A Random Image

Archive for June, 2005

(and pee ess, I’m not pregnant, even though I was an amazing ten days late.)

SO, the night before last each and every one of the four Superior children –Piper, Sam, Scout AND Mathias– had an overnight guest. Used to be that I’d make them stagger out their sleepovers, but MY HEAVENLY LORD it takes weeks on end, loads of patience and furious schedule-juggling to do that when you have more than two kids. I’m the adventurous sort; why not take my medicine all at once?

This was an experiment we may repeat because it actually worked out pretty well. Overall, I’d say I raised my voice significantly less than usual, because all of the children were distracted and not so hell-bent on torturing one another.

(Perhaps you are familiar with Ritual Sibling Torture? It comes in various forms, but the most common executions are Girls Versus Boys, Plague The Person Next-Oldest To You, and Plague The Person Next-Youngest To You.)

Also, there were fresh ears –the girl Piper had over was newly-introduced to The Way Of Superior– for all the tired, semi-lame lines that mothers everywhere personalize and make their own. YES, darling Muffinasses, I got to tell one more kid in the world that, “Right now I’m tellin’, next time, I’m yellin’.”

Because, you see, everyone gets duly warned before the Mommy Viper attacks.

We awoke early, early, early yesterday morning, this Maxim-person and I, to tousle one another’s hair and make the ridiculous sounds that people having smokin-good sex have, only to try and smother them with pillows and one another’s skin so that The Children Will Not Be Traumatized. Yes, we have sex while other people’s offspring are in our house*. Damnit, you people…don’t you listen? I just told you four or five paragraphs ago that I am an adventurous sort!

After that, Maxim dragged himself up out of bed to go and visit his stores to make sure the retail monkeys were not flipping off the customers and flinging poo at them**. We chatted as he ironed his clothes and picked out his socks and then when he went off to get his shower, I reclined in my scrumptious bed blissing on the quiet. When he came back in, I remarked on it.

JETT: Listen, my lovely, to that broad expanse of silence.

MAXIM: Yes ma’am, it is enjoyable.

[fear creeps into JETT's voice]

JETT: Yes, but…

JETT: Out there, beyond that piece of wood

[JETT gestures toward the bedroom door]

JETT: they lie in wait. They could overrun us at any minute.

MAXIM: Us, hell! Bitch, I’m outta here for the day!

And with that, the vile, traitorous bastard slid out the french doors onto the patio , disappearing in his practical little wind-uppish car.

*I have this friend that tells me unabashedly that she WILL NOT, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, have sex while children are in the house. Not her own and OHMYMERCIFULLORD, especially not anyone else’s!

**When I lived in Oklahoma, I went on school-sponsored trips to the zoo about three times. Each and every time, the chimpanzees made a myriad of rude gestures and flung poo at the visitors. I finally asked the tour guide lady why they didn’t send those monkeys on tour and get a new, more amiable batch.

|| June 28, 2005 || 11:03 am || Comments (2) ||

You too can aspire to greatness!

Take the MIT Weblog Survey

Once again, the Crazy Neighbor Lady has influenced this weblog’s content.

|| June 26, 2005 || 10:07 pm || Comments (4) ||

Jeff Trimble is a dick.*

I’m willing to bet that when I was a junior and Jeff Trimble was a senior in high school that he never, ever could have imagined that one day in the not-so-distant future there would be a way for me to broadcast to literally millions and billions of people that he is an extra-large size wanker extraordinaire.

This, my good people, is what the interwebnet was made for. Information age and all. The information that Jeff Trimble is a fucking dickdrip is important and vital to all of Cyberia, whether all of Cyberia presently realizes that or not.

I will retract this statement officially if Jeff Trimble contacts me and can, with supporting evidence, convince me that he is no longer the extra-large and flaming asshole that he was in years ninteen eighty-six through eighty-eight.

Thank you and goodnight.

*But his little brother, Chris, is bringin’ the rad full-force.

|| June 24, 2005 || 3:28 pm || Comments (14) ||

Fire the Torch

I want to learn to weld,

To make dead objects sing

By virtue of the fact

I have seen fit to knit them

–Fat bead of bleeding metal

Though frozen, seeming to pulse–


(for Chris, who was the first person, in all five years of my doing this blogging thing, to ever drop a line in my e-mail saying that he comes here first and foremost for the poetry. the rest of you will just have to suck it up when I go careening wildly off the path, slapping more poems together for him. crybabies.)

|| June 21, 2005 || 1:16 pm || Comments (5) ||

Hep a brutha out.

Okay, I’ve gone through the first two-and-a-half years of the five years’-worth of entries here in order to narrow the field for the Southern Bloggers book submission. Please, please, do me the kindness of perusing these entries. Then tell me, from your delightful readery standpoint, which entry or two are the freshest reads for you. Which ones ‘pop’. Which ones you’d like to see in ‘official’ print.

I am a hokey freak.

Of Milkshakes And Greenery

“Mom, you are SO rock an’ roll.”

Somebody’s gotta provide the entertainment.

Pillar Of The Community

How’re we gonna pull this off?

Get Thee Behind Me, Fear Of Aging!

Cinnamon Roll Chalice

Let there be peace.

Game On

Our Lady Of The Nighttime Park

Favored Child

Our Own Tribe

Highs and Lullabys

Vignette: I-65 Wandering

Complimented vs. Completed

A Couple Good Beatin’ Stories

This Is Christmas

Granted, they need polishing, so hold off on ‘editorial-style’ commentary unless it pertains to content, please. It would be preferable for y’all to hit the comments, but if any of you are uncomfortable with that, I am of course accepting e-mail. I’ll be shaking out the rest of the archives this week and posting a few things from February of two-aught-aught-three to present for you guys to give me input on, as well.

Love you, mean it!

Also despite the fact that Hillary Duff person is on the teevee.

You know what?

Despite the fact that it’s one forty-five in the ay emm and my sleep has been all fucked up ten ways to Sunday ever since the accident, I am exceedingly happy.

Rightherenow thisveryminute. Joyous. Buoyant, even. There is much to be glad about.

You people have yourselves a good day. And call a sistah if anyone tries to jones it up for you. I’ll come fuck up some knees, chief.

|| June 18, 2005 || 8:39 pm || Comments (5) ||

Noisy Old World, redux

Music as a common link between otherwise unrelated people, people with no shared characteristics or interests, is something I’ve explored here before. Today, however, I found this

“The harmony of an airliner is one unending chord. It speaks of speed and efficiency but it also speaks of life. The environment outside a plane at cruising altitude is deadly. If any of the three sounds were to stop you’d be in a world of trouble. Heartbreaking pictures on the nightly news kinda trouble.”

and it jogged something in me.

A couple of years ago (or thereabouts) I heard this bit on NPR –and woe is me, I didn’t retain the source so I could show you– about a guy who went around listening to the technology in his home. He honed in on the background hums obsessively, noting how they became so much harmonized white noise. He was baffled: How did this happen? How did all these machines naturally work in concert with one another? How did they not clang against one another, inharmonic and grating to him? Why were they not dissonant?…they’re machines, after all, and cannot control their pitch and whine.

The answer did not come to him. However, he began to listen even closer to his machines and ended up putting them down on paper: He put the hum of their tones into scale and then threaded them together to make the first known musical composition based on the notes independently belted out by modern conveniences. The Appliance Symphony. The Technology Fugue. Hel-loooo, Microchip Boogie-Woogie.

Dear Machines,

Man is not using you now to feed his creations through, he are using you to feed the creation itself.

Still Not Sure What To Think ‘Bout That, But In Awe Nonetheless,


Holy, holy, amazing-uddered cow.

My whole life has been defined by sounds; my mother has told me on more than one occasion that I sang before I spoke. She scrawled in my baby book that I liked to be sung to better than anything (“Turtle Blues” –cleaned-up version, natch– and “Me and Bobby McGee” scoring as dead hits on my wee toddler pleasure center) and I pulled my fat volume of nursery rhymes from my overflowing bookshelves over and over. I loved hearing her warm Delta drawl melt across the words, then buoy them up in its sweetness. The words had a rhythm, my momma’s voice had a rhythm and the two intertwined so gorgeously that I could not help but want to do that thing she did myveryownself. I credit her and her deft tounge-work with a page as the reason I was so insistent on learning to read and write. I wanted to be part of that wonder, that absolute magic of rhythm and sound and pulling something out of nothing.


Where There Once Were Letters, Now There Are Words.

Where There Once Were Words, There Now Sit Sentences.

Where Once There Were Sentences, There Are Ideas Lifting Off The Very Page.

Where Once There Was Blankness On Both Page And In Thought, There Now Are Things Leaping And Singing And


Sparking The Same In Others.

So when I was two I read. I sang at six months, I spoke at nine months, I read at age two and began painstakingly crafting letters of my own accord at age three. By four, I’d written and illustrated a book. At five I had my first record player, which was amazing in its capacity to marry music and spoken word and reading only encumbered by the occasional annoying ding!.

I remember even back then listening for the Song of Surroundings, the gorgeous cresting and waning of the worldnoise that created a beautiful life-symphony. In my world there was the chatter of nannies (a veritable song unto itself), familial laughter, birds cawing, the rustle of crops, crickets humming, my papaw on the porch rocking, the approach-retreat cadence of my parents dancing and murmuring to one another in the den after I lie tucked safely amidst sun-freshened linens and pillows.

(My God, how they loved one another when they loved one another. And how they danced, nuzzling, a world unto themselves. It was a sight to behold, barefooted and wide-eyed from the breezeway.)

I was in every program and pageant I could manage; I loved to speak the pre-scripted missives and opened my mouth until it seemed I had no head because I was so exuberant with song. I started begging at age five for a piano and they finally surprised me with one at age nine, having determined four years’-worth of pleading a sure enough sign of dedication to future craft. I was long-fingered, but not naturally talented. Where my sister’s fingers effortlessly sought out notes languidly and with a lack of true interest, almost savantlike, I had to work fiercely to make my own push and pull at proper intervals; although I could hear flawless, clean silences with a hint of resonation beneath them perfectly in my head, my hands were rebellious and had to be forced, over and over, into compliance.

Later there was school band and an alto saxophone, which I viewed as terribly sleek and, basically, Pure Brass Sex Sporting A Reed. I loved the sound I pushed from it, and my four years beating myself up at the piano had paid off…I was a marvelous horn player with very little effort! This instrument made me JOYFUL to look on it, to touch it, to draw music from it. The saxophone bore my personality from a musical standpoint. To me, it fit my hands like it was made to be there.

There followed, starting with a bad(ass) group comprised only of girls in the seventh grade, a string of bands to which I lent my excellent lyrical and somewhat marginal musical talents. I always heard these exacted, amazing things in my head, but I lacked the innate ability to translate it to the page for some years, and by the time I was taught formally I had learned so many bad habits on my own that it was hard to get around them.

Now I have a house full of children who love music as much as life –the youngest has the hum of song beneath everything he speaks– and a husband who will sit to play and sing with me at a moment’s notice just like waybackwhen we had not much responsibility and no real concerns save for a good beer and gas money for the next gig.

But still, I have that piano, the same piano that I somewhat learned the discipline of music upon, the same piano I played in tandem one night with the love of my life; that was just before I made extremely satisfying love to him right there on the piano bench, keys ringing their surprise at witnessing my arching back. I listen to the sounds around me and sometimes in the deceptive quiet of my surroundings I seat myself on the bench and try to craft a counterpoint to their innate melody at that same piano.

Even considering my own limitations to harmonize with everything around me, the attempt itself makes me feel more free than just about anything else I know.