Friday, January 7, 2011

Trite, and then, on fire...

blah blah, we've been sick, fights were had...the headache returns, goes away... I parent just as well in pajamas, evidently...from the fold-out, two school pick-ups, the fires were made... the laundry languished, the dishes stacked precariously...
and all still alive.
and i was dazed and confused and sat down alone in front of the woodstove and stared into the flickering flame. we've gotten this wood from my dad which is very confusing to me, and if you're a woodsman, don't bother to educate me because i cannot bear more cotton in my soon-to-be mounted top, please. so these logs have been confusing to me, they just freaking will not catch fire. seriously. wood! which refuses to burn. downright refuses.  It'll steam, and it'll turn black, and eventually, it just sort of falls apart but it will NOT crackle, lick, flame, or glow with the rest of the bad selves having their ways in the big black box.
what the hell is this? who are you ? who the hell am i ?
Is there Will which makes us deny what we are? do we applaud it? do we bemoan the loss of a chance to glow, provide warmth, flame with the glory of all the goodness in creation? crack ones skin open in veins of lava? go prematurely grey in the hopes of hiding the fire within? nurture and succor the flames growing above us? succumb to the flames all around us?  OR refuse. hold fast to the deep grey of our wetness? is there a condescension? a rebellion?
who are you? who the hell am I ?


Anonymous said...

No more sickness! And the words packing and fudge are probably not ones you want to use in the same sentence again in the future.

But I love the way you think.