Monday, May 2, 2011
Hello, Prose
I'm not sure how I feel about you, Prose. At your worst, you're dull, you sprawl, you're ungainly. After such a happy journey with poetry (the pinpoint, pencil tip, pollen of language), I'm not sure you and I can be such good friends anymore.
Oh, all right, I like you well enough. Truthfully, I'd much rather sit around a campfire with you than with poetry. You're a more laid back and mellow. Poetry gets a bit intense and can make your eyeballs hurt.
A few of Martin's students still sit around the glowing campfire down our hill. As the night tipped into 9:30 and after, I thought the children really should head up to bed. Martin had finished playing snatches of Blackbird, singing in the dead of night. . .and really, when the Beatles are finished, you should be, too. I'm glad they've stayed, though--they're a bright group of people and I enjoyed them, especially Megan and Janelle, who played badminton with the girls AND went down our formidable hill with them in the red wagon. Impressive. There was only one tip-over and shortly afterward, Megan stopped fanning our dying fire and said in a sensible, calm way, "Do you have a bandaid? My foot seems to be bleeding." Merry insisted on accompanying her up the hill into the house as her personal nurse.
So now after a day that plastered me with grass (from mowing and mowing and mowing some more), sweat (from weeding the garden, shopping, and keeping up with extra children), and finally smoke and marshmallow goo, I am freshly showered, hair wrapped up in a towel, and in my pyjamas. I don't think I ever ate dinner. No, I did not. Maybe I'll have a cup of tea and call it a day.
It's not been an exciting reentry into Prose, but I'm too tired to care. I have no profound images or moving words for you. Just a cup of tea, a yawn, and a sleepy smile.
Oh, all right, I like you well enough. Truthfully, I'd much rather sit around a campfire with you than with poetry. You're a more laid back and mellow. Poetry gets a bit intense and can make your eyeballs hurt.
A few of Martin's students still sit around the glowing campfire down our hill. As the night tipped into 9:30 and after, I thought the children really should head up to bed. Martin had finished playing snatches of Blackbird, singing in the dead of night. . .and really, when the Beatles are finished, you should be, too. I'm glad they've stayed, though--they're a bright group of people and I enjoyed them, especially Megan and Janelle, who played badminton with the girls AND went down our formidable hill with them in the red wagon. Impressive. There was only one tip-over and shortly afterward, Megan stopped fanning our dying fire and said in a sensible, calm way, "Do you have a bandaid? My foot seems to be bleeding." Merry insisted on accompanying her up the hill into the house as her personal nurse.
So now after a day that plastered me with grass (from mowing and mowing and mowing some more), sweat (from weeding the garden, shopping, and keeping up with extra children), and finally smoke and marshmallow goo, I am freshly showered, hair wrapped up in a towel, and in my pyjamas. I don't think I ever ate dinner. No, I did not. Maybe I'll have a cup of tea and call it a day.
It's not been an exciting reentry into Prose, but I'm too tired to care. I have no profound images or moving words for you. Just a cup of tea, a yawn, and a sleepy smile.
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