Braving December

Here it is…the blogosphere. I’ve come for many reasons, but there is one I find more important than the others: to write. Brilliant, eh? *Eh—it’s not just for Canadians* In any case, yes, to write.

Friends, you know that very recently, I’ve said that I was ending my long-time love/hate relationship with words. Now, we all know that what that really means is that I’ve lost the joy in writing. I’ve somehow maimed inside of me what was once my most fierce and fickle lover.

So, here I am, in an attempt at rekindling. I’m wooing my writer-self, “Come on, baby…tell me something good.” (Ok, that felt dirty. Anyway…)

All that said, I need to proceed as any man-in-the-wrong would/should do in the romantic comedy of my mind—fight for the woman he loves. Why is writing a woman, and I’m a man? No idea, just roll with it. Role with it? Whatever.

So, as the romantic in me would have it, this requires an act of selflessness—of ponying up, of real bravery.

I made a list in my mind—things that had happened recently, things that upset me, make me feel vulnerable, like a failure…you get the picture—and I mashed them into a draft of a pseudo-found poem. Normally, this isn’t the kind of poem that I’d share (something silly, undone, vulnerable), but I'll do anything for this love, apparently.

The list:

1) The sky drained of all but some unnamable gray.
2) My sons, stealing TAG body spray from the grocery store where I shop every week.
3) Finding out later that kids here huff a lot; that someone must procure the drug, sell it.
4) Emma the wonderdog is starting to have achy hips.
5) Having the annual, requisite fight with my father, who’s a bit, cuckoo.
6) That I’m a bit cuckoo, too.
7) That I feel like a hostage in myself many days now. I’ll blame December.

The poem was here for nearly 24 hours. And now, it's gone, but I'll blog something else later. What can I say, I'm a chicken. Men in RC’s are so brave.