Tuesday, November 26, 2002

The conqueror is vanquished, as all eventually are. The meek shall inherit the earth for they are cockroaches. A mind is a terrible thing to boggle. It is better to bless than cursive. Stoom boddle boondoggle.

My legs are slowly going numb. I'm supremely fatigued, but awake and alive, too. Jus' bleedin' bloggin' Benny Hill show. It is 7:45 p.m. of a late November Tuesday. Today's movie was "Wonderland," a British independent flick filmed, at times, in grainy Super 8 stock. It is a story told in vignettes about three sisters and their family in London. One is a pregnant, one a mother who goes out on the town, the third single and looking. Then there's the mother and father in a loveless marriage. The mother poisons a neighbors dog because it barks all the time. What sticks with me are the sped up scenes of the characters moving through the streets, lights blurry streamers, and the images of London streets, all noise and people everywhere. Makes me think of my Parisian brother. How does he handle the congestion? It would eat me alive, yet the sea tide of humanity interests and compels me.

The dumbwaiter's engine is almost shot. One big bucket of ice will send the box tumbling to dusty floor. Her name was Sharon and she could never shut up. A veritable machine gun barrage of verbiage. Stoom curdle yurt house.

I thought about attachment issues again. About how my father did not live at home until I was 8. And how my mother was very busy working three jobs and hardly had time for any of us, much less me. And also how Mom and Dad placed no expectations on me, never asked about homework. And how my older brothers played endless practical jokes on me. Another brother beat me up, once kicked me in the balls so hard I pissed blood. I think about how worried I get if Esther is running more than 10 minutes late, how I run through this scenario of a fiery death, and how I am almost compelled to go out and look for her. I thought about that time all the neighbor kids were invited to a birthday party except for me, and how I hung out in my yard and cried until Hope Bredesen walked me over. And then the birthday girl told me in front of everybody, "You weren't invited!" And how that happened more than once because I was a hyperactive child and parents didn't want to deal with me. I remember finally figuring out how to be cool, and then consciously forsaking it throughout my junior high school years. Instead, reveling in being "other," being booger. And how that has shaped who I am now. More blessing than not. I'm independent-minded, make lifestyle choices not to please family or friends, but because it is what I want to do. God, psycho-babble don't suit me. Let's just say that despite all the bullshit life throws out, I will prevail. Like a coat of red paint, the bull charge of my will, ego, indominatable spirit, prevails over all. Just in quiet reflective November moments does that hurt little. Screw all that hurt of the past. Too much good has happened. I have been loved too much to be haunted by the helplessness of my childhood.

Sunrise from rocky mountain outcrop, pointy treetops below barely clear the morning mist. And all the witness of this scene can think is, "diddle doddle doodle doddle dang."

The chillens be wild today. Each class misbehaved. I think the cold weather has them indoors. And the unwise wuss-ass fools that are the decision-makers at school won't let them get out for recess. All that pent-up energy taken out on teachers and in gym class. Not an organized energy. Not enough to really play a game. And I think about the little boy who died last week from asthma complications. And all the children in my classes who complain of asthma problems. And all the time spent indoors. And all the parents who are smokers. Sad sad. Tomorrow they all get free reign. Fruitless to try any team sports. Not gun do it. Twouldn't be prudent at this juncture.

Producers of the hit comedy get together in fancy class boardroom, all shiny walnut, leather and glass. Bigwig says, "The more fart jokes the better. Audience wants something it can relate to. Stick to farting and sex and spending money. And God Forbid any more of that coaxial zodiac earthenware crap!!!"

And so it is. The wounded warrior sips his beer to numb the wounded weather child within. A trail beckons. Hiking to or from? To forget or remember? Thank God for small miracles. Physical pain cannot be remembered.

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