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[inspiredlife]

Today has been a not good day. How much like a broken record do I sound? Remember way back in 2005 when I was the eternally peppy one with too many exclamation points? Yeah, I miss those days.  There was a lot about that time that was pretty fucking awesome, tbh. 

Anyway, I planned to write a largely over dramatic post of whine which would have made Mish laugh and the rest of you roll your eyes but I can't do it. I'm annoyed with my whinging so I can't imagine how y'all feel.  

So, instead I propose a swap. I'm going to go and watch an episode or two of TW. Comment with something good...something in your life, a rec, a poem you love, Colin Morgan and when I get back I'll share something good with you.  (disclaimer: if i actually get sleepy (omg, please), I might not get back until tomorrow.) Also, if you don't see this til tomorrow, comment anyway. 'twill be good fun. 

<3

Comments

[inspiredlife.livejournal.com]

Oh, god, this is so beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing this. I've read other Hicok pieces before (my fave being Her my body) but never this one.

In return, I'd like to share one of my favourite poems.

My Mother, If She Had Won Free Dance Lessons
by Cornelius Eddy.
Would she have been a person with a completely different outlook on life?
There are times when I visit her and find her settled on a chair in our dilapidated house.
The neighborhood crazy lady, doing what the neighborhood crazy lady is supposed to do, which is absolutely nothing.

And I wonder as we talk our sympathetic talk, abandoned in easy dialogue, I, the son of the crazy lady, Who crosses easily into her point of view.
As if yawning or taking off an overcoat. Each time I visit I walk back into our lives.

And I wonder, like any child who wakes up one day to find themselves abandoned in a world larger than their bad dreams, I wonder as I see my mother sitting there, landed to the right-hand window in the living room, pausing from time to time in the endless loop of our dialogue. To peek for rascals through the Venetian blinds.

I wonder a small thought. I walk back into our lives.
Given the opportunity, how would she have danced? Would it have been as easily As we talk to each other now, the crazy lady and the crazy lady's son,
As if we were old friends from opposite coast picking up the thread of a long conversation,
Or two ballroom dancers who only know One step?
What would have changed if the phone had rung like a suitor, if the invitation had arrived in the mail like Jesus, extending a hand?