Do you have an old article of clothing you love? One that you've had longer than your children? I do. It's a shirt. I bought it in college I think, the late 80's, just a standard Henley T, long sleeved. It started out pink. It's traveled with me, not always fitting me, it's one of those skinny clothes that I just cannot part with, because I'll be in it again.. I will. Now, of course, I am. Over the course of these many years, I've had to dye it, black, to cover the amazing amount of stains that can accumulate on a light pink shirt. When I dyed it black, like 10 years ago, I changed the buttons. One of the two buttons that was still on it fell off in the wash today, and I thought
"I have to go to Joann's and get buttons." Then I thought,
"Crap, I can't really buy buttons right now, John's just been laid off."
Yeah, it's true, actually his last day will be Dec 2nd. He has been working at THE newspaper in Oregon for 28 years now. He is working really hard to figure out how to reinvent himself at 50. This is not really what this post is about.. just background.. bad couple of weeks for sure, anyway.
Then I thought.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Once upon a time, I was a poet. You know, really a writer and stuff... not a blogger and a mom. Sam had an assignment to write a poem for Freshman English. His teacher, being wise, and listening to me when I told her to give him a choice of two topics not any choice he wanted gave him the choice of a poem about his mom, or game design. He chose the latter, and of course needed help with it the day after it was due. This is my world. However tonight Sam and I spent several hours on this. I hope you like it as well as we do.
The scent of Sour cream and cheese wafts up the nostrils of Creator, the smell sickens his stomach, but he is addicted to the taste, the crunch. The sweetness of sarsaparilla deluges down his throat making his tower smell of a children’s brewery.
The screen of the computer bursts with the genius and failures of Creator.
Reams of parchment and piles of incandescent chroma quills are scattered manically with renderings of Creators madness.
Gentle depressions driving alphabetic wonder willing Creator’s thoughts into being. Drum, Drum, Drum rhythmically tapping imagination into reason
Creator grasps a parchment, who pops with joy, as it was chosen by creator to preserve his thought. A quill is frantic with elation as it is cradled with love, knowing it will preach Creators decree to all corners of the world
Tortured by a full bladder, Creator knows that if he leaves for even a moment a stroke of brilliance could be forever lost.
Creator scrutinizes his cosmos; does it need a behemoth serpent ruling like an emperor over his tundra? Should trees murmur mournfully as the sun sets in the south?
There should be rain… there should be glowing hearths in the homes of the good hearted… there should be little brothers to plague the hero, and to lead him into sacrifice.
Creator gazes upon what he has brought forth.
Bushes baring fruit, sweet as that of a first cherry, tear wrenching sunrises to burst the heart with beginnings.
Gliding, glimmering sand slips from the dunes. Dunes collapse into an ocean, cascading with the fury of the overlord within.
Creator stretches, his back cracking with a familiar chorus of sedentary aches, his mind reeling with unparalleled conceits. The seventh day approaches.
Time to journey to the World Of Warcraft.