The Unswung Bat

Friday, September 08, 2006
Food Stamps, Stomach Cramps, Magic Lamps

What was I thinking a minute ago? I remember. I was thinking how it's very easy to think about what I've failed to do so far, and what I want to do in the future, but that balancing point of actually doing it (sitting down, cracking my knuckles, and having a glass of water first, natch) is the foe. The enemy, which I must burn fires and suchlike, put on war paint and cast magic spells, before fighting.

I was thinking how the Chance always seems to have been crucially missed, frighteningly looming in the near to-be, or meaninglessly right goddamn here. That is, writing down what's I'm thinking right now has knack for looking like a useless waste of time, but afterward it's invariably unveiled as having been a golden opportunity gone now, forever. As someone said (somebody did, but I forget his name, Google it) "I've lost too much, or rather failed to keep . . ." and then he probably finished his sentence.

With this in mind, I'm embarking on my favorite kind of race: an endurance one, in which neither distance, nor duration, nor speed matter, and in which no actual running, or even movement above the carpal tunnel, is done. Except when I scratch my head. I am not talking about national novel writing month, but that is in November, Google. I don't want to try to write a novel in 30 days, because that would be horrible in progress and product, too. But 30 posts in so many days seems reasonable.

Hockey Stop

They seemed made of glass, and when they spun I worried in a dumb and nervous, dad, way that they'd hit something and crack. Swarming on the ice, sliding, whipping past each other in fabulous near-misses. I used to want to skate, I've probably actually been about, I dunno, ten times in my life. Twenty, maybe, since there was one winter we went skating a lot. It happened at the whim of my parents -- my mom, in fact, dad's a skiier, I was for summer sports like track and cycling -- and so was highly variable, one of the things that was different about each year.

Unlike my sister and I, my kids asked their parent to take them skating, bugged us about things like getting their skates sharpened and signing up for lessons. I took piano lessons, my mom couldn't stand piano music. Could, only barely. I can only barely stand to see the my kids, insufficiently bumpered by snow clothes and helmets, whiz around the ice amidst what seem to be three hundred gladiatorial twelve year-olds with lead shoulders, chugging elbows, and knives strapped to their feet. Unlike my mother, I would have liked it if they'd asked to play piano. Even if they mashed the keys and were tone-deaf. Music mangles more prettily than limbs, and is easier to fix or ignore.


That there? Fictional. You can tell by how it hasn't happened, because A) I have no kids, and B) if I did, they would be into way cooler things than skating. Puh. Like being godzilla. I have a feeling they would do nearly as much of that as possible. Also, rather than frizzy hair, it would be spiky and assertive. So no one's saying that's good fictional stuff -- although, be fair, that was just the intro, I cut off just before the part where Seaworld offers to trade 3 orcas and a bunch of sea lions for the kids -- but that is okay, because there are 29 more just like it coming in the next that many days. Ideally, they'll get longer and better, but I guess I'm starting with a stationary jog. Or a bit of a stretch.

What the hell is this blogger beta crap. Sonofzebitch, more stuff. That ze bitch has too many sons.

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