Inspirational Quotes from Great Literature.

You know that James Wright-y feeling you get when you look back on the last year or so of your life and see it amounts to nothing more than staring at a screen writing words nobody will ever read, both professionally and for pleasure? Well, a heavy wave of that burnt-retina despair washed over me last night, children.

So I did the only thing a person can do under the circumstances. I poured a glass of whiskey and I got out The Long Winter for inspiration. Because as pointless as contract-writing life seems, it's like a day at a beauty spa compared to the Blizzards of '80 - '81. As usual, the reading worked like a charm (the whiskey worked like an alcohol.)

Here are the most inspirational quotes I came across.

1. How brave Laura is here. "Just" buying something, she says. As if buying something were easy! As if it were something people did every day of the week! How can a person not be inspired in the face of such heroic stoicism?

2. You may have thought that only 20th and 21st century people knew how to "peace out," but Pa Ingalls was doing it long before it was cool. (And long before the spelling change.)

3. See what I mean? I may think it's boring to stare at a computer all day--BUT AT LEAST I DON'T HAVE ICICLES IN MY MUSTACHE!

Meet Your Grandparents! (Clark Edition)

This weekend, your father and I drove out to the 'burbs to visit your grandparents, who kindly still feed us when we knock on their door. Hopefully, we will time your births exactly right, so that just as they're beginning to get absolutely sick to death of us, we will announce that we have made adorable new people who are currently living inside one of our bodies (we won't bore them with all the details) and whom they may play with, but only on the condition that they continue to feed us all when we knock on their door. Whenever we knock on their door.

Anyway, the main difference between your grandparents and your parents is that they have what are considered "useful" professions, and we are what is considered "freelance bloggers."

Your grandfather Bill, for example, is a preacher. While we were visiting, I sneezed and he said "Bless you," and you know what, children? It actually meant something.










And your grandmother Laurie, who is a doctor, examined your father's ears because they hurt, and diagnosed the problem with no difficulties*.

So let me apologize in advance for the day you and your spouses come to visit your dad and me in our suburban house and the most help I can offer you is to suggest you try shuffling your syntax so you have more trochees and fewer dactyls or perhaps a nice slant rhyme here and there or maybe an allusion to Greek mythology or two.

...I'm such a waste of space.

*Obviously, I can't repeat the problem here, because it would violate doctor-patient privilege AND spousal privilege, which I know about from Law & Order shows and because your father went to law school.

And He Says I'M the Artsy One.

Being the poet of the relationship means that I am often stereotyped as the more butterflies-and-rainbows, skipping-through-a-field-of-daisies-barefoot, oddly dressed one. And in a relationship of only two people, your father is the one who does that stereotyping.

But then I left the camera in his area of the apartment during our standard home-office workday, and turned it on later to find THESE:

Blurred lines, strange angles, closeups on wooden molding?

I think we know who the artsy one is, now don't we*?

*It's still me. I mean, I write poetry, for Christ's sake.

An Abiding Love for Poetry.

Some people like to cuddle with their spouses.

Some people like to cuddle with their cats.

Me? I like to cuddle* with poems.

 How happy does this cuddling make me? Sooo happy (pictured).

*Yes, just cuddle. For the last time, your brother is not half haiku, he's just short.

That "Giving Up" Feeling.

You know how sometimes, at the end of the week, when you've spent hours and hours of your life writing marketing emails for people selling totally BS things like psychic readings, and you just want a few sweet minutes to work on a poem for a change, and also you need some bourbon and tater tots STAT or you might just collapse?

I had one of those weeks. But it's almost over. So it's all going to be okay.

The Redcoats Are Coming!

Naturally, by "redcoats," I mean "strawberries." I am a poet after all, and it is a poet's job to describe things so that other people have to slow down and ask themselves what the GD the poet was smoking when she put those words together in that order.

It was a real treat to find these beauties at the produce store, and when I got them home, your father and I about devoured them.

Sorry, frozen blueberries, but your reign is OVER. (The pancake in which these blueberries were staying took the news awfully hard, electing to slice itself in half and flop against the plate as if nothing were worth living* for.)

*By "living," of course, I mean "being covered in syrup."

Colors.

You have probably noticed, from living in my house your entire lives, that I love colors. I can't help it. And what I really love is a bunch of bright colors all together, like people of varying political beliefs allowing those beliefs to complement and enrich each other rather than people of varying political beliefs attempting to ridicule and cudgel each other.

So, for your aesthetic enjoyment, here are some of the many ordinary objects in our pre-you house that happen to be delightfully bright and colorful.


My (slightly gimpy) rain-detractor.


Socks for any occasion.


My feathery fascinator (don't tell the vegans!).

The decorative apron hanging from our kitchen wall.

The decorative scarves hanging from our living room wall.

The poster celebrating National Poetry Month (just one month away!!).

The quilt I made of old tee-shirts after reading the Little House series for the eight-thousandth time.

Oh children--perhaps your father or I are infertile and unable to have you and so you are adopted and thus of many fine colors! How honored I would be to have a magical rainbow of a family*!

Alas--only time will tell. I look forward to meeting you, future humans**.

*Open-minded or racist? Vote in the comments.

**To be fair to humans, it's possible that I will be deemed unsuitable to raise them and so will become the allergy-ridden version of a cat lady, which is to say I'll become a plant lady. With a focus on edible herb plants.

Guest Post: On Dating (Or Something Like It)

I'm happy to announce that today's blog post is brought to you by your dear Auntie Janelle, who has so kindly agreed to advise you on the world of dating, which your father and I no longer navigate and so cannot intelligently speak about. And so without further comment, I'll let Auntie J take the stage...



Hello children. This is your Auntie. Not by blood. But by self-given title. (Brenna, is that okay? (Yes.)) Your mother so graciously invited me to contribute to this, a blog for ye. And I feel it is my duty to let you know what’s going on in the world of dating. Your mother and father, wise though they may be, are no longer on what we hip kids call the “dating scene.” They’re “out of the game.” “Arthritic with the hitic.” “Slow on the peeko.”

(Some of those I made up. But use them, please.)

So here I am. To fill in the gaps.

Your Dating Options:

The Nighttime Prowl—It’s great, I won’t lie. It’s fun to pick people up after a few vodka-sodas and a couple of listens to “This is how we do it,” but honestly—is that how you’re going to find true love? Probably not. Enjoy those days in college, two to three years after (four if you need it), and then move on. Otherwise you’re in for a world of hurt. Or VDs. (What are they calling them in your days, I wonder.)

Online Dating—choose your site wisely. Some are for hook-ups. Some are for “just add water” weddings. Others are for Single Christians. Non-single Christians. Non-single Non-Christians. Dog-lovers. Cats Anonymous. Left-handed Turkey Shooters with a Limp. Like I said: Choose wisely.

Prostitution—Ha! Only if you’re Julia Roberts. (Seriously, don’t.)

Blind Dates—So much depends upon who sets you up, a mutual friend, in a red sweatshirt. Or an actual blind woman, drenched in rain, standing by the white bus. I say go for it. Unless it’s the blind woman deal. Then—who am I kidding—go for it!

Ask a random man out for sushi—Best idea I ever had. And then the worst(????). I’m still trying to figure this out.

What’s worked for you, Auntie? you ask. Meh. I don’t know. Nothing? Everything? A constant-inability-to-make-an-assessment/decision—that’s how my dating goes. Kind of? Maybe? To a degree but not to like 100 degrees (Celsius) or anything. I think. Am I making any sense here?

WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!?!?! THE WORLD IS SPINNING OUT OF CONTROL ON AN AXIS THAT I CAN’T EVEN COMPREHEND!!!! OR CALCULATE. OR PICTURE. AND WHAT ABOUT BIRDS!?!?!??!?! (An example of a moment of spontaneous melodramatic combustion, something your Auntie is prone to these days. And something you, too, will go through as you traverse DateLand, where you will question everything you do (and do not) do. Do. Do. Do.) Good luck, kiddo(s). And give me a call once in a while, would ya?

A Fetish for the Future, Continued.

Well, children, we've established that I enjoy preparing for what lies ahead. Now that I've recognized this pattern, I've noticed it again and again in my everyday life. For example, when I switched on my computer one morning this week for my daily session of poetry writing, I noticed this message:


And even though I had written it only the morning before, at the end of that poetry-writing session, I was quite "chirked up," as Pa Ingalls would say if he were alive and commenting on things today.


So even if you never come into existence, children, this blog has been useful for me to recognize the things that are truly important to me, namely the future, poetry, and pancakes. What a life!

What Writers Do at a Party.

While parties are not an everyday occurrence for us, I nonetheless feel compelled to document one on this blog for you, dear future children. This is a writer's party. You can see that there is natural light in the room, because this particular party took place at brunch-time.
You can also see that we are thoughtfully listening to one writer read from his work. When he finishes, we snap our fingers and sip from our wine bottles. And then we all grow beards and sleep with other*.

*Ha! Kidding! You know I can't grow a beard!

In the Spirit of the Season...

Happy Valentine's Day, children! In honor of the day, I'll write about three of the things I love most: your father, beer, and poems.

1. I like my beer opposite of how I like my men: stout, dark, and rich.

2. What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells on the Future! -- how it tells of the rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells*...

3. Look at that. Not only does your father wash dishes like a champ, he makes them tessellate in the drying rack. Am I a lucky lady, or what?


4. ...to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells*.



* My apologies to Edgar Poe.

What Your Mom Does for a Living (Hopefully).

Well, children, it's finally happened. Just this week, I received in the mail my official Poet card, meaning that I am, officially, a card-carrying poet.

I hope that by the time you exist and can read this, the title of this post is true. Which I guess means that I hope the future world has an insatiable hunger for poetry. And let's face it, if there is no such hunger in the future world, WHO WOULD WANT TO LIVE THERE?!?!