Wednesday, June 28, 2006

My mom used to tell me that you can't make a living out of caring.

I was thinking about that this morning. We are unpacking now and I always move too slowly. Always have. I stop and look at things, remember. Often I find a novel or a book and just begin reading. Hours will pass.

I unpacked The Angel On The Roof last night, Russell Banks' short story collection and I stole it away from the boxes and have been reading it since. The stories are wonderful, it has one of my favorites, The Moor, but it's the introduction that always gets me. Banks talks about his mother telling stories and telling stories in general and the staying power or lack thereof of those tales.

Years ago an ex-girlfriend in an attempt to be really cruel told me that all I want is someone to listen to my stories. I remember the comment, in fact I hold it close to me and have had since then. In many ways she was right at the time and beyond that. It makes me sad. I wonder if it's still true. Funny, in the context of writing this blog.

I haven't threaded the connection togteher but my mom telling me you can't make a living out of caring sidles up right beside it. Two thoughts together.

Friday, June 23, 2006

I keep saying it in my head....

We are made of dreams and bones
We are made of dreams and bones
We are made of dreams and bones


Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
Gonna mulch it deep and low
Gonna make it fertile ground

Inch by inch, row by row
Please bless these seeds I sow
Please keep them safe below
'Till the rain comes tumbling down

Pullin' weeds and pickin' stones
We are made of dreams and bones
Need a place to call my own
'Cause the time is close at hand

Grain for grain, sun and rain
Find my way in nature's chain
Till my body and my brain
Tell the music of the land

from Garden Song
by David Mallet

Monday, June 19, 2006

When Jonathan Richman says shouts out to the Modern Lovers at the end of "Roadrunner," asking for the chant "Radio On" I get the feeling we're all Modern Lovers and he's really talking to us.

There's nothing quite as sobering as sitting at your computer the day after father's day and reading the post secret website. I wish I could label the falling leaves of emotions that I feel but trying to catch all the leaves at once is futile.

There really is no better "oh jesus" moments than sitting at work crying your eyes out.