I fear there are no adequate words to describe just how joyful I feel when I take The Photo.
The Photo is The One that I wait for a seeming eternity to capture. It is The One that makes my breath catch in my chest and my heart flutter like a bird finding freedom. It is The One I know is worthy of a thousand words, but doesn't require a single one. It is The One I almost don't want to share for fear it will lose its magic. It is The One.
This week's prompt is: Smorgasbord. From dictionary.com:
smorgasbord:
1. a buffet meal of various hot and cold hors d' oeuvres, salads, casserole dishes, meats, cheeses, etc.
2. an extensive array or variety
We can use either definition, and with the use of the second, choose from any previous week's prompt to use. I thought I'd take it one step further. I will offer some new writing using one prompt, then point you in the direction of a couple of older posts I've written that could easily have been used for other Sunday Scribbling prompts. (The rules say we are not to link from there to an old post. I think they simply don't want us to wimp out on actually writing something new. As such, I'm simply pushing the limits of vague rules, which is not altogether uncommon.)
Prompt: What's your sign?
I was born on July 13, under the sign of Cancer. Every personality trait attributed to Cancer is attributable to a tough outer shell protecting a soft and vulnerable inner core. I fit so well under the blanket of Cancerian traits, I shouldn't be getting cold anytime soon. This page has the most dead-on description of me, it's uncanny.
My good qualities, according to the astrological indications, are qualities of which I am proud. Tenacious, resourceful, defensive, loyal? Check. A homebody, intuitive, generous, emotional? Yeppers. Loving, sensitive, protective, cautious? You betcha. Purposeful, shrewd, warm, security-oriented. Most assuredly. Imaginative, romantic, creative, sentimental? Oh, yeah. Wise, warm, sympathetic, caring? True. Receptive, perceptive, instinctive, inventive? Affirmative.
I also have some bad qualities that are typical Cancerian traits, as well. Moody, overly sensitive, depressive, touchy? So what of it?! Dominating, devious, manipulative, overly dramatic? Why on earth would one think that of me? Eccentric, lacking in stability, tending toward lethargy, clingy? Don't hate me for it. Passive, non-self-assertive, unable to foster self-interests without feelings of guilt? Umm, is that okay?
There are a couple of traits I've read that don't necessarily apply to me: conservative, cold (but how can one be both cold and caring?). Hm. Mike Huckabee needn't get his hopes up.
Now, for a trip down memory lane, here are a few older posts which could easily fit into the smorgasbord of today's writing.
Prompt: Thief!
Post: Those Crazy Genetics
Prompt: Hotel Stories
Post: I'll tell on the hotel
Prompt: In the Kitchen
Post: Movin' to the country, Gonna eat a lot of peaches...
Prompt: Rooted
Post: Green Thumbs and Other Myths
From dictionary (dot) com:
"Passion...
...
8. an outburst of strong emotion or feeling: He suddenly broke into a passion of bitter words.
9. violent anger
...
12. Archaic. the sufferings of a martyr
..."
All of these definitions apply when it comes to living with mental illness in one's family. Don't ask me why poetry happens when I think about my son's disease, because I just don't know. This week, it's an acrostic poem:
Prayers beseeching
An unheeding god for a
Sign that this hateful
Sickness has an end.
I search for answers
Over and over, but
Nothing appears.
When I saw that today's writing prompt was Sleep (and/or Teeth), I thought, "Cake. I can write about my improbable, impractical, and inexplicable sleeping habits or my horrific, terrifying dreams and how good I am at deciphering their meaning." But then I convinced myself to tackle teeth instead, just to stretch my wings a bit.
We have a total of 151 teeth in our collective heads; three of us had to have teeth pulled in order to facilitate orthodontics. Three-fifths of us are currently in braces, two sets of traditional labial braces and one set of lingual braces (I was ahead of the trend, having had braces eight years ago, and Eldest flew through her braces experience). Three-fifths of us have had our wisdom teeth removed.
I had eight teeth pulled before braces (four regular molars, four wisdom teeth). Genetically speaking, I got screwed over in the teeth department; my father was in full dentures by the age of 29, and my mother also passed on her family's periodontal disease. Consequently, four of my teeth are in line to have implants in the future (my husband has vociferously declared that he will stop at nothing to ensure that he never sees me without teeth); I wear a permanent retainer behind them. When I had a root canal performed several years back, the oral surgeon told me I have problematic teeth; some of my molars have up to four roots, and the roots are long, branching, and some are spiraled. I'm a dental mutant.
Eldest was only in braces for fourteen months because she was so good about wearing elastics on her teeth. She just had her wisdom teeth removed yesterday; she has cute chipmunk cheeks today.
Youngest's lack of executive function means that many times, he would rather give up every privilege he has than to drag himself to the sink for two minutes to brush his teeth. It drives me absolutely fucking nuts. We've tried rewards, bribery, and threats to life & limb, all to no avail. My prediction is that we will have to have the braces removed from his teeth. He had to have three teeth pulled before his braces.
Middle will have braces on his teeth for five years at the rate he (doesn't) wear his elastics. He had to have two teeth pulled before his braces.
My husband has an artificial tooth. As a child, he was playing "golf" with his brother. For some stupid-ass unknown reason, hubby laid down on the floor to "eye" his brother's shot. His brother's shot, as it turns out, was directly in line with hubby's mouth, knocking his front tooth down his throat. Heh.
We pay a lot for our 151 teeth, monetarily, physically, and emotionally. I never really thought about how much dental drama we have endured. We could do a whole reality show about my family's dental issues. I'm totally serious; I'm calling A&E or DHC right now.
My life sucks. Every day is filled with darkness, with only the occasional glimpse of light. I'm always cold; I'm supposed to be next to a warm stove, inhaling the marvelous smell of cookies. Baking Soda. You'd think they would know, just by my name, where I belong. But they've stuck me in here, in this dark hellish place, to do a workhorse job that no one else is willing to do.
You'd also think that I'd get front row seats to all the action, considering all the work I'm expected to do here. But, NO! I get pushed to the back of the ranks, along with the leftover pork 'n' beans and the chow chow. I'm short, too, so even when the lights come on, and there's a glimpse of the outside world, I can't see over the precious ketchup and the mayonnaise and the orange juice. Don't even get me started on that fat bitty Butterworth; she purposely scoots her buttery ass over in front of me every time. She has hearing like a friggin' dog; she can hear humans headed toward the fridge for miles.
I wonder how many humans know I can only do so much dirty work before I can't take it any more. They don't check some of my cellmates for so long that mold has attacked and is growing all over them; I feel bad when they get pitched in the garbage just for being inanimate. And onions! Oh, bleeding Christ, the onions; they really have it in for me, trying so hard to make me look like I'm not doing my job properly. Just their presence here makes me cry. It's all enough to make a box of baking soda go insane.
At least I know my job is safe for a good long while. They never ask me if I'm still okay and happy in the job; they just assume, and leave me be. They don't realize I expired a year and a half ago, and I quit really trying a month before that.
People are occasionally taken aback by my foul mouth. I fully believe that curse words, in and of themselves, serve a useful purpose and that people who are offended by them are pussies, should get the hell over it already, and shut the fuck up. I tend to also harbor the theory that people who are offended by curse words must believe they themselves are defined by those words.
Certainly, there are words in the English language that serve no purpose other than to insult or pain other people. These are the words about which people should be worrying: Nigger, kike, spic, wetback, et al. True, these are also just words, but they were imagined for no useful purpose other than to promote a hateful agenda (which is why I don't include the words fag or faggot, which were actual words which were adopted and bastardized for nefarious purposes). Curse words, on the other hand, have purposes. For brevity, I'll cover just a few targeted by the FCC.
Take, for example, the word shit. It is a synonym for more mundane words like stuff or things (i.e. "Get your shit together and get out!"). It is also a synonym for excrement, and, frankly, the words poop, doody, and poo poo and are more offensive to my intelligence than shit. The only reason for anyone to be offended by this word is if they are being called "shit" unfairly (you can't really be offended if it's warranted, though).
What about fuck? It, too, is simply a synonym for other, more quotidian words. Even those who claim to be offended by the word fuck, if being honest, have to marvel at the sheer versatility of this word. No other word in the English vernacular can be used as so many different parts of speech. We hold great admiration for people who show as much versatility; why shouldn't we afford the same esteem to the word fuck?
Ah, and then there's the grande dame of all dirty words, the one that offends most of all: cunt. Although I can't say I often (if ever) run across the need for this word (remember, I said curse words are utilitarian), it's still just a word, people. Get over it. Say it. Bunt, hunt, runt, stunt, cunt. It's not a particularly elegant-sounding word; it's somewhat clunky and abrupt, but therein lies its usefulness. By the time you are frustrated enough to need the word cunt, using its more workaday relative bitch or its more British-sounding (and therefore more elegant-sounding) cousin twat just won't suffice. One who is opposed to the word cunt may try to argue that it, like the aforementioned general hate words, is designed to demean and malign a person, but that would be oversimplifying reality. A person who has done something so outrageous and hideous as to qualify as a cunt is deserving of such; no one deserves to be called a nigger (which, if you'll notice, is not a synonym for any another word, and therefore will never prove useful for anything other than hate promotion).
Many who are offended by curse words posit that, because there are other, less abrasive words which mean the same thing, we should be able to use those words instead. I'm sorry, folks, but if I stub my ingrown toenail and can see nothing at the moment but pretty stars and colorful fireworks, golly, poop, or doody just isn't going to cut it. And, although I haven't often had to reach for this word, if I happen to see Ann Coulter on the street (or even on television), there's really no other word that can encompass her vileness quite as thoroughly as cunt.
This week's prompt is: Miscellaneous. My mind went immediately to my widely varying taste in music. What kind of interesting groupings could I invent based on the band names in my iTunes Library?
Well, there's the boring "I'm Too Lazy to Think of a Name for a Band" category: Alanis Morrisette, Billy Joel, Bing Crosby, Bob Dylan, Britney Spears, David Bowie, Eddie Money, Elton John, Eric Clapton, Fiona Apple, Jim Croce, Joe Cocker, Joan Osborne, Pete Yorn, John Mayer, Johnny Cash, Justin Timberlake, Rod Stewart, Sara McLachlan, Sheryl Crow, Tony Bennet.
Then I suppose there could be a "I Used to Have a Band But I Ditched 'Em" category: Gwen Stefani, John Lennon, Stevie Nicks, Rob Thomas, Bruce Springsteen, Serj Tankian, George Michael.
There's definitely going to be a "I Don't Know How the Hell This Crap Got Here" category: John Denver, George Strait, Barry Manilow, Randy Travis, Kenny Rogers, Rascall Flatts, Miley Cyrus, Beyonce, Jessica Simpson, Right Said Fred (Although it's true, Fred, I AM too sexy. Heh.).
But couldn't there be some fun to be had if there were categories like these?
"Pick a Number, Any Number": Nine Inch Nails, Matchbox Twenty, The B-52's, 10,000 Maniacs, Three Days Grace, 3 Doors Down, Avenged Sevenfold, 30 Seconds to Mars.
"Religious-like Iconic Symbolism": Jesus Jones, Taking Back Sunday, Judas Priest, Stone Temple Pilots, The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo De Silos (yeah, so they really are religious icons, so what? They're on my iPod.), Nirvana, Madonna.
"Learning Colors With My iPod": The Black-Eyed Peas, Blue October, Blues Traveler, The Cranberries, Deep Purple, Plain White T's, Green Day, Pink, The White Stripes, Yello (I said we're learning colors, not correct spelling, so it counts, people.).
"Our Fans are Too Lazy or High to Remember Our Whole Band Name": AFI (A Fire Inside), REM (they just wanted us to think we were too high to remember what it stands for, which is nothing; it was a random name chosen from the dictionary), CCR (Creedence Clearwater Revival), DMB (Dave Matthews Band, ELO (Electric Light Orchetra), MCR (My Chemical Romance), OMD (Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark), NWA (I actually was too drunk during their reign to accurately recall that this stands for Niggaz with Attitude. Furreals. I looked it up.).
"Are you growing iPot in This Garden?": Savage Garden, The Wallflowers, Red Hot Chili Peppers \, Black Eyed Peas, Blind Melon, Fiona Apple, The Cranberries, Korn, Sheryl Crow, The Toadies, Toad the Wet Sprocket.
"Annihilistic Chaos": Five for Fighting, Violent Femmes, Seether, Smash Mouth, Beastie Boys, Breaking Benjamin, Rise Against, The Killers, The Fray, Big Audio Dynamite, Rage Against the Machine, The Police.
"Thinking About Girls, Girls, Girls": Barenaked Ladies, Violent Femmes, Dixie Chicks, Indigo Girls, Queen, Goo Goo Dolls, Muse, Martina McBride, The Flaming Lips, Kiss.
"Sweet One-Liners": Beck, Jet, Muse, Enigma, Madonna, Aerosmith, Atreyu, Coldplay, Chicago, Enya, Fuel, Kiss, Korn, Nirvana, Pink, Phish, Pantera, Queen, Wheatus, Usher.
What great categories can you come up with your iTunes library? I'd love to hear 'em.
It's early evening; the train is leaving the station once more. This train is designated for frequent travelers, those who must make this journey at least daily, and not because they want to, but because they must. This trip is a requisite, for their lives are interminably entwined with their fellow travelers, who are also aboard out of duty and necessity.
On this day (and most), my companions are my family. Three teenaged children and a husband. We are, all of us, at the mercy of our conductor: my youngest child's inoperable frontal lobe. This train's destination is set, and the ride will not be smooth or pleasant. Although it is a trip we take often, it is not one we have chosen.
As the train leaves the station, there is a cacophony of screeching as we are catapulted forward. The noise becomes unbearable, the train pushing forward at dangerous velocity. It's time to put on my seatbelt, because the ride will be jarring; nausea is unavoidable. The speed with which we catapult forward never subsides as we approach the first of an unknown number of breakneck twists and turns in the track. Reason and logic are futile: we shouldn't be traveling this fast, we shouldn't be on this track, we shouldn't be here at all, but our conductor is indifferent.
For what seems an eternity, we hang on with white knuckles and empty souls, until the train inevitably begins to slow. Pulling into the very station from which we departed, we realize that, although we are taken a different route each time, the scenery is nearly always identical.
Queasy, confused, and spent, we disembark. We recognize that we may have only a short layover before our next trip on the (Bi)Polar Express, and it angers us, saddens us. Though we hold tickets with no expiration dates, we are warriors; we are a band of weary travelers with enough determination to weather these trips with courage and love.
My first poetic endeavor... possibly ever, unless you count grade
school. It actually came quite easily once I sat down and quietly
contemplated what's going on in our life right now.
We dance around it
The elephant in the room--
Invisibly ill.
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