Great googly moogly is the least colorful set of words that come from my lips and it happens only because there is a beautiful little boy in the car with me.
Little man isn’t quite so little any more but sometimes I forget because the boy who is almost 13 was 13 months yesterday. I am trying to reconcile the passage of time in a way that makes sense to me and having trouble doing so.
Blame it upon whatever makes sense to you because that is what I do. I could say it is tied into having been gone for almost a year but that is not entirely true nor does it provide a proper segue for what I want to share now.
He Channeled My Voice
Sometimes I shake my head because the words coming from my mouth are an exact copy of what my own father would say but that is not why I am shaking it now.
Now it is because the boy in the back seat is telling me about how he channeled me. He is not using those exact words but he is saying that he got irritated at school and he realized that what he said sounded exactly like me.
I shouldn’t be surprised because he is mine. You might not see it in his face but his hands, feet and build at me and apparently so are a bunch of his mannerisms.
I listen to his tale and silently pray that I have done a proper job because if he is going to imitate me let it be my best traits and not the bad. Let him pick up on the good and ignore the bad because I don’t want the sins of the father visited upon the son.
Jesus Hates Tim Tebow & 17 Other Reasons Why Your Blog is a Failure
I used those words a while back as the headline for a different postÂ that is just as relevant now as it was then. I shouldn’t be surprised because it is proof that all this crap is cyclical and that the more things change the more they stay the same.
Probably not worth crying about but sometimes I just can’t ignore it and so I put it out there so that it doesn’t lie inside and fester. I suppose it is tied into some of what is contained inÂ Are You Guilty of Bad Blogging?
I don’t know a writer who is worth a damn that doesn’t ask the hard questions of themselves and wonders if maybe they are churning out junk.
It is part of the package. Writers are filled with rage, insecurity and fear. Writers are filled with hope, dreams and confidence that somehow they will construct the right words in the write way and that when they do they’ll be found and elevated, taken to the karmic destiny writers dream of.
Words Left Unwritten
I am not officially doing the whole Nanowrimo thing this year but not because I fear it. This time it is because I am supporting too many blogs and need to reel things in a bit.
Besides there are a million tales at WLU that need to be expanded upon. Somewhere in the ether is someone who experienced more than a single moment of joy celebrating a few birthdays this year.
Somewhere out there she knows precisely what I am talking about and understands that I am not kidding when I say I know things. She knows how the brush of a hand against a hip or knees touching under a table can make a heart pound and understands a story of two souls.
Only In LA
Back in the parking lot the boy wants to know who the idiot on the cellphone is and why he is pacing around the parking lot. I don’t mention that I recognize him because I don’t know his name.
I just know he is a character actor who plays wing nuts, lunatics and the slightly unhinged. That might not be completely accurate but I am irritated with him and the drivers who can’t park straight. Between them it is becoming a nightmare to park here and I haven’t any patience.
If you ask me why I don’t it is because I miss 1724 and I am irritated about having to do what has to be done. But part of me is cool with it all because this is just a moment in time and I know that life is made up of these moments.
And it is why I don’t share all of my thoughts because this boy and I are sharing a moment now and I don’t want him to get distracted because dad says the guy out there is acting like “a fucking asshole.”
But in the silence I wonder if that is what my son said at school and if he knows that he wasn’t just channeling me but three other generations of men in the family.
Life is something else sometimes.