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Showing posts from April, 2012

Don't wanna stop now.

My favorite song, Playthings, is one you will likely never hear but it's lovin' and longin' and wrecks me every time, simultaneously bearing old wounds and bathing them in solace. Inexpressible is the word I'm looking for as my emotional cup overflows this way and that creating a careless mess of me because music has that power. Such are the waves of inspiration.

The one and only, ever inspiring lovin' man is on the music scene, reaching and teaching from the very place it all began.

Stories and legends. A song and dance man. Something to see.

I give you Memphis Jones.

Well, it's more of a loan, really.

Just like starting over.

I am firm in my belief in the slipper. This is how my own socks (and feet) keep tidy but everyone doesn't take the same care. A house slipper which finds it's way outside the house via the lazy foot that couldn't be bothered renders the term "house slipper" meaningless, necessitating a run through the laundry. It's cause for an automatic Startover. But I may never convince my people of this.

And they steal my socks.

I have taken to purchasing more outlandishly feminine socks in order to deter my teenaged sons from committing further crimes. For all the good that does.

Lovin' Man utilizes mismatched socks for comedy bits. He prefers stripes mostly but the occasional pattern finds it's way into his act. He keeps them tidy but, somehow, his black socks are sacred. If they have at any point in time donned the foot of another, his sock situation becomes intolerable and he's off to the discounted department store for a fresh batch, automatically startin…

Be something you love and understand.

Pretty Young Thing, you have lovely skin, whether tiny or voluptuous. Your hair shines, whether light or dark. You know just how to wear it well, tossing to and fro.

Our mama's mama would say, "Won't buy the cow if the milk's free."

Pretty Young Thing, your smile is fresh and white and your eyes won't reflect the world's woes for many years. Blue, green, brown but mostly golden and it's not easy to look away from them.

Our mama's mama would say, " Won't buy the cow if the milk's free."

Pretty Young Thing, your sense of style is razor sharp. You know just how to wear it well, revealing this bit of skin or that bit of that. Firm and flawless, you emerge into womanhood.

And it all seems harmless enough until your mama's mama reminds you won't nobody buy the cow if the milk's free. But what pretty young thing ever related to a cow metaphor?

Then, as it turns out, modesty does matter. Because how can you find your Waldo i…

Tuesday's gone with the wind.

Sometimes, you let 'em stand in there and duke it out for themselves. Then, you peek through sweaty fingers and hope for the best.

Sometimes, you demand more and more because you believe in them. Then, they do you proud and rise to the occasion.

Sometimes, they find out who they really are. Then, you know it's time to step in.

Sometimes, they've had enough and need a boost. Then, you find out who you are.

Sometimes, it's okay to batten down the hatches and get out of the storm.

Heart in the balance.

Flying is a tricky business minus a strong set of wings. The airport is often confusing with unhealthy food and overpriced Dramamine. Once aboard the plane, it's difficult to relax in recycled air. Cramped and uncozy, I suffer from the residual anxiety caused by fear of security detainment and airport floor germs. Inevitably, I find myself white knuckling my documents even after I'm seated and buckled.

And, if the sky's dark and mean or the pilot's a newbie, I don't recommend a veggie sub with extra pickles. A dignified and level head is difficult to maintain inside a sick bag for an hour and a half.

I enjoy the To more than the Fro. To is joy, anticipating adventure, while Fro is dehydration and jaded exhaustion. The first leg of a journey is carefully planned, including cash for parking and chewing gum but the last leg includes suitcases full of wrinkling dirties and a pocket full of receipts.

Herein lies the metaphor for every endeavor attempted beyond one's…

Be with you night and day.

My beautiful daughter likes to get philosophical:

"Hey, mom. What if life were like, say, a big field and we had to walk laps like a track? And if you trip over something like a stick, you mess up. Get behind. And you have to go back and do it again."

"Hmmm."

"And, say, if tripping over is like getting into a big fight with your best friend."

"Mmmm."

"I would like to just be able to skip forward, go ahead and apologize so I didn't have to do that part."

"But, then, when you went back around the track you wouldn't have learned what you needed to know. You know? You wouldn't even know where to avoid the stick when that part came round again."

"Well, yeah, but I wouldn't have to walk alone at least."

Metaphorical stick reveals quintessential humanity.

Pull a string and I'll wink at you.

Sometimes, puppet makers say that all writers are mean, even blog writers. But, especially when they're writing their blogs.

Sometimes, they remark how puppet makers watch documentaries on ventriloquists as recommended by bloggers while making their puppets. But, they're still nice and live up to nicknames like Mr. Sunshine.

Sometimes, bloggers and puppet makers alike stay up too late and poke fun at weird puppet people in documentaries who hold wedding ceremonies by swimming pools for puppets and then feel better about themselves because they would never. But, they continuously sew puppets and write blogs about it all the while.

Sometimes, as puppeteers walk away, they insist on taking their glue gun in case others take the notion to use it for their nefarious purposes, they say, to make blog writers laugh. But, I'm not sure they used that word correctly.

Sometimes, bloggers research puppet workshops for their puppet makers whilst documentaries play unbeknownst to puppet…