you know when you start to write down a lyric and suddenly question whether the words you've strung together for years upon decades is how the song really goes? if you're one of those who just realised jeremy spoke in class today when you've been telling everyone he was smoking grass?
yeah, well.
put dem bot together...den you'll feel better.
i do not like coconut. but i was thinking the other day how that tune was on heavy rotation in my head after mom hit the train.
i am also so very not a fan of 'the wizard of oz' or its soundtrack. but when Israel Kamakawiwo'ole is somewhere over the rainbow, that tune is my absolute favorite. right next to 'stand by me'. which was played at our wedding. and also in the movie of the same name centered around boys in search of a dead body. and while goose did not die by locomotive, they did play iz's oz as he sat on the beach and i weeped as cancer finally took him from 'er'. and i stopped watching.
we played 'son of a preacher man' at dad's funeral. i wonder what dad would have thought. of that and the shots of he and mini-skirted mom leaned back on the car, kissing, that accompanied it.
i wonder what will be played at mine. and if anyone would think to play any of my top three choices laid out above. i do so hope if carl's alive that when they place me in the ground or throw me into the air, that he hums the little espn diddly. and then for vern or matthew to somehow play the 'lost' bomb.
nearly all of which would be so fitting should we die en route to hawaii.
you know when you sit down intent on recording a specific thought and you totally tangent yourself?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
life is an adventure
i spent six afternoon hours in a resort house twice the size of my own while vern golfed with his peers on dupont's dime. the views were fresh and clean. i was trumped by ornery vertical blinds and a riddle of steps. so, too, was owen. he napped. he batted the coiled door stop. i got a sunkist that now only reminds me of the three-hour gestational glucose test from the cooler. i read 'the glass castle'.
in college i would daydream in the shower about the shape my memoirs might take. how i might recognize the proper spot to stick a bookmark in it by way of a final period. being yet swept by the greatest of my family's trials and knowing there would be no happy resolution in the future, it was a challenge that perplexed and amused me. i gave my open-ended memoirs scented with pantene a title: 'blueberry'.
my brother and i often chat about how censored will be the stories we pass down. yet when we talk privately about those legacies we want to set free from our future, i always marvel in how one sibling's accounting of an event fills the gaps for the other's. a dark memory becomes opalescent in light. the left side of a frame is polished giving new harmony to the right. it ends with us. we have a pact. and we discuss how in ending it we can yet share with our children the honest totality and depth in color and sound of that which we've declared to be so. so. ended.
i would never compare ourselves to the walls'. in charm or tragedy. even so, it feels familiar, and especially so in this that the author said later in an interview:
I’m very close to my brother. He loves the book and was very supportive every step of the way. I showed him parts as I finished them because he has a steel trap memory and I wanted to make sure I remembered things correctly. It’s interesting, because we remembered the same events, but had different takes on them. For example, I think of the cheetah as being a gorgeous, powerful beast with rippling muscles. Brian said, “As I remember, that was as a sort mangy creature.” I ran that by Mom and she said, “It was both, but it wasn’t inside a cage. It was just walking around the zoo.” People remember the same things differently, and if Brian or my sisters had written the book, it would be entirely different.
when at 1 am we returned to our resort home after kabobs, cokes and a few rounds of 500 at the dupont house that evening, i stayed up two more hours to finish the piece. and i considered how jeannette's memoirs were bookmarked by the death of her dad.
in college i would daydream in the shower about the shape my memoirs might take. how i might recognize the proper spot to stick a bookmark in it by way of a final period. being yet swept by the greatest of my family's trials and knowing there would be no happy resolution in the future, it was a challenge that perplexed and amused me. i gave my open-ended memoirs scented with pantene a title: 'blueberry'.
my brother and i often chat about how censored will be the stories we pass down. yet when we talk privately about those legacies we want to set free from our future, i always marvel in how one sibling's accounting of an event fills the gaps for the other's. a dark memory becomes opalescent in light. the left side of a frame is polished giving new harmony to the right. it ends with us. we have a pact. and we discuss how in ending it we can yet share with our children the honest totality and depth in color and sound of that which we've declared to be so. so. ended.
i would never compare ourselves to the walls'. in charm or tragedy. even so, it feels familiar, and especially so in this that the author said later in an interview:
I’m very close to my brother. He loves the book and was very supportive every step of the way. I showed him parts as I finished them because he has a steel trap memory and I wanted to make sure I remembered things correctly. It’s interesting, because we remembered the same events, but had different takes on them. For example, I think of the cheetah as being a gorgeous, powerful beast with rippling muscles. Brian said, “As I remember, that was as a sort mangy creature.” I ran that by Mom and she said, “It was both, but it wasn’t inside a cage. It was just walking around the zoo.” People remember the same things differently, and if Brian or my sisters had written the book, it would be entirely different.
when at 1 am we returned to our resort home after kabobs, cokes and a few rounds of 500 at the dupont house that evening, i stayed up two more hours to finish the piece. and i considered how jeannette's memoirs were bookmarked by the death of her dad.
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