From the recesses of my brain to the empty room: Vada Sd.
I've decided to start a new project on LJ, which I write to pretty much only for me. The few of you rattling like ghosts or wind-chimes on here don't have to pay me no nevermind.
Here's what I'm planning:
My Mamaw, Vada Irene McGue, died a few years ago at the age of "who the hell knows, ain't no one got no birth certificate," I could give you the exact date and time of when she died, but it only matters to me. After her death there wasn't a day that went by when I didn't think of her at least once. And maybe I don't do it as much anymore (which makes me a bit sad), but she is there, speaking out in the back of my brain, reminding me of things I've forgotten or (more often) things I should always remember. So I thought that I'd start a new project to put her in your brain as well by sharing with you, friends and lovers, the things I remember. This will be part lexicon (written in my voice, so excuse the sometimes odd spellings of things and sound it out with a little bit of a highlands twang), it will be part life-lessons (she taught me a lot over the years), and mostly homage. I love my Mamaw and as I get older I find myself becoming more and more like her in a lot of ways. So, welcome to Vada Sd.
Vada Sd.
I was sitting in my yard today, smoking, which I shouldn't be doing, fine, fine fine, ya'll. Shuddit. And someone said "Listen" and autofuckingmatically my brain said this:
Listen, listen,
Cat's been pissin.
Where, where?
In the chair.
Run, run, get the gun.
Oh, shit, s'already done.
This is not only a very nice poem about shooting a cat, it's also a very nice poem about shooting a cat which my Mamaw taught to me when I was three. It is the first poem I ever memorized. She taught it to me so that when my mom yelled "Listen!" I could recite it to her.
There are several lessons here:
1. Nothing is funnier than a three year old saying something like this.
2. It's hard to be mad at a three year old when they do say something like this.
3. It's even harder not to bust out laughing when a three year old says something like this to you when you are trying to scold them.
4. Mamaws find the frustrations of their children highly amusing.
5. Cats suck. Sorry, cat lovers, that's a fact. Init?
6. Teaching a child poetry early on, even bad poetry about shooting pissing cats, can lead, perhaps inadvertently, to that child growing up to get degrees in poetry.
7. Teaching a child to cuss early on can start that child on a fantastic skill in imaginative cussery. I am a Mozart of cussing...a fucking child prodigy.
8. If you can't stop something bad from happening you just have to roll with it...oh, shit, it's already done.
Share the wisdom, share the love.
Here's what I'm planning:
My Mamaw, Vada Irene McGue, died a few years ago at the age of "who the hell knows, ain't no one got no birth certificate," I could give you the exact date and time of when she died, but it only matters to me. After her death there wasn't a day that went by when I didn't think of her at least once. And maybe I don't do it as much anymore (which makes me a bit sad), but she is there, speaking out in the back of my brain, reminding me of things I've forgotten or (more often) things I should always remember. So I thought that I'd start a new project to put her in your brain as well by sharing with you, friends and lovers, the things I remember. This will be part lexicon (written in my voice, so excuse the sometimes odd spellings of things and sound it out with a little bit of a highlands twang), it will be part life-lessons (she taught me a lot over the years), and mostly homage. I love my Mamaw and as I get older I find myself becoming more and more like her in a lot of ways. So, welcome to Vada Sd.
Vada Sd.
I was sitting in my yard today, smoking, which I shouldn't be doing, fine, fine fine, ya'll. Shuddit. And someone said "Listen" and autofuckingmatically my brain said this:
Listen, listen,
Cat's been pissin.
Where, where?
In the chair.
Run, run, get the gun.
Oh, shit, s'already done.
This is not only a very nice poem about shooting a cat, it's also a very nice poem about shooting a cat which my Mamaw taught to me when I was three. It is the first poem I ever memorized. She taught it to me so that when my mom yelled "Listen!" I could recite it to her.
There are several lessons here:
1. Nothing is funnier than a three year old saying something like this.
2. It's hard to be mad at a three year old when they do say something like this.
3. It's even harder not to bust out laughing when a three year old says something like this to you when you are trying to scold them.
4. Mamaws find the frustrations of their children highly amusing.
5. Cats suck. Sorry, cat lovers, that's a fact. Init?
6. Teaching a child poetry early on, even bad poetry about shooting pissing cats, can lead, perhaps inadvertently, to that child growing up to get degrees in poetry.
7. Teaching a child to cuss early on can start that child on a fantastic skill in imaginative cussery. I am a Mozart of cussing...a fucking child prodigy.
8. If you can't stop something bad from happening you just have to roll with it...oh, shit, it's already done.
Share the wisdom, share the love.