haven't whipped out a few choice, quick witted comebacks in my day. But, whoa – I was never in the smart pile. In fact, I was flat out rejected by the smart kids growing up. I passed high school with a D- in algebra because the teacher didn't want to have to deal with my attitude for another year. (I never thought to thank her).
For the record, I never wanted to be popular or smart. That wasn't one of the options I was given growing up. I was given the option of “which job do you want”. My parents ran a dry cleaning business together (whoa – how do you stay married for 52 years and work together too?) and we had 45 acres of trees to maintain (that's 28,000 trees) and grew all our own food. I was required to cook the family dinner every night starting at the age of ten, served promptly at 6:10pm every evening. That left laundry, mowing lawn - which took three days on a riding mower, tree trimming, shelling lima beans, or the long list of tasks at the shop.
To be honest, I never had time to be smart, popular, date, or make good grades. There was always too much work to do.
So, back to the point – I ache to be average. I would love to bask in the mediocre comfort of average. We were poor, we worked hard, and after leaving home and having a train-wreck of a marriage, I spent twenty-four years as a single parent.
Now, after being hit by lightning and then crippled by the landlord from hell, “How does it feel to be just average?” Isn't it just a bit insulting to be accused of being smart – assuming that because I was smart that it was my fault that I got hurt and that now I should have to suffer the humiliation of being just average? Thank you. I get it.
Why wasn't I popular in school? Because I never wanted to be popular. I never had the time or the opportunity to even think about being popular. Smart? I had too much attitude to ever be accepted by the nerds. I worked, and I made my own clothes, and chopped kindling with an axe, and picked bushels of tomatoes, and dreamed of the day when life would be easier. It never came.
In search of the perfect use for an old acorn squash found lingering in my onion pot, I found a wonderful video about saving our honeybees from colony collapse disorder. If any of you are as tired as I am of pollinating my summer squash by hand you'll want to share this video with everyone you know.
Please pass it on!
Sometimes ignorance is bliss!
Even though I am not feeling better, I am going to try to write more. The problem with this is the never ending problem of poor grammar. A writer should have a good grasp of the English language. I am convinced that I was in a coma during third grade English class. Combine my early hatred of school with a high school English teacher who made us memorize and recite archaic forms of Olde English in order to graduate - and it's a recipe for a blatant disregard of all dangling things, predicate adjectivities, and grammar Nazis (sorry mom!). My mother still contends that I was ruined by my ex-husband and lack of proper Latin.
Is it possible there is a "kinder and gentler" English? One in which misplaced commas and strangled metaphors are ignored when the author is searching for meaning and truth. Semiology should be embraced as we forge ahead and leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind us to find our way home. As an artist I think all the markings we leave should be a sign for those who love us and those brave enough to follow us on our journey. My language should be unique, and take you past the shadows on the sidewalk.
Forgive me, if I forget to end this well...
So, back to the task at hand - Grammar Monster. At least my mother will be happy!
ToDo Institute promotes Natural Alternatives for Mental Illness. Now, for those of you that read my blog. You know I have a PAIN problem. My writing has certainly been effected by copious quantities of pain. (Thus my absence from blogging!).
I have sought counseling (pray for him - I'm a wealth of wit and sarcasm and tend to quote J. D. Salinger quite a bit), am reading about self-hypnosis to control the pain, and am throwing myself into Constructive Living. (I have even corrsponded with Dr. Reynolds.)
I'll be blogging more. Writing more. And I'll let you know about the self-hypnosis. (I think it's pretty quacky but I'll keep you informed of my progress!)
julia
I have been on hiatus. In plain English - I have been sick. While convalescing I decided to check out 9Rules. As a writer, artist, designer... this site rocks.
We should all take a moment to pause and evaluate our mission and our values for the coming year.
I like number four. It embraces Wabi Sabi! I have almost finished Wabi Sabi for Writers! (Check it out.)
Create beauty. Value Imperfection. Live deeply.
I've been very sick the last month. Complicated complications and back to square one from my injury of a year ago. So, I limp like an old cowboy and am considering giving up writing. Writing has become very empty for me, the pen has no compassion.
I recently read an article published by infed by David Brandon, Zen in the art of helping. It has made me pause and consider that perhaps my writing will be as dull as I am of late. Unlike art, writing is not a solitary brush of self-exclamation. Writer's want dialgoue, a dance partner, applause! I want none of that. The colour orange speaks loudly enough for me - "See me on the edge of winter's leaf?". I am comforted by that honesty and the cool hush of their dignity in the face of an unknown end.
If only
I could throw away
the urge
to trace my patterns
in your heart
I could really see you.
Bankei
I've been burned out on writing lately. But, have been feeding my soul in other ways.
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