The best thing I can do right now

is try to get some sleep.

If something stays in your mind for a long time…

… maybe the best thing to do is work it out, get it out and not worry about how good it is.

Close now the door. The room you kept for me
Was smaller than myself; take back the key.
Better day’s blaze of agony full face
Than dark sweet atrophy within this place.

Give me the brand, at last to cauterize
My open breast against your never-lies;
That harpy Hope, with griméd griping claw
Will find no further purchase, whine, withdraw.

Open your hand. Receive the gleaming blade.
Teach me no more how honor might be flayed
From truth, from faith, and conscience lulled to sleep -
Let anguish burn. What’s left me I will keep

To shield this weak raw heart against desire
Integument intact, though veined in fire.

Resolutions…

… NOT. But the NaBloPoMo theme for January is “best,” and that’s intriguing, and I’m working on a mosquito right now, and that’s interesting, and I’m still crazy, and that’s a whole nother can of blather, and maybe the best thing to do is try again to post every day.

Because I seem to think better when I write. And write more when I think better… hmm.

The rain it raineth all around…

… including at the beach. But we didn’t care.

Late night musical interlude.

From Joe Henry, words and music and vocals (the video is a tribute, but very well done and the sound quality is better than average). He is, I think, one of the best lyricists ever. Ever.

What does this look like to you?
A mark so fine, you barely see.
You have one just like it, too
A twisting vine,
A mark so fine;
Cause I love you with all I am
And you love me because you are
As fearless as a twisting vine,
A mark so fine
But still a scar

Fear plays dumb then eats the soul
Like a vagabond with a fishing pole.
He whistles but he cannot sing,
It’s an awful tune
But very soon
I find that I am whistling, too
And your window is like a star
That I sit beneath like a vagabond
Who wears his fear
Just like a scar

The blade of our outrageous fortune
Like a parade, it cuts a path,
Light shows on our foolish way
And darkness on our aftermath;

If I love you to save myself
And you love me because we are
So fool to think that our parade
Could leave a path
But not a scar

And I love you with all I am
And you love me with what you are:
As pretty as a twisting vine,
A mark so fine
But still a scar…

Joy.

Back to writing tomorrow; one more vacation picture.

Nora was not previously aware that pancakes could contain chocolate chips.

Coffahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Semi-human once more.

Three generations.

My beautiful mother, my beautiful daughter and my lucky, lucky self: Thanksgiving 2009.

Medical mysteries…

… are not so fucking entertaining when it’s your own child. Your own severely verbally limited four-year-old who is puking and crying, who can’t tell you if it hurts or not or where or how much, who knows the words for how she feels but can’t get them out, who has an almost impossible time even confirming or denying the words you try to supply for her.

Just saying.

A true story about a very small world, part III.

Mrs. E and the Big Mistake (continued)

It is a truth universally acknowledged generally recognized known to the few stalwarts who have put up with my presence for any length of time that Mrs. E has only two strategies when confronted with potential personal crisis: a) unplug the phone, curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor and lock the door or b) dive headfirst into the deeps and attempt to surf the roiling waves of human strife with honesty (rudeness), integrity (bullheadedness) and wit (sarcasm). Both involve nausea, cramping, vomiting, diarrhea, sweating, chills and a constant heartrate only slightly lower than a hummingbird’s. Neither is fun to watch. Neither works very well.

B never, ever happens until she has been forced out of the bathroom.

Thanks to The Kid, I didn’t even have time for the puking to begin.