Please Hold Due to Technical Problems: Or what the f-

When my husband is home, he takes over the computer, as is only right as he is working.  But where does that leave a blog-writing-blog-reading addict as myself?  It leaves me pacing the damn house, reading blogs from my Blackberry Storm, and wondering if it took me two hours to type a post would it be worth it.  Due to my insanely slow texting abilities, I have said no.  I do have laptop with supposed internet capabilities, which is only letting me get “limited connectivity.”  Saying there is limited connectivity is like saying you’re only a little pregnant.  It’s you are or you’re not.  So during naptime, I shall discuss my connectivity with my internet provider and find out what the bleep is going on.  I hope to read and write soon.  I miss you all.

Horray for Poetry

It’s National Poetry Month, which I learned from reading Inktopia and Evenshine.  As a show of solidarity, I thought I would post one of my favorite poems.  This one haunts me.  It never seems to let me go, and I would like to learn to write like that.

 

Siren

By Amy Gerstler

 

I have a fish’s tail, so I’m not qualified to love you.

But I do. Pale as an August sky, pale as flour milled

a thousand times, pale as the icebergs I have never seen,

and twice as numb- my skin is such a contrast to the rough

rocks I lie on, that from far away it looks like I’m a baby

riding a dinosaur. The turn of centuries or the turn

of a page means the same to me, little or nothing.

I have teeth in places you’d never suspect. Come. Kiss me

and die soon. I slap my tail in the shallows- which is to say

I appreciate nature. You see my sisters and me perched

on rocks and tiny islands here and there for miles:

untangling our hair with our fingers, eating seaweed.

A Meme for Ink

I’m doing this for Ink over at Inkatopia.  For some reason, she loves memes, and I’m getting into her good graces, so that she will post a journal entry.  So if you want to play, be my guest.  Just let us know so we can read your responses.

  1. How did you come up with your blog title OR what does it mean?

I like faeries, I’m a little weird, and I’m a mom.  I wrote a whole post explaining it to my brother. (https://faemom.wordpress.com/2008/10/02/for-my-brother/)

  1. What are your general goals for blogging?

I like to entertain people.  I like to stretch my creative and intelligent muscles.  This really keeps me from going crazy.

  1. Do people “in your real life” know that you blog and do they comment on your blog OR is it largely anonymous?

A few people know.  Rarely do they comment.  My mom and my husband take great pride in telling people I blog, like being at home with the kids isn’t enough.  Sheesh.  But I am anonymous for my husband’s sanity.

  1. How often do you post (x per week)?

I try to post every day, like a mental exercise, like when I used to journal or write.

  1. How often do you read other blogs (x per week)?

I read every day, excluding the days my husband has taken over the computer and I curl up in a ball going through withdrawals.  I have to set an amount time or I would spend all day reading and let the boys play with matches.

  1. How do you select blogs to read (do you prefer blogs that focus on certain topics or do you choose by tone or…?)

I mainly read Mommy Blogs because there are so many hilarious moms out there.  But I do read a really great religious blog and a really cool feminist blog.

  1. Do you have any plans to copy your blog entries in any other format, 0r do you think that one day, you’ll just delete it all?

I really should copy them because I don’t know how long I would cry and wear a black armband if I lost all of these posts.

  1. What are the things you like best about blogging?

It gives me a creative writing outlet that I can do quicker than writing a story.  (Ever try to write a story when you’re watching kids?  Don’t.)

  1. What are the things you don’t like about blogging?

I wonder if I could be devoting my time to “real” writing.

  1. How do you handle comments?  Some bloggers never respond to commenters, others answer all commenters, and still others pick and choose.  (1) As a blogger, which is your practice and why? 

I try to comment back on everyone’s comments because I think blogging is a create place to create a dialogue.

 (2) As a commenter, do you care/check back to see if the blogger has responded to you?

Sometimes when it’s easy.  I should do it more often because I love the dialogue.

(3) If you are a reader but never comment, why (this last question may not work since…um…you don’t comment, but maybe you could make an exception)?

  1. Optional: add your own topic here: any burning thoughts to share on blog etiquette? desired blog features? blog addiction?  blog vs. facebook?

I think it’s easy to be pigeon-holed into a subject, just because you don’t want to offend your fans with something edgy.  And I have serious blog-addiction.  I have to write or I think I would let my fans down, and I have to read because there are just so many damn awesome blogs out there.  As for facebook, that is now the place where I keep my CA friends updated on the boys.

 

Journal Meme

I’m only doing this so that Ink will publish a journal entry.

 

 1. When did you begin keeping a journal/diary?  I dabbled in high school on loose leaf paper when I needed to get all those confusing emotions out.  Several of my good friends gave me journals when I graduated high school.  I finally cracked one open to use it mid way through my freshman year in college. 

2. Do you journal regularly or sporadically?  I used to regularly write throughout college.  Now it’s sporadic when I need some sort of catharsis.  Nothing is better to keep secrets or pain locked away.

3. Which, if any, of the following things do you use your journal for?: recording dreams, creative writing, arguing with particular individuals (your boss, your parents, your lover, etc.), listing books/movies, tracking your weight/diet/exercise, composing unsent/unsendable letters.  It used to be a chronicle of my life.  Now it’s more when I need to say something, to pour out the negative feelings and worries, so that I can keep being an up-beat parent.  I tried to record dreams, but I’ve always been one of those up and running kind of people.

4. What other purpose(s) do you use your journal for?  Isn’t this like question number 3?  It’s the place were I put all my raw emotions to be trapped in dead paper.  A place where I can sound out what I need to listen for.

5. What kind of material text do you use for a journal? (For example: leather bound hard-cover, cheap spiral notebook, etc.)  I hunt down ones with fairies on it.  Surprise.  Surprise.  I almost always write in black ink.  There used to be these great black ink pens I used to use, but they are no longer on the market.  My brother bought me a couple of journals and pens for my last birthday.

6. Where do you keep your old journals?  Um, I call it my soul box because it has all kinds of important, soul-telling items in it.  I collaged it with all kinds of cool sayings on the outside.

7. How often, if ever, have you read through your old journals?   I used to go through them once a year to better connect with myself.  But I haven’t done that for years. 

8. Have you ever allowed anyone else to read your journals?  No.  Actually I’ve made my best friend promise to burn them if she outlives me.  I just sound so  . . . childish.  And it’s a written record of plain stupidity in a lot of places.  I totally don’t want my kids to know what kind of trouble their mama was into. 

9. How has your journal keeping changed since you began blogging?  Because I devote so much time to the blog, I tend not to journal as much as I did.  Besides it’s nice to call up your best friend and bitch.

10. Upload a picture of your journals (or as many as you can).  Hahahahaha.  We all know how I don’t do pictures.  Stupid Vista hates my scanning program.

A Journal Entry

The other week Inktopia did this interesting journal meme, which I thought was really cool.  But I didn’t participate because I don’t journal anymore.  I used to.  I loved it.  I would seat by one of the college water fountains and write every day.  It got to the point that not only did my friends and teachers know where to find me but that random strangers would stop and talk to me, to tell me how neat it was that I wrote every day.  But life happened.  Babies happened, so I slid my journals away with the promise that my best friend would burn them when I died because no one needs to know how silly I was, how stupid I was, how horny I was as a young woman.  Basically if my boys find them, I might die of embarrassment.

 

 

‘Bout ten years old, hide and seek
I found me in the closet
Ready or not I stumbled on
And opened up that box of
Yearbooks, letters, black and whites
A hundred, maybe more
Next thing I know my brothers and me
Got ‘em scattered on the floor (Yeah)

There was one of her, flippin’ the bird
Sittin’ on a Harley
And a few with some hairy hippie dude
Turns out his name was Charlie
Her hair, her clothes, her drinkin’ smokin’
Had us boys confused
I’ll never forget the day us nosey kids got introduced

To Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But I saw Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

-Clay Walker “’Fore Mama Was Mama”

 

 

 

But I digress.  In the comments, Ink decided that we should publish an entry.  So I plan to anti up and force her hand.  A random journal and a random entry.

 

 

 

3/18/01

 

        It’s a beautiful day.

                Sun shine

                Not too hot, not too cold

                A cool breeze.

 

        Spring returns; we dance to welcome her gentle presence

                more gentle in some areas.

                        like here.

 

        I don’t want to do my school work because I would rather enjoy the day.

        Honoring it as we all should

        Breathing in its beauty, glory.

        Enjoying each day like the last.

 

        How do you take each day like it is your last if you must prepare for the future,

                doing all those mundane things that keep the world turning?

                bills, schoolwork, grocery shopping.

        I guess you have to make the most of it all,

                finding the worthwhile moments,

                                        movements.

        Drink in it all like some precious liquor.

 

        I feel relaxed.

                        Like a cat waking from a nap,

                realizing I can just lay here to watch the world go by.

        But will I be content to just watch?

                Most likely not.

        Only in my outside human existence was I content.

                Those never last long.

        I need activity,

                        to stretch my muscles,

                        to push my mind.

        Seize the day.

        Seize the night.

 

Only Monica and I were excited over having more powerful jaws than sharks.

        Because we know we’re amazing.

        Everyone else laughs, calling it useless information.

        But we are so wonderful, complex, powerful, beautiful.,

        Humans are awe-inspiring.

        What animal is as beautiful as we?

        With the self-realization of that beauty.

        We are unique.

        Why is it a joke?

        Monica was so excited, just like me, with a mouth gasping for air, eyes filled with awe, power, excitement.

        We are the princes of the universe.

 

 

 

 

And yes, I wrote like that.  Yes, I do think I’m a nerd.

My Sunshine (at 22 months)

 

Smiling to put stars in his eyes, roses on his cheeks, running with

Everything wiggling side to side, he runs full wiggle towards me,

And I wait, expecting him to say “Juice, peease.” But he smashes his

Nose into my thigh, wrapping his arms around my knees.

 

 

 

 

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Reasons why . . .

There’s a reason I didn’t write.

 

I could have written in the morning but . . .

        I took the boys to church ALONE

        And then my parents watched them

        While I went and saw Charles de Lint speak.

 

I could have written in the afternoon because . . .

        I was all fired up about writing

        And I wasn’t hungry for lunch

        And the boys were at my parents’.

 

I could have written in the afternoon but . . .

        I was so tired so I took a fifteen minute nap

        Which turned into an hour and a half nap

        And I still had my parents’ car.

        And my dad gets antsy on Sunday afternoons.

 

I could have written in the evening but . . .

        I was at my parents’ house

        And my mom wanted to play Mario Go-Kart Wii

        And then we had dinner at my grandma’s

        And then my boys played with their cousin.

 

And now it is night.

Berries

Tiny stars and dotted prisms

Glitter on burgundy spheres,

With mint so bright it sears

Like Eucharist at catechisms.

 

Twisted colors melt and down;

Thoughts collide, chartering about

Until gossamer wings sprout,

So you can lift from the ground.

The Evolution of Eating

Milk.

Milk,

Sweet, warm milk.

Sweet, tasty, warm, white milk.

 

Rice.

White and stiff

Gooey, tasting like milk.

 

Sweet apple juice,

Sweet warm milk,

Gooey rice,

Apple juice.

 

Apples.

Bananas.

Bitter peas.

Green beans.

Pears, squash, spinach, broccoli, blueberries, raspberries, carrots.

 

Always that sweet warm milk.

 

Chicken.

Beef.

Ham.

Lamb.

Lintels, mangos, apricots, strawberries

 

Eggs.

Crackers.

Cereal.

Toast.

 

Eggy bread and French toast.

Pasta and tomatoes.

Chocolate, cake, ice cream.

 

Milk.

White, cold milk.

Helen’s Song

Paris and Menelaus were fools

        Confusing quiet malaise

With silent obedience. Giving

        Me jewels for my sweet gaze.

 

No god was my father, no egg birth.

        Footraces in my homeland

Contented me mo more than my suitors,

        Which were more than a thousand.

 

Older men are suppose to be wise;

        Younger are more passionate,

Yet I was nothing but a trophy

        Tangled in their power net.

 

I went to Troy because I loved,

        And I was horribly wrong.

Enduring ten-years of wall watching,

        My soul was lost all along.