The Rise of Sophomoric Humor

In the midst of this rather stressful stretch of days, I'm taking joy and comfort in the growing sense humor of my youngest child.  On his way out the door to the bus this morning, he solemnly informed me that they were going to watch "The Movie" again in Health class today.


[For those of you who are so far removed from middle school as to have forgotten about "The Movie", stay tuned; I'm sure those memory synapses will be firing in just moments....]


He reminded me of the conversation we had when they watched "The Movie" last week, which centered around the lunch menu.  They had hot dogs.  He--and his middle school compatriots--thought that riotously funny--in view of having just seen 'The Movie".


This morning, looking me right in the eye, he solemnly said, "We're watching 'The Movie' again today."
"Oh?" I said.
"And you know what we're having for lunch?"
"Hot dogs again?" I queried.
"No," he said, pausing for a moment.  "Shrimp poppers."  And THEN the giggles broke forth.




Seeing the humor, setting the scenario, building the suspense, timing...it was all there.  He might be my child after all...

Goodnight, Noises

I cannot sleep, sleep, sleep
And I wait, wait, wait
for the sounds of night to lull me
to where I want to go....

The steady ticking of the timepiece
from the living room
Measuring the miracles,
the moments, the passage of time.
Goodnight, clock.

A long rattling sigh from the man beside me
letting go of his day's horrors,
settling into steady breathing.
Goodnight, husband.

Dog whimpering after squirrels in her sleep
Nails clicking against the leg of the bed
in dreamworld running.
Goodnight, dog.  Goodnight, squirrels.

The sound of melting snow
heard only by the sump pump
working to keep the crawl space dry.
Goodnight, pump.  Farewell, snow.

The real or imagined sound of my son's laptop
the fan whirring and keyboard tapping
His customary haunting of the wee hours
Goodnight, son.  Goodnight, Gaia.

In the next room
my young son shifts on the top bunk
and the thump of falling books
Makes me jump
even though I'm wide awake.
Goodnight, books.  Goodnight, Special.

A short twizzling growl of my stomach
And the soft beat of my heart
Sounds that are mine alone.
My breath, my life, my dark,
and finally a yawn...finally.
Goodnight, Heart.  Goodnight, hunger. 
Goodnight, dark.
Goodnight, noises everywhere.

In the Way He Can

Hurting
An agony of heart and spirit
The chill ocean depths
The musty suffocating cave
a devil that ensnares though I struggle not
More weight...more weight, the stones press down

A pain not remotely understood--
Time and place have seen to that
And he knows not what to do
Or how to cure the ill that ails me
The magic combination of words and gestures
that may make or break existence


Tear-stained and choked
I struggle and beg, grasping out for something,
for anything--
a scrabbling handhold on the mountain
a truth that will clear the confusion
a sign pointing the way to feathered blue hope.

And he--with ever a sailor's eye to the horizon--
notes the impending storm.
Backpeddling out of the sightlines,
donning Harry's cloak as he goes.

Can't lay blame.
Really can't.
He's tried and failed
Countless of times
And knows better now...


Abandoned to grief,
I concentrate on the sound of my ragged breathing
Whilst he lays down tracks 
betwixt him
and the chaos that is me.

Safely distanced, unencumbered, 
a sigh of relief.
 his soul still intact, thank god.
Yet across the divide, 
a song echoes forth, some disembodied text,
a grounding link of laughter,
like the sun through lace curtains.

A reaffirmation of a belief in fairies,
it's what I needed to know.
And he loves me 
in the way he can.

Going to Bed Content

I'm going to bed this evening with a great feeling of contentment.  

Today was good--all good.  
We had a two-hour delay which means extra sleep.  
I had a quiet day in the Gallery.  I got a lot done.  
DC and I made plans for the next show.  Much excitement and anticipation. 
The Boy showed up.  First time I've actually seen him in about a week.
Rehearsal was really good.  The set is up.  Some of my favorite peeps spent time bonding.  The skirts are pinned.  
I returned the fish sandwich for a large diet coke.  
I don't have to get #2 up in the morning.
I researched cars online with #1.
My hubby is warm.


It's good.  It's all good.

Follow Up

Well, it took all day, but I eventually did feel better. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, and gradually...I walked out of it. Strange. When I wrote that previous post, I felt powerless to step up, to overcome, to pull myself up. It was an odd 'out of my hands' feeling. Like, all I could do was just ride along with it until...it passed. And it did. Thank goodness. I always worry that I'll get so far down that I won't be able to get back up.

I didn't really want to write anything more about it, but I felt like I kind of left my handful of followers hanging a bit.  Sorry.

Icy Cold Water...

So this morning, the hand of fate dropped me into ice cold water. From quite a height. The water is green, mossy, bubbly, cold. And I see myself sinking into it. Mossy green and cold. I'm looking around at the bubbles and the pond life as I sink, fully aware that I'm sinking into icy cold water. And I wonder, as soon as this downward momentum stops, will I rise to the surface? Or will I freeze to death before that happens? Struggling to rise, but the cold settles into my bones, slowing me, slowing me. Immobilizing me. Will I rise and breathe freely again, or will I be trapped, encased in ice? Oh, it's so cold.

Just Too Trusting...

I’m just too trusting.  I’ve been told that’s actually a fault of mine.  Who knew that trusting could be a fault, but apparently it is.  Well, now, this pure white trusting soul of mine has some flecks of rotten yellow-green from my experience with you..

When you came with samples of your work, I thought it was wonderful, beautiful work.  You were wanting space.  We talked about it—about the registration fee and cost of monthly rental space.  And then, because your stuff was so wonderful and original, I suggested that you start your tenure with a show for the month of January. 

I scheduled you for a January 2^nd move-in date.  I rearranged the room to accommodate the display case you mentioned.  I wrote you a wonderful article and sent it to all the local papers, including photos of your work from your internet pages, featured you on our website and created a page just for you.

Oh, but Saturday the 2^nd, you didn’t make it in.  Sick kids, sick you.  And then the weather came in and we closed early one day.  Finally, on THE day of your reception, you came in.  We spent several hours working on your display, arranging your work.  I dug up stuff from the closet, pulled stuff out of my scrapbooking supplies, helped you make it look just like you wanted it to look. 

I mentioned to you the commission difference between members of the and non-members and strongly suggested that if you wanted to pay the lower commission, we should take care of your monthly space rental.  And somehow, with the talk and the busy-ness of the afternoon, it didn’t get done.  You asked me how you would get the money for your sales and I said our accountant would write you a check at the end of the month.  You hesitated for a minute, explained that your sister would be there with a receipt book to handle all your sales, and could you just pay your members’ percentage of that.  Now it was my turn to hesitate.  Hmm.  I thought, that’s not really how it’s done.  Would it mess up the books?  I called my business partner and spoke with our accountant.  Both said that was fine, so I told you it was fine.

I left for awhile and came back, and when I got here, the reception was in full swing.  People were coming in and looking—some bought, not as many as we had hoped, but okay considering the weather.  Passed the time away talking to you, talking to others, talking to my partners.  It was a long, fun and chatty evening.

The hour of 9 drew near and I came around the corner to say, “Let’s just leave this table up up for the month and take down this other one…” and, oh my gosh, you had packed everything up!  I was surprised.

I said, “I thought you were here for the month.” 

You said, “I have a show to do.” 

Oh.

Oooooh….

You told me you sold $100 worth of stuff and you handed me a $10 bill, a member’s commission fee.  I mentioned that your membership hadn’t been paid and you said you didn’t have your checkbook. 

Oh.

Okay.

I get it.

But our agreement was…oh, that’s right, we didn’t have an agreement, did we?  At least not on paper.   It was just words…two women talking…one took the other for a ride and the other believed everything she said.  Silly me.

$10.  Please remind me, it’s not about the money.  Please.  $10 for the good faith effort I put into all the publicity I did for your show, for trusting you on your sales and your intention to become a member.  $10 for you to come in and walk all over us and move on.  And now here I am with a half empty room, and no monthly featured display, looking like a fool because I believe what people say.  And although this negative piece won’t be read by NEAR as many people as the wonderful article praising your artistry, a few will read between the lines and they’ll know.  

Come on.  Tell me this isn’t what really happened.  I’ll believe you still.