I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Can Brag About [...]*
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, faith, family, food, humor, life, writing
* The full, real title is I've never had a mullet, and other Things I Feel I Have the Right to Brag About and also Things I Cannot Stand. Just, you know, FYI. You should know that what follows is a) a partial list only, and b) they’re not in any particular order of Cannot Stand vs. Brag. I would say to put your Big Boy Panties on and read carefully, but it’s odd how similar the things I can’t stand and the things I want to brag about actually are. I’m not sure what that says about me, but anyway – to be safe –...
For Lora…
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, family, humor, life
I’ve been very fortunate to have remarkable women in my life. Blessed, above and beyond, I have to say; you certainly should be very jealous of me for this. You should be so jealous in fact that you stop reading this and immediately pull up a separate Word document and begin typing out your own list of names. Because, I have no doubt, you could list several remarkable women yourself. As a matter of fact, I think this is exactly what you should do. Go on. I’ll give you five minutes. I’m more than happy to wait for five minutes, don’t worry. Five minutes later… Believe it or...
This raises an interesting question within my Articles of Faith [...]
There are several things that I'm simply not good at. Saying No, being right up there near the top. But, I also have other, more lasting, character flaws, that I'm afraid err on the side of my being "too good at." It's true. But, no worries, I'm not perfect. For instance, I have a cowlick. No, what I'm referring to is my "curse." I have one. (I probably have more than one, but I have one that is simply prevalent, at all costs, regardless of any personal demographic). I never forget an injustice. Ever. As a matter of awkward fact, I could go for years without seeing...
I feel pretty sure God said He was going to stop doing that to people.
I love bad weather. I hate flying. Putting the two together does not help, because the spectrum on which they reside is of equal value. Both haunt my dreams, and continuously. I'm hoping...against hope I would imagine since we're entering that stage of the season where thunderstorms lurk around the farthest oak trees, down the highway, and then appear suddenly, from the limb tops...still, I'm holding out that the weather will be nice toward the end of June when I must board a plane and fly to Tacoma, Washington. For funsies, you say? No. Not for funsies. For competition. The community theatre I work with...
And, for the record, I really like my shower curtain.
Last night. Oh, my, last night... Full house. Standing ovation. Sheer exhaustion. After party. Kudos. The usuals. Totally worth it...all the rehearsals, which in this case were rather tightly thrown together and quickly so, and the lines...oh god, the lines...I've never been that close to Shakespeare (he seems standoffish like my cousin Jonathan - sure, sure, he'll speak, he'll pass you the potato salad if you ask him, but he won't really like doing it, and you'll be able to tell from the look on his face, but it'll be a private thing, not broadcast to the whole dinner table). But, last night, Shakespeare...
Part Two: Aunt Lola
When and if I remember a dream it's because it has some potent element to it; I'd like to think I made that point, clearly enough, in yesterday's blog. And certainly, I would think so with the Billie Holiday dream; and those precious and upsetting few that have come true...all of which I've shared with you. But the potency, when it's there, is one that is, that must be, for me, necessarily Fascinating and Disturbing in its minutiae, as it invades my mind, my lobes, with its obsessive and small details; isn't that where God is, according to van der Rohe? I make no bones about...
The monk on a yellow motorcycle.
Again, with the dreams. I'm having such dreams, lately. A flood. Minus the ark. I think they're so vehement and vivid because I'm knuckles-down and knee-deep in rehearsals for The Complete Works of William Shakespeare [abridged]. We open next week, and I'm stressed, to be sure. But so long as I can get that stress out in my dreams, and not on the stage, perhaps, perchance, it will be all right. After all, the Bard said, There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Heaven help me indeed, if this is part of my philosophy. Earth, I...
I drank it as if it were holier than Coke.
Hold on, now. Don't think I'm crazy, entirely, but I have on three separate occasions dreamed things that have then occurred. In actual life. The first involved a childhood pet, Scruff, who had gone to live with my grandparents at Fish Camp, a family compound surrounded my cabins, ponds, a basic swimming pool, and a torturously long vegetable garden, where we gathered each summer for a fish fry and the annual task of grading blueberries and other such fruit; several on my father's side were in the fruit farm industry; after an afternoon of grading blueberries, there is no child on...
I don't actually sleep very well, without you, except sometimes.
Although I hate being sick, I will admit to loving the way my voice sounds when I get congested. It's deep, it's sexy, raspy, as if I've actually been a smoker for many years, and on a dare, decided to smoke an entire pack at one time, before quitting. I feel like I'm nasally the love child of Bea Arthur and James Colburn. At least, in my mind, that's how I sound. In reality, I'd told be the love child of Bea Arthur and Charles Nelson Reilly, everybody knows that.
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