Category — Poetry
Okay, so sleep was extra mean to me yesterday.
In the morning, I napped, but faded in and out a few times (and as many people will tell you, a broken nap is nowhere near as good as a whole one). Then I followed that with a 1.5-mile walk in the shin-deep fresh snow, an hour of Sanda (now with extra pushups!), the 1.5-mile walk back (still nobody had shoveled, grr), and then did the shoveling for my place, since I was so covered in snow by that point that I knew if I took off my coat and gear, I wouldn't want to put the sopping stuff back on. I was wiped.
I tried for an hour and a half to get my afternoon nap, and kept getting interrupted by various dumb little stuff.
Then a half-hour before naptime yesterday evening, a (far-too-honored-to-be-ejected) guest came over and stayed for an hour and a half! Augh!
I laid down afterwards, stared at the back of my eyes until the timer went off, and was near tears when my husband came to wake me from my "ten more minutes". My boy put his foot down and told me I'd better stay in bed, and–here's a funny part–almost as soon as he said it, before he even left the room, I closed my eyes and was out cold for six hours, until 4am.
I woke up feeling weird…rested, but dizzy and disoriented (probably didn't help that I was fully dressed, including a hoodie with full pockets), and with a swollen tonsil. I stayed up until my morning naptime, laid down…and slept right through the alarm, for an hour and a half.
[What is it with an hour and a half?? Is 90 my unlucky number this week or what?]
Then I woke up feeling…well, more normal. Suddenly I'm sore from all the exercise, which I take as a good sign. I still feel a bit slow, but better, including in the throat.
I'm wondering…perhaps I shouldn't have indulged that urge I had the other day, to write a poem composed entirely of post-it notes left by the denizens of Dreamland, on the mirrors of who knows how many human beings? (I have a thing about mysterious post-it notes…don't ask.)
Maybe they were a secret? Or copyrighted…?
Anyway, perhaps to exorcize the bad sleep lately, here's the poem (under the "read more"):
UPDATE: Did in fact get 2 good naps after posting this! Maybe that exorcism was actually necessary…?
Post-it Notes from Dreamland…
January 22, 2011 Comments Off
…Synthesis is a weird thing; in my brain, it's either working or it isn't. And I'm realizing that writing fiction is the thing that makes it work, that greases those cogs and applies the force to move that particular machine. I'm actually possessed of a different mind when I'm writing than when I'm not. And writing breeds writing; when I'm doing it every day, the machine is turning, and everything I encounter gets churned up in it.
Rainer Maria Rilke said, in his awesome "Letters to a Young Poet", that the question you must ask yourself, deep in the blank silent place where we are all totally alone, is "Must I write?" –And it's just true, and always has been, that for me that answer is Yes. I go slowly crazy without it; I harden; I dry out; and I lose the ability to synthesize.
Unfortunately when I am writing, I'm also crazy (just in a more fluid and happier way), and I produce a lot of strangeness that really has no place in this world that I know of…so congratulations, blogland; you win the garage-sale potluck treasure-hunt giveaway of my mind. ;)
This one's called "Grandpa Bill's Time Travel Advice". There's a story behind it, but maybe it's more fun without that. (Knowing the backstory is sometimes like knowing what that tasty dumpling is made of, innit?) I will mention, though, that I love Time as a subject, simply because it lets you have so much subtle fun with the language, just by changing tenses, or messing with things people say but don't usually mean literally. This piece is littered with little crap I did on purpose just to be snarky about the fact that it's written by a time-traveler.
Oh well. Here you go!
Grandpa Bill's Time Travel Advice
January 8, 2011 7 Comments
For every farmer,
There is such a thing as
One Tornado Too Many.
My grandmother prayed
To the famous Nine Nails,
Spent the last family dollar
On a candle, for hope.
She prayed for rain,
Probably harder than most of us have prayed for anything;
And it rained
And it flooded
And it wiped out her livelihood,
But it doesn’t take the noose of prayer
To sully you to the idea of planting,
Tending, kneeling head-bent in the dirt,
Organizing and filing the paperwork,
Just to see it all dashed,
Why must some of us grow?
We could just eat,
Just sit back and forget to worry;
Others would do it for us.
There will be words without me,
There will be flowers without you;
There were flowers at grandmother’s funeral.
She didn’t pray for them at all.
I’ve got my own Novena;
Works like a charm, always brings the rain
That spatters the windows just right
Through the nights of despair.
But for every farmer,
There is such a thing as
…(c) and stuff.
March 8, 2009 Comments Off
Welcome to your weekly Creativity Booster-Shot (abbrev. “C? BS!”), denizens. There is more Fangboner, but it’s not quite as polished as I’d like, so in a few days perhaps.
In the meantime, I’ve had this idea for a computer interface running around in my head for some time now, but since I’m not a coder and it has yet to fit into a story I can find time to write, there hasn’t seemed a good way to describe it.
So I wrote it out in a half-serious poem. Called, guilelessly enough, Operating System. (And thinking about it, I suppose it counts as a What If, too. Woot for efficiency!)
Enjoy the poem or, if you don’t like it, at least enjoy that there is a poem about someone’s favorite imaginary OS. I know that makes me happy. ;)
February 28, 2009 2 Comments