Happiness Is a Warm Pen

I like writing so much better than speaking.

Writing is like composing a delicious secret to which you have the ultimate publishing rights. When you finally choose to release it, it's all there, on paper, in its complete and purposed form. Nothing that you haven't chosen to reveal. No slip of skin, like a tabloid photograph. No betraying facial expression. No concealing tone. You open your hands and release it in your own perfect timing. It refuses to lie, even if it is in itself a mistruth.

I wonder how many heroes' histories have been forged by the scribes, the poets, the bards.... I had the good sense long ago to learn the pen rather than the sword. I mean, knock yourself out slaughtering all the dragons you want, but at the end of the day, if your secretary hasn't been there to take dictation, your fantastic feats are naught but worm chow, perhaps good for credit on the purchase of your next mighty steed.

Maybe that's why I've kept diary since second grade. Even at the age of seven, I realized it as the golden gun of passive aggression. Like a boy, but too self-conscious to pin him to the playground fence and smear him with cherry lip gloss? Journal your every shared interaction obsessively. Shaken by your teacher, and afraid no one will believe you? Write a clever, thinly-veiled poem about her hairy moles and cash in some smart kid points to get it published in the school newsletter.

Ahhh, precious control. You are the dime bag that makes my out of tune pawn shop Fender sound like Eddie Van Halen's solo in "Beat It".

"You Are the Burden of My Generation..."

To whom do I belong? Do I have a heritage? A mother or a father land?

As I slowly progress in age (and I said SLOWLY, dang ya!), a longing grows inside of me to know who I am in reguard to what - or, specifically, whom -- I'm made of.

In a modern world that places so much emphasis on racial tolerance, I'm surprised that so many middle Americans like me have chapters of unwritten family history and identity. (Aside: perhaps this is why our preferences are so dictated by the whims of celebrity, fashion & trend?)
I continuously wonder that if I knew what kind of temperments and tendencies my acestors had, if I would better be able to understand myself. Don't get me wrong -- I understand that each individual is unique and special snowflake... and good Lord knows me folks shouldn't be blamed for a number of my less than endearing quirks!
Maybe it's merely a romantic notion of mine, that it would be so fortifying to belong to a tribe, a people, a centuries-old tradition of love and struggle and music and art and faith in things unseen.....

"Homeless,
Homeless,
Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake...."

My mother claims that I am blood-related to both Confederate President Jefferson Davis and current American president Barack Obama. No wonder I'm going through an identity crisis.

"...but I've reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland...."

Everybody understands you better when you're dead.

touchdown

You ever just have one of those days when you want to punt every squirrel along your wooden path?

There he goes.... through the hedges...little fur torpedo!....over the treeline...two points!

Lilah-brand Love

Delilah, "kissing" her daddy on the thumb

As the sun teases me by wagging its tail over the horizon, I trek two frosty miles home in search of a little pug affection... (here's to hoping there are no gifts to be offered up to the paper towel gods left in her and Amos's crate...)