Staggering I’m four years old,

I’m four years old, in the back seat of our oversized station wagon. It’s 1967 and all the station wagons are big enough to swallow a child whole. Without a seatbelt, riding is more like rolling, swimming around in cool blue cushioned seats.

This day, I’m more carsick than usual. Windows rolled tight against the upstate New York cold, the smell of hair spray and cigarette smoke, mixed with whisps of black coffee, make every breath uncomfortable, and I teeter on the verge of gagging and vomiting most of the way there.

When we pull up to the red brick building, my sickness turns quickly to fear. I’m overwhelmed with panic and the primal urge to flee. Danger. I know we’re in terrible danger. And without the words to express it, I do what four year olds do. I wail. Hysterical, high pitched screams fill the car. “Don’t go in there! You won’t come out! P-L-E-A-S-E, Daddy, don’t go in there! Mommy, he won’t come home! He won’t! He Won’t!”

Husband and wife locked in a glance I remember to this day, they slowly turn to me, there on my back-seat ocean of blue cushions, and give words of comfort that shroud their dismay.

“It’s just an appointment honey. Don’t get so upset. He’ll be back in 15 minutes. Calm down, honey, calm down.”

My mother climbs in the back seat with tissues for me, and together we watch my father, 35 years old, pull his collar up against the wind and walk briskly toward the building.

As he walked he was dying.

But we didn’t know that.

I did.

It was my first day in “The School of the Dead.”

from allied via keep trying

I know the feeling… But

I know the feeling…
But at some point along the path to discovery, the reader confronts his or her reading mortality. There’s only so much time. And there are so many great books. And every year more books are published, some of which will be great. Reluctantly, the reader begins to acknowledge the appalling necessity of choosing to read certain good things and not other good things.

NATIONAL POST ONLINE via Also not found in nature

Drips! I often wonder at

I often wonder at my ability as a child to concentrate on the drops of water falling into my bath from the taps. I can so clearly remember watching the ripples as they moved out in expanding circles, the sound of the drips as they fell, watching the drips form on the ends of the taps. Yet now I can only concentrate long enough to have the brief recollection before my thoughts race on to something else.

Obviously I am not alone:

There once lived this naive yet sweetly innocent young boy. At the telling of this story he is sitting casually in the bathtub, the water up to his belly button, just about. In front of him at eye-level is the faucet, chrome and shiny. So that he can see his face reflected in it, though due to the distortion of the reflection his eyes are tightly squeezed together and his chin explodes downwards like an uneven trapezoid with sharp corners. Okay. The faucet is dripping, very slowly. Each drop is a slow motion ballet as the adhesion properties of water keep it stuck to the rim of metal. The drop of water grows and grows and then dips down with the gentle tug of gravity. Dips down, the drip. Gravity pulling against the adhesion properties of water molecules. Two types of attraction defined by nature. Working together, working against one another.

from Random Thoughts

Anger I am angry too

I am angry too much of the time. I was trying to write something myself then decided to do a search on Google. This was what I found:

I don’t understand it when people find it so easy to judge me
Even if they don’t know the story, they look and see,
Misjudge me, I burn inside I feel like a massive storm,
Brewing inside of me turning into a form
What is that form crying
About the truth
Not lying
Just makes me want to die
Even though it better to cry
You don’t know what to do with all this anger
Maybe get the knife, self-harm,
But inside you know you should stay calm
But it isn’t that easy for me
If only someone would understand me
See how hard it is for me
Trying to fight this daily pain
It seems as though I am insane
But I know I’m not
I’m just truthful

Anger by Claire aged 14 – A Poem from the Anger Collection

Lost in the cave? when

Lost in the cave?
when so much of the world comes to us through the media, we slowly, imperceptibly come to believe that we are still living in the world of people, places, things, and events when in sad fact we are living in the world of newspapers, pictures, electronic blips of light and sound. like the denizens of the cave in plato’s republic, we too have taken the shadows cast on the wall for the actual objects. we talk to and about shadows while the actual world glides unobtrusively by. imagery generated from experiences that refer to the world but are not themselves the stuff referred to can hardly be compelling.

– peter london, no more secondhand art via dangerousmeta!