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Sunday, September 09, 2018

The Blog In Point Form, Hemingway Shemingway and a Poem About Babies In Your House



For the first time ever: I bring you…

The Blog In Point Form. 

Why? I will tell you why.

* I’m finally admitting the Hemingway philosophy of writing is correct. Less is more. Words are punchy when they’re sparingly, ruthlessly pared down to the essence of the thought. No frills. No flowery sentiment. Just the facts.

That doesn’t sound like me does it?

Let me try again. 

*I. Am. Exhausted.*

*Ellie’s got a mystery illness that began with me following her around with a puke bucket and a cold washcloth for her raging fever on Friday. Two clinic visits totaling 5 hours. Advil and Tylenol around the clock. The sour smell of fever and sweat and germ overload. An ear infection to boot. Pharmacy’s closed on Sunday nights.

*My own lingering cough burning a hole in my chest. But I’m still standing. I’m in a hardboiled detective novel for moms. Except my mysterious enemy is a virus and exhaustion and my tragic flaw is my inability to take care of myself when I need it.

*Truth. I’m falling asleep writing this. Two nights of sleeping on the floor in Ellie’s room because her bed is too small to accommodate us both.

*The drooping eyes. The fuzzy thought process. The heavy, uncoordinated limbs that drop plates and food and teddy’s and pacey’s and all the balls i’m trying to juggle.

*AND YET. I submitted my application for a masters in M.ED yesterday. I’ve officially set myself up for failure. Or success. So hard to tell in the beginning, yeah?

*I’m officially done listening to all the negative stuff my deep brain throws and I’ve said…’Meh. I’m going to try.’ Worst case scenario I get denied to U of Houston and I turn my attention to juggling school. I hear clowns make a lot of money and they’re not creepy at all. Red. Balloons. (Shiver, shudder, shiver.)

Then a life of crime. Non-violent crime, of course. Just good, clean, thieving, ex-clown-school-fun.

*No school this week for the babies. No breaks. Only the churning belly full of Ellie’s germs, flailing around in my acidic tummy. Ha. Serves them right, You can’t survive in such a caustic atmosphere. Silly germs.

*I'm sorry I just fell asleep sitting up. I’m ornery today. Invidious, even. (GRE word of the day!) Means, Hateful, offensive, and injurious.

*Have you ever felt so tired and sick you literally day-dream about your nice, soft, warm bed with cool, fluffy pillows? Ahhhhh, sleep I crave you. Bed, I need you.

*Namaste everyone and thank you for tuning in. Stay tuned, video clips to the blog are in the works. Once i figure out how to do it.

*For now, good night Moncton! And the Woodlands. And, weirdly, some place in the new Czech Republic. (Why are you reading this? Who ARE you!? I love you.)

*I leave you with a tiny, sleepy, baby poem.

THIS POEM DOESN'T HAVE A TITLE

You get to know a house
when you have a baby

Every creak your retreating footsteps trigger
every shaft of light and where it falls
through on her tiny face while you walk - light, shadow, light, shadow.

Her lashes catching the glistening moon-glow as they lay like delicate black sighs on her soft pink cheeks.

The ceiling in her room where the moonlight and streetlight
conspire together to paste shadow-trees on the wall behind you.

If you’d lived a million lives alone and stayed here for centuries you still would
never have noticed this play of light and shadow.

But she did. Before she fell asleep in your arms, snuggled like a baby should.

You get to know a house
when you have a baby

Joy, pain, joy, pain, flickers by and she watches it all with wonder

She pushes wide your beginnings balloon of love and pierces it with shadows of endings

You get to know your house,
when you have a baby.