Teary

You know, in general, I am a teary motherfucker. But, lately, my GOD, I am constantly crying! I'm so irritated with myself, I've thought about punching myself in the face. Except, of course, that would make me cry.

This is not the person I aim to be. I fancy myself a wiseacre. I mask my emotions behind a shallow facade of snark (or a facade of shallow snark... I can't decide). And this facade is very hard to maintain when I'm bursting into tears at random moments.

I think it's because of the stress. These are parlous times we live in with the Layoff Sword of Damocles is hanging over the Bon household. Neither of us are laid off, but, shit, it could certainly happen. And instead of savings, we have debt. And lots of it. We've now paid off the amount of money we borrowed for Laney's adoption about threefold, and owe barely less than we originally borrowed. Fucking evil credit card motherfuckers. If I were Maude, I'd tell them all that God will get them. But, I don't believe in God. I wish Bea Arthur would get them. Better yet, Barack*, when you get a second, can you switch ownership of Congress away from the banks and back to, you know, us? And then can you get the carcinogens out of my kid's shampoo?

You know, thinking about all the stuff Obama has to deal with makes me even MORE disgusted by the fact that I can't stop crying over a little bit of debt. We should all take a lesson from No Drama Obama. Maybe smoking is the answer.

Perhaps now is a good time to turn to Garrison Keillor, who wrote in the preface of my bible:

Perhaps you are imprisoned in a character you created for yourself who seemed smart and cheerful and virtuous and now feels like a wooden costume, heavy, clunky

I do, Garrison! I feel like that all the time! Got a poem for me? How about one by that great American poet, Anonymous:

Carnation milk is the best in the land
Here I sit with a can in hand
No tits to pull, no hay to pitch,
You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.

Ahhh.... I feel better now. Seriously, no snark, shallow or otherwise. That little ditty always cheers me up and restores my focus.

* Seriously, Google, "Barack" is still flagged by your spellchecker?

Friday Night Poetry

X.J. Kennedy is such a wonderful poet. If you read it, read it aloud. Poetry should ALWAYS be read aloud.

"The Purpose of Time Is To Prevent Everything From Happening at Once"

Suppose your life a folded telescope
Durationless, collapsed in just a flash
As from your mother's womb you, bawling, drop
Into a nursing home. Suppose you crash
Your car, your marriage - toddler laying waste
A field of daisies, schoolkid, zit-faced teen
With lover zipping up your pants in haste
Hearing your parents' tread downstairs - all one

Einstein was right. That would be too intense.
You need a chance to preen, to give a dull
Recital before an indifferent audience
Equally slow in jeering you and clapping,
Time takes its time unraveling. But, still,
You'll wonder when your life ends: Huh? What happened?

Poetry

I love poetry. I think I got this mostly from my father, although I suspect my mother would object. But Dad was the guy I boozily recited Houseman with. I want Laney to have poetry in her life, to love it like my Dad did and I do.

So after dinner I picked up my favorite poetry collection "Good Poems for Hard Times" compiled by Garrison Keillor (you should all have this collection... it's perfect and does exactly as the title suggests) and turned to a random page to read a poem to Laney. The poetry gods smiled and I landed on the following, which we had a good chat about. Laney and I decided that the poet was probably right about what the Whole Duty of Parents is.

(Listen to me: read it aloud. Poetry should ALWAYS be read aloud!)

Ode on the Whole Duty of Parents
by Frances Cornford

The spirits of children are remote and wise,
They must go free
Like fishes in the sea
Or starlings in the skies,
Whilst you remain
The shore where casually they come again.
But when there falls the stalking shade of fear,
You must be suddenly near,
You, the unstable, must become a tree
In whose unending heights of flowering green
Hangs every fruit that grows, with silver bells,
Where heart-distracting magic birds are seen
And all the things a fairy-story tells;
Though still you should possess
Roots that go deep in ordinary earth,
And strong consoling bark
To love and caress.

Och! I love that! How great is that: "stalking shade of fear"? Did you read it aloud? If you didn't, I bet you missed all the rhymes. Read it again. Aloud, dammit.

Alexander Pope described good poetry as "what oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed." I think that about sums it up.