Hooooo-wheee! We had us a blizzard, and I ain't talkin' 'bout the whipped-up ice cream treat with the Heath Bars and the Oreo crumbs you get down at the DQ either!
It was AWESOME. We got probably 20-24 inches of snow, but there're drifts up to about five or six feet high in the back yard. We all stayed nice and toasty and safe and sound inside, periodically peering out the window and making profound understatements like, "Yep. That there is some snow, folks," for the 18 hours or so that the wind whipped and the snow whited out everything more than 2 feet from the window, and then, POOF, like THAT, it was over, and the sun came bursting out.
Also, Bean woke up this morning on DAY SEVEN of having what I think must've been the flu, and she's finally fever-free.
And - I cut my bangs, and took pictures. (Not of my shorter bangs.)
And wrote a poem. (Also not involving bangs. Unless perhaps there's a deeper meaning to the poem of which even I am unaware, which I suppose is entirely possible. That's how poetry works, apparently.)
I'm generally not a poem-writin' or even a poem-readin' kinda gal. It's just never been my THANG. But then I was listening to Garrison Keillor's A Writer's Almanac, (Garrison Keillor is one of the writers I admire most of all. Do y'all like Garrison Keillor?) a couple of weeks ago, he read this poem that I absolutely adored, I mean like I wanted to pull the car over and Google it right then and there so I could read it over and over again, but I didn't, but I DID ponder it further as I drove along, and I figured out that the reason I loved it was because it was really just prose, stacked in stanzas and scrambled around a bit so as not to be immediately comprehensible. And it was chock full of imagery. And hey? I write incomprehensible prose full of imagery, don't I? So why couldn't just I stack it up in stanzas and call it poetry?
(Probably it's not that simple. I'l confess that I pretty much spent any and all poetry-related English class time in high school and college thinking about boys and hair and what color Keds I should invest in next.)
(I still made great grades on all the tests, though, because apparently it's impossible to answer any question about any poem incorrectly, even if you never actually READ the poem. It didn't matter what I wrote, my teachers were always OH VERY INSIGHTFUL MEGAN! A PLUS AGAIN. AND TWENTY-FIVE EXTRA POINTS FOR INCORPORATING "DEATH WISH" AND "IAMBIC PENTAMETER!" )
Poetry teachers are either foolishly gullible, or they just can't imagine there's anyone in the world who doesn't love picking apart every syllable of a completely incomprehensible verbal hairball and trying to impart some deep, hidden, lofty meaning to it as the (usually dead) poet hovers laughing in a corner because OMG, PEOPLE. IT DOESN' T MEAN ANYTHING. THE CAT WALKED ACROSS THE KEYBOARD! as much as they do.
But we're all going to pretend that MY poem is a work of literary genius, because it was hard work scrambling and stacking those lines of prose up just right, y'all. And you KNOW how hard it is for me to write anything that doesn't have a point, and doesn't come RIGHT TO THAT POINT, RIGHT AWAY, NO FOOLIN' AROUND.
Oh wait. That's not me.
Sun bursting forth.
Cut my bangs.
Wrote a poem.
Feel AMAZINGLY much better.
(THAT ISN'T THE POEM, BY THE WAY.)
Thanks for the many encouraging and wise words you've shared with me over the past weeks. You held me all-together when I couldn't.