Last week, Ian participated in his first school Christmas concert. He was on stage, in front of hundreds of people, with a bell in his hand. I had a video camera, and a front-row seat.
Ian’s teacher had asked her students to stay calm, and in one place. But you can’t tell Ian that, and then ask him to shake a bell.
Because this is what happens. (Have patience, the servers are busy.)
[Okay, okay, okay. I really do have a video of Ian's stellar performance. Coming soon!]
cats will fight their own
reflections; you talk to a
linda ronstadt cassette.
‘There was a little girl’
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.
Dearest Son:
Some whys, I can handle. I can explain why the trees are coated in ice, why this soap won’t hurt your eyes. Why the moon is full, and what ‘full’ means. Why you should look at the person talking to you. Why you should never, ever use that tone of voice with your mother.
Logic, curiosity, acuity. These are wonderful traits. Good, great. Now, let’s talk about discernment.
I will happily tell you that this is apple juice. I will not tell you why. If you want to know why Paul’s going home, that’s fine. Why is this his home? That’s okay, too. But don’t, for your health and mine, ask me why he lives there.
If my and your mother’s patience and good will are such that we deem a trip to the naughty step unnecessary, don’t ask questions. Grace is a wonderful thing. The same holds true for not having to go to bed, or take a bath, or eat your broccoli. Sleeping dogs, gift horses, Fates. All true.
Here’s the thing. I spend eight hours each day apart from you, in an office where people ask—generally—logical and reasonable questions. Your mother stays with you, and also teaches twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. Lately, I fear for her sanity, and for your life.
Please, if you truly love me and your mother, please: be quiet.
Love, Daddy
I knew I was too late the moment my hand touched the remote. I recognized the warning signs, yet moved too slowly. The tinkling of a slightly flat piano. A young square-jawed professional sprinting across an office block. The feeling of insecurity in my wardrobe.
We were snuggled on the couch, safe from the hordes of side-swiping St. Louisians rushing to buy milk and Wonder Bread. Our house was drizzled with ice and sleet, but the pizza was warm and the television funny. The space-heater was running, full blast.
I nearly made it, but Ian’s ears are quick to obsess. He heard the music, heard the drum. Just as my finger pressed ‘Mute’, his eyes sparkled and he shouted, ‘Go, boy, go!’
Why, Dockers? Why?
The Turtle
By William Carols Williams
Not because of his eyes,
the eyes of a bird,
but because he is beaked,
birdlike, to do an injury,
has the turtle attracted you.
He is your only pet.
When we are together
you talk of nothing else
ascribing all sorts
of murderous motives
to his least action.
You ask me
to write a poem,
should I have a poem to write,
about a turtle.
The turtle lives in the mud
but is not mud-like,
you can tell it by his eyes
which are clear.
When he shall escape
his present confinement
he will stride about the world
destroying all
with his sharp beak.
Whatever opposes him
in the streets of the city
shall go down.
Cars will be overturned.
And upon his back
shall ride,
to his conquests,
my Lord,
you!
You shall be master!
In the beginning
there was a great tortoise
who supported the world.
Upon him
All ultimately
rests.
Without him
nothing will stand.
He is all wise
and can outrun the hare.
In the night
his eyes carry him
to unknown places.
He is your friend.
