Text and Hubris

“I can’t!” she whined and tried to fit the pieces together. “They just won’t go.” The rest of the class knew she was being difficult. She was always pretending that the pieces could connect in different ways and that she could design and build the structures rather than follow the instructions to make the good ones she was supposed to build. This was absolute silliness and they all just wished she would do as she was told. It was to be recess soon and they didn’t want to be kept in again.

“Everything must be in its place,” the teacher replied, “and every piece must fit as it should. You know how they fit. Now do it right. Don’t make me call your mother, again.”

The girl paused, tears still welling in her eyes. When they first called her mother she was glad they did. Her mother had always been there for her and she expected her teacher and principal would soon get a very stern talking to like she did when she made her sand castles in the living room using up the last of her mothers potting soil. Things were different, though. This school was different. “You’re there to learn, Abigail,” her mother was angry with her but there was tremor in her voice as well. Abigail didn’t know that parents could be afraid or else she may recognized it. “Stop playing foolish games and do the work. If you want to be anything you have to follow instructions.” She had tried to argue. She tried to tell her mother that the pictures in her head were so much more beautiful and that she could make things, real things that shimmered like butterflies and moved and danced. Her mother wouldn’t listen, though. “Please, Abby, enough with this foolishness. Just do what Mrs. Anders tells you.”

And there Mrs. Anders was, glaring down at the girl daring her to break the rules. Abigail turned the pieces over and slid them together until a soft click was heard. The class cheered and Mrs. Anders actually smiled. “See my dear, you could do it. I knew you could. You get a gold star. I am sure your mother will be quite proud.”

Abigail smiled happily and took her gold star from Mrs. Anders. She placed carefully in the square on her chart and took her seat.

Today was going to be a good day.

Every once in a while I realize why I like blogging.

It isn’t for any real artistic vision. It’s more a reminder of the past. It is a time capsule of a moment. In this sense it is like a journal but, unlike a personal journal, it is shaped by both the author and those who comment. In this sense it acts as a capture of the entire moment and not just one perspective.

Now, blogging has its embarrassments. I have been terribly wrong about some of the things I have said. I’ve been stupid, emotional, and sometimes just silly. I’m okay with that. I’m human. Sometimes, I post some really dumb stuff.

Of course, I also realized what interesting friendships I have had along the line. I get a moment to miss people. Every one of the people who commented on Greyrealm are are gone now. I may still be in contact with a few of them but the person who made the comment has long since passed away. Time changes us. It alters and shifts us in ways we don’t always expect. I tend to be remain rather steadfast in who I am but even I cannot deny the changes that have occurred.

In 2010, I have the unenviable task of creating connections and developing new friendships. I haven’t done that in almost a decade. It should be an interesting experience to say the least. I am sure in another few years (heck, maybe just months), I will look back on these posts and laugh. Of course, that is part of the fun!

Sam woke up today and asked himself that age old question.

“Why?”

I would have told him the answer, too, if I had any clue as to what it was. Instead, I remained silent. After all, what could I say that hadn’t already been said? The floor, all tile and linoleum, was icy cold and unswept. Small specks of sand and dirt clung to Sam’s feet as he walked toward the old bathroom. There was a gun on the nightstand. It was empty but the metal barrel still flickered ominously in the dawn’s light. Somewhere, I heard a wracking, hacking, cough that seemed to echo from every part of the old motel in which we were staying.

Why, indeed?

The water from the shower kicked on and Sam let it run for a full minute before the rusty red from the pipes finally cleared away. At least it was hot. Small bits of steam rose and obscured the bathroom. Everything became wet and the cold of the floor quickly spread to faucet handles and walls. The steam warmed the air, though, and Sam breathed it in with slow, steady, breaths. This was meditation

..and preparation.