13 April 2012

What the moral of the back story could be

Tyranny of the blank page. The longer I don't write, the easier it becomes not to write.

To be fair, I haven't felt like I've had much to contribute to the universal conversation. So much of late has been lather, rinse, repeat. And by the time I have time to sit down in front of this form, I don't have anything to say. It's been drained; I'm exsanguinated.

The son has ruined three white dress shirts in under a month. One for each theatrical production in which he's appeared, and one for the school video news magazine. I finally began charging for replacement. Though he would never admit to it, today when he called to alert me to the destruction of the third shirt, he was almost in tears. I could hear it in his voice. As much as I am, he's ready for high school to be finished.

Today, we had what nearly amounted to a typhoon. I've been through hurricanes, and for a couple of hours, this was close to as bad with flooding rain and insane winds. Trying to pick the daughter up from school was an absolute circus. I crawled down 4th Street as the thunder rumbled, the wind roared and the skies opened. Intersections were filled with up to three feet of water. By evening, the sun shone and a rainbow bisected the sky.

Earlier in the week, the son's laptop died an unexpected death. I will never buy another computer from HP; these two that I purchased for the son and the daughter have been unmitigated disasters. I'd already replaced the daughter's but I was hoping to get through the end of the school year with the son's. It wasn't to be, and I purchased the replacement I'd already picked out from Lenovo. At least I thought I had. It turns out that trying to buy directly from Lenovo is a Very Bad Idea. I've been on the phone with multiple people, through failed orders ("we just changed our software!") and now being told that the computer in question won't be available for four months after expecting to wait four weeks. The HP goes to a repairman tomorrow to see if he can fix it for under $100.

I'm not holding my breath.

Easter and my MIL's birthday were within a week of one another. She dearly desired Peking Duck, and so we had Peking Duck for Easter. Odder things have happened, I'm sure.

I've survived two concurrent weeks of Spring Break. The daughter's started when the son and I were in DC, and I had the pleasure of her company last week. I'd promised her a food truck experience (gourmet food trucks are huge here), and keeping to my word, we enjoyed Taco Maria for lunch one day, followed by an afternoon of antique store browsing and visiting the fabric store. Believe me when I say that Taco Maria's carnitas a la naranja are to die for. I'll be hunting them down again. The daughter pronounced them "OMG good," and then went around the rest of the afternoon singing, "I'm part of the food truck movement."

I had the son this week. He was intrigued by the daughter's food truck fun, and while we went in search of The Viking Truck to no avail, we did enjoy Chomp Chomp Nation. We split a bunch of items, but both of us thought the Sloppy Tots were pretty darn good. We sat in my car (it was raining) and ate companionably. As he's not particularly interested in antique stores, he was adequately thrilled that I graciously allowed him to sign me on to Skyrim, an Xbox game I'd gotten the daughter for Christmas that the spouse, the daughter and the son play with tremendous enthusiasm. Of course, it was cause for considerable comment that by the end of two hours, I was a Level 5 Khajit warrior who excels in two-handed combat, and that I'd dispatched a Drauger Overlord with two chops. And I hadn't died once. When the son texted one of his friends regarding my accomplishments, the friend quipped, "Are you sure your mom isn't Dragonborn?"

They forget I've been playing these sorts of games since Dungeon (the one that became Zork) which was nothing more than a text-based adventure written by some guys from MIT that we played on dumb terminals.

And the world moves on.

I am sickened by so much of what goes on around me. I am revolted by the Santorums and Romneys, truly disgusted. These are people who breathe life into Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. I've told the son, who read the book and was horrified, that I'm buying copies for his female friends. They need to be afraid. There is no balm in Gilead.

But that is another time, another post, maybe another blog. I spend plenty of time in the daylight in a state of rage, and I've tried not to bring that here. Though sometimes I wonder if it's time for a bigger noise, a bigger splash. Like my Skyrim character, I am known for stealth, known for attacking when it's least expected and most effective.

But I dislike confrontation. I dislike discord. I prefer peace. I strive for serenity. I wish others did as well. I wish people would just learn to damn well leave each other alone, to agree to disagree. I may believe--and I do--that women who give birth to 20 children are mentally ill, but if they are doing no harm, do I have a right to try to stop what I see as mania simply because I don't agree with it?

Buried in the detritus of my desk, amongst earrings and notes on the back of envelopes, bottles of pain medication that I won't take and book one of The Walking Dead, I found two black jelly beans. Licorice. I have a profound dislike of licorice, a visceral abhorrence that extends to anise of any sort. They make me uneasy, those jelly beans, staring at me like two dark eyes, ready to leave purple stains on my calendar should they come into contact with any droplet of water or coffee. And yet, I've not dispensed with them--why?

There is something unguided in the sky tonight. I know what it is, and I hug the knowledge with quiet glee to myself. It is mine, all mine. I hear the call, siren song, and know the moment it will turn into.

Our arms full of miracles.

Go listen to some good music: "Go Places" from the album Challengers by The New P*rnographers. Also I've borrowed two lines from the song "Unguided" from the same album. Meaning? You decide. To me, an exercise to start writing again and to unload some of the things that I think about.

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