I am not a crocodile.
No tears are shed over this business of
drying the dishes.
No tears over chores like making my bed
or taking out the trash.
Perhaps I'm the phoenix bursting into flames
over matters of domestic life.
Burning the laundry or scorching the tile in
flames of rebellion.
A pile of ashes after finally dusting the ceiling fan.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Library of the Imagination
The following is a story. Of the bedtime kind. It should be read aloud. When one has the time to close their eyes and imagine the things the story describes. It should be read as if one were to be attempting to fascinate listeners.
There is a room that few have entered. It is locked- not by a key- but hindered by the limits of one's imagination. One can access this room only in their dreams. The door to this room is made of the silkiest steel. The knob is no bigger than your hand and when you turn it you know this must be exactly as Mary felt opening the door to the secret garden.Inside, the walls are covered in books. Shelves upon shelves of every story imaginable! The shelves are made of only the strongest oak and if you look closely, the edges of each ledge is etched with scenes from all fairie tales. Look even closer and the lines themselves twinkle with fairie dust.A spiral staircase made of rod iron in the softest hue of green is never cold to the touch with lattice work steps depicting Alice's wonderland. The staircase leads not to the higher shelves but to the deepest literary desires of your heart. "Avast! Ye Matey!" Captain Hook may yell down to Christopher Robin down on the next shelf.The floor is made of green shag carpeting not so unlike the grass in the land of the Shire where Hobbits roam like little boys full of mischief.Lamps glow brightly as if too much light might awaken the Wild Things- yet they light your pages just enough so the voice inside your head never questions if we need more light. Of course when re-enacting scenes from Treasure Island- the lamps glow brighter than the tropical sun.
AND THE CHAIRS! OH THE CHAIRS! All rocking chairs. Light blue crushed velvet cushions and backing with rounded brass buttons as the base. With arm rests so cushy you can't help but swing your legs over the side and nestle into a good book. Or maybe you'd prefer the porch swing hanging from the rafters. Only the most adventurous will chance a ride- Why only yesterday Alexander's terrible, horrible, no good self sat upon it as it came crashing down!The windows are as tall as 5 elephants stacked on top of one another trying to reach the top of a peanut tree. Windows with seats large enough for brothers and sisters to listen together of The Tale of the Great Goforth Brigade Through Huntsville in Search of the Lost Gold of Lipsey Road. Open books never loose their pages and entire series appear in your lap-one book at a time so as not to bother the voracious reader with the ardous task of stopping to search for the next book in the order. Which, I might add, is always the book one's older, larger sibling has hidden in a broken piano bench.Humming birds are the only animals permitted. As their wings sound simply like the fluttering pages of a book left on the porch in the wind. No, humming birds do not disrupt the sounds of a growing imagination.Time stands still in this room. The tasks of the day and the worries of life are checked at the door with the raincoats and mittens and sling shots. The only ticking clock you hear is the grandfather clock in the corner on loan by the family by the name of Weasley.Pimento cheese sandwiches and ice cream are never in short supply. Lima beans are banished and sticky items such as peanut butter and marshmellows are not prohibited.
One can always, however, make a case for chocolate.
I know of a certain book about a certain glass elevator that reads better with a few Hershey kisses.The loudest sounds in the room are childrens laughter and wishful thoughts as the dream "How lovely it would be to meet Mr. Darcy" or "Oh what fun it would be to float down the Mississippi river!"Look closely and you'll see, seated in a chair very similar to the one you are in right now, a sock monkey of considerable poise. With his left eye in a permanent wink after a tragic accident involving one blond little brother, he now goes by the name: Sir George of Brooklyn. An odious fellow, he can explain the purpose of zippers, the desires of torn pages and the temperment of typewriters. In short, Sir George has a doctorate in Writer's Block.He waits diligently by the pimento cheese sandwiches for our weekly meetings. For it is here, in this grand library of the imagination that his own adventure is penned. Tales of flying kites into trees, sledding down hills on boxes, painting pictures on barns and yes, even bats in houses where attack cats live. Only here can the adventures of his life be recorded without fear that the great wangdoodles or the green monsters will eavesdrop.
One day he will quit this room. Not by the great door we entered, but through the ink on the page. And little girls and boys will beg their Mam Maws and Pap Paws for just one more tale before they go to bed. One more tale of the great adventures of Sally and Sir George.
There is a room that few have entered. It is locked- not by a key- but hindered by the limits of one's imagination. One can access this room only in their dreams. The door to this room is made of the silkiest steel. The knob is no bigger than your hand and when you turn it you know this must be exactly as Mary felt opening the door to the secret garden.Inside, the walls are covered in books. Shelves upon shelves of every story imaginable! The shelves are made of only the strongest oak and if you look closely, the edges of each ledge is etched with scenes from all fairie tales. Look even closer and the lines themselves twinkle with fairie dust.A spiral staircase made of rod iron in the softest hue of green is never cold to the touch with lattice work steps depicting Alice's wonderland. The staircase leads not to the higher shelves but to the deepest literary desires of your heart. "Avast! Ye Matey!" Captain Hook may yell down to Christopher Robin down on the next shelf.The floor is made of green shag carpeting not so unlike the grass in the land of the Shire where Hobbits roam like little boys full of mischief.Lamps glow brightly as if too much light might awaken the Wild Things- yet they light your pages just enough so the voice inside your head never questions if we need more light. Of course when re-enacting scenes from Treasure Island- the lamps glow brighter than the tropical sun.
AND THE CHAIRS! OH THE CHAIRS! All rocking chairs. Light blue crushed velvet cushions and backing with rounded brass buttons as the base. With arm rests so cushy you can't help but swing your legs over the side and nestle into a good book. Or maybe you'd prefer the porch swing hanging from the rafters. Only the most adventurous will chance a ride- Why only yesterday Alexander's terrible, horrible, no good self sat upon it as it came crashing down!The windows are as tall as 5 elephants stacked on top of one another trying to reach the top of a peanut tree. Windows with seats large enough for brothers and sisters to listen together of The Tale of the Great Goforth Brigade Through Huntsville in Search of the Lost Gold of Lipsey Road. Open books never loose their pages and entire series appear in your lap-one book at a time so as not to bother the voracious reader with the ardous task of stopping to search for the next book in the order. Which, I might add, is always the book one's older, larger sibling has hidden in a broken piano bench.Humming birds are the only animals permitted. As their wings sound simply like the fluttering pages of a book left on the porch in the wind. No, humming birds do not disrupt the sounds of a growing imagination.Time stands still in this room. The tasks of the day and the worries of life are checked at the door with the raincoats and mittens and sling shots. The only ticking clock you hear is the grandfather clock in the corner on loan by the family by the name of Weasley.Pimento cheese sandwiches and ice cream are never in short supply. Lima beans are banished and sticky items such as peanut butter and marshmellows are not prohibited.
One can always, however, make a case for chocolate.
I know of a certain book about a certain glass elevator that reads better with a few Hershey kisses.The loudest sounds in the room are childrens laughter and wishful thoughts as the dream "How lovely it would be to meet Mr. Darcy" or "Oh what fun it would be to float down the Mississippi river!"Look closely and you'll see, seated in a chair very similar to the one you are in right now, a sock monkey of considerable poise. With his left eye in a permanent wink after a tragic accident involving one blond little brother, he now goes by the name: Sir George of Brooklyn. An odious fellow, he can explain the purpose of zippers, the desires of torn pages and the temperment of typewriters. In short, Sir George has a doctorate in Writer's Block.He waits diligently by the pimento cheese sandwiches for our weekly meetings. For it is here, in this grand library of the imagination that his own adventure is penned. Tales of flying kites into trees, sledding down hills on boxes, painting pictures on barns and yes, even bats in houses where attack cats live. Only here can the adventures of his life be recorded without fear that the great wangdoodles or the green monsters will eavesdrop.
One day he will quit this room. Not by the great door we entered, but through the ink on the page. And little girls and boys will beg their Mam Maws and Pap Paws for just one more tale before they go to bed. One more tale of the great adventures of Sally and Sir George.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Hello, Old Sport
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
For my return to the blogging world after a brief hiatus where I relied solely on the witticism of my 140 character posts on Twitter, I cannot decide on one thing to write about. I've tried for weeks to think of something that reflects my life or my mood and I come up short.
Proof of my nerdiness: Wired Mag. has a GREAT April Issue. Brad Pitt on the cover helps. Two of my favorite quotes- http://www.wired.com/wired/
1) Matters of the heart are too fraught to boil down to the choices offered in a pulldown menu.
2)Don't BRB, just go and come back.
bahhh. humbug.
For my return to the blogging world after a brief hiatus where I relied solely on the witticism of my 140 character posts on Twitter, I cannot decide on one thing to write about. I've tried for weeks to think of something that reflects my life or my mood and I come up short.
Proof of my nerdiness: Wired Mag. has a GREAT April Issue. Brad Pitt on the cover helps. Two of my favorite quotes- http://www.wired.com/wired/
1) Matters of the heart are too fraught to boil down to the choices offered in a pulldown menu.
2)Don't BRB, just go and come back.
bahhh. humbug.
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