12 July 2007

i was going to write something

about bush's press conference that i listened to this morning in the car. it was rife with statements that need a rebuttal.

see, i decided to add insult to injury, as i was heading in to renew my tags and driver's license at the dmv when it came on. an adventure to the dmv is notoriously a task that leaves me wanting to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon while drinking bleach, then cutting myself a thousand times and bathing in lemon juice instead of waiting hours with my stack of documents i've had to collect (social security card, last pay stub, last utility bill with my name on it, state embossed birth certificate, insurance card, inspection, two years of property tax receipts) to prove that i'm not a terrorist... as if those who choose to blow up shit get identification cards at the dmv!

but i digress.

i've decided instead to do a little guest blogger action, as will rarely posts such things, and for purposes of perspective... i needed this today.

i'm STILL teary. i think will may very well be the bestest daddy and boo in the whole wide world. how did i get so lucky to have these two boys share my life with me?

this is why i do what i do.


I watch you boy - springtime's meadow unfolding, thunderously joining in the dance on foal feet. High-kneed stepping to the thrum of moonshadow and the night owl's call even as those of us more familiar with the promenade catch ourselves losing interest. Top-heavy with curiosity, a humming bird blur of fresh inclination. New flowers, new paths, new tastes on the tongue, each guilelessly consumed. Acquiring your sea legs just like all the salts that have come before, with skinned knees and bruised elbows and the shock of beauty's appetite.

I listen as you re-score the songs that underpin pleasure, bend the melodies in ways not even their composers could have dreamed, sew new words to old tunes for the sheer joy of suiting your whims. A voice from the other room, caught up in play, unaware that the old dragon has one eye half open, watching as you call up a new poetry:

Twinkle, twinkle little star,
How I Riley what you are.

A mistake? A confusion? A ridiculous parody? I somehow think not. Much more likely, a premonition from a spirit as yet unbroken.

Unhinge the windows, kick off the shoes and let your feet unfurl each future blade of grass, each stretch of summer-hot asphalt, each pitfall of broken glass. Go! Raindrop run! Race between legs, head back, shrieking amusement's laughter. Gaze up at the faces that hardly notice you – for one day, they will hunger for a glance from you. I am convinced that you will decide to grapple with what will come in ways I have been unable to conceive.

This man - not yet old, but no longer young – finds himself content to sit and let the twine play out on your kite til it no longer matters what I think. But rest assured that I will strike, tear power lines from the skies, hew down any tree that threatens to snag you in its arms. I parry the puckered jealousy of unexamined choices and beg the rain of the fools on my head. They dare not directly confront what they cannot shackle or burry with loam.

Be free to find your footing, to score your own concerto, to paint your own masterpiece. Be free to be what I cannot – your only tether, the memory that your mom and dad love you so.



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