Doves, not just ice-cream bars anymore!
I wanted to deface a non-violence sign this morning.
Cover the sweet, peaceful blue silhouetted dove with barbecue sauce and hack it up like a Gaul on a rampage, like a Norseman gone bear-shirt crazy. Ber-sark. Berzerk.
Wouldn’t it be lovely, once in a blue moon, get a free pass to pure madness? Here’s your axe, here’s your loincloth, go nuts. Sanity just poof- goes out, like a candle in a hurricane. Like a tiny white nonviolence candle, held against the wind at an outdoor peace rally or memorial service for a great social justice activist who died on a hunger strike in prison to commemorate the suffering of the children in refuge camps.
Hand me the tofu but make it ironic.
Really, have you ever seen a cat steal a piece of tofu?
Cats will eat sock fuzz if they think it’s a spider. But they will not touch tofu. I’m just saying.
I was just cruising along minding my own business, clenching my jaw on the way to work, after a night spent grinding my teeth in my sleep to keep pace with my stress levels and parade of phantasms that call themselves REM sleep, and it hit me. Look, I was just minding my own business, officer! Editing, working two jobs, looking for work, occasionally having a life, on weekends. Managing, thanks, even feel a little like an adult now and again. I wasn’t looking. Lord knows, Gods know, the long nights I’ve prayed for it, in the past- Muse, find me worthy! Baptize me in your bloody inspiration! Taurobolium my worthless mortal self. Nuthing. Silence of the Hams. So, I go back to being normal and work myself to death, as I suspect most of the world does.
And, months later, when I’m reconciled to being where I am, inspiration wise, I get slapped upside the head by a Muse in a fool mood. Not foul. Fool.
She has a hell of a sense of humor.
My next book came and grinned like a eight year old holding a frog in my face.
Look, I argued, I’m busy. Bills to pay. Taxes. I need new tires. I’m editing. I have to find a job. There’s that emigration business. I do not have time for this right now! Where were you when I begged on my knees for a voice whispering in the dark?
Bupkes.
You can’t argue with Her. You do as she says, or know that you’ll be half the human you ought to be.
I submitted. The change was palpable immediately.
Cyd said to me, after a few days of my being a joy to be around again, “You’re a much better person when you are writing.”
Thanks. I know.
Cover the sweet, peaceful blue silhouetted dove with barbecue sauce and hack it up like a Gaul on a rampage, like a Norseman gone bear-shirt crazy. Ber-sark. Berzerk.
Wouldn’t it be lovely, once in a blue moon, get a free pass to pure madness? Here’s your axe, here’s your loincloth, go nuts. Sanity just poof- goes out, like a candle in a hurricane. Like a tiny white nonviolence candle, held against the wind at an outdoor peace rally or memorial service for a great social justice activist who died on a hunger strike in prison to commemorate the suffering of the children in refuge camps.
Hand me the tofu but make it ironic.
Really, have you ever seen a cat steal a piece of tofu?
Cats will eat sock fuzz if they think it’s a spider. But they will not touch tofu. I’m just saying.
I was just cruising along minding my own business, clenching my jaw on the way to work, after a night spent grinding my teeth in my sleep to keep pace with my stress levels and parade of phantasms that call themselves REM sleep, and it hit me. Look, I was just minding my own business, officer! Editing, working two jobs, looking for work, occasionally having a life, on weekends. Managing, thanks, even feel a little like an adult now and again. I wasn’t looking. Lord knows, Gods know, the long nights I’ve prayed for it, in the past- Muse, find me worthy! Baptize me in your bloody inspiration! Taurobolium my worthless mortal self. Nuthing. Silence of the Hams. So, I go back to being normal and work myself to death, as I suspect most of the world does.
And, months later, when I’m reconciled to being where I am, inspiration wise, I get slapped upside the head by a Muse in a fool mood. Not foul. Fool.
She has a hell of a sense of humor.
My next book came and grinned like a eight year old holding a frog in my face.
Look, I argued, I’m busy. Bills to pay. Taxes. I need new tires. I’m editing. I have to find a job. There’s that emigration business. I do not have time for this right now! Where were you when I begged on my knees for a voice whispering in the dark?
Bupkes.
You can’t argue with Her. You do as she says, or know that you’ll be half the human you ought to be.
I submitted. The change was palpable immediately.
Cyd said to me, after a few days of my being a joy to be around again, “You’re a much better person when you are writing.”
Thanks. I know.