Scissors helped do the job. They left a rough edge and the words disappeared, which isn’t really a bad thing. I held back some but most are gone. I sliced them up but good and, man, did it feel right. The violence of it. Continue reading
My memories, I’m discovering, are full of flaws. The further back I dig in the memory mine, the murkier the memory gets. My headlamp, you might say, gets dim. Often I rely on my siblings stories to flesh out my own. You see, they are vastly older than me (they also read this blog) and have firmer memories than mine. Sometimes I take their words and form my own impression of events. That’s common enough, isn’t it? We all filter our memories through the net of our own life experiences and consequently see things very differently than other family members.
My eldest brother is a scientist and facts are his friends. Each fact holds hands with evidence and the evidence tells an irrefutable story. He likes to speculate – or hypothesize – but he’d never present his hypothesis as the truth without a thorough investigation. On the other hand, I never let the lack of facts get in the way of a good story. This can lead to a misinterpretation of the truth. Case in point: a post I wrote called “Love letter”. Here are the facts:
1. Our father was NOT drunk when he met our mother on their wedding day.
2. My brother ENJOYED arguing with our father. He was, after all, a teenager.
3. Crying may or may not have occurred on the wedding night.
So, to my sibs I say I’m so sorry for messing up the facts. In future I shall confine myself to the portion of our family’s dysfunction that I can directly recall from my own experience. I love you and deeply regret any hurt I may have caused.
Ms. Cigarillo Beret had a dream about squirrels and this is what she dreamed.
Originally posted on wuthering bites:
Lurching from my office in the old convent, my toes jammed in tight pumps, I minced down the hill to my car, checking for a new spot to park as I went. Because the damn parking lot was full, I had to park on the street and jockey the car every three hours to avoid a ticket. Why? Behind the leaded glass windows of the houses in this old, heavily treed neighbourhood, resentment resided. Peeking out from behind sheer drapes the serenity police watched. Parking by-law officers were in their back pockets.
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Look at those two! Such a beautiful Pearly King and Queen! It’s hard to ignore them, isn’t it? On a bright, hot July day in Covent Garden they were a mouthful of freshly cleaned teeth sparkling in the crowd, willing all passersby to smile. Hard to be miserable in their presence, right? Kind of like Facebook life. Continue reading
This has been bothering me for a long, long time – the cost to you for remaining married to an alcoholic. I know you did your best in the early years of a lousy marriage to make a home for your big, new blended family. I know you tried hard to keep us as safe as you could but while you were doing that you lost yourself. Continue reading
I love the word Australopithecus. It just rolls off the tongue and the way it sweeps up on “pith” and spits to the end sums up my feelings about the healing professions – optimistically negative, extinct but alive, defeated but not down.
“Stop! Don’t say anything more or mom will blog about it!”
I am forbidden to tell you about a bit of dialogue between daughters when I came home one evening. Truth is, I’d have a hard time remembering it clearly as I was out celebrating my advancing decrepitude with a girlfriend but I do remember it was fascinating. But I promised and so I will not speak of it. Continue reading