Let the sentiment drip

Joeseph Duemer published a wonderful poem online and then later added a perfect annotation:

The lines above attempt to camouflage their sentimentality with words like slurp & gulp & drool, but it is the barest trick. Better to just let the sentimentality be itself or keep quiet, no?

We are cosmopolitan and sophisticated, wearing black silk rather than chiffon and ruffles. We scorn the sentimental. We kick the red velvet box and shred the silk flower, sneer with disdain at words of love, and turn off the radio when we hear the refrain, “You done me wrong and now my heart is broken.”

But you know, sometimes it’s okay to just let the sentiment drip.


Weblogging Writing

Write Redirect

Nicholas, aka Aquarion is another weblogger going on leave in order to spend time on other things. He writes:

I’ve spent three and a half years this week doing this weblog. That’s two and a half years of diarizing my life, and a year of “Weblogging” propery, discussing stuff with people far better at this than I am. Since I started Weblogging “properly” last year, I’ve written nothing. That is, I have fifteen fragments of four stories, two of which could be novel-length, and I wrote most of those while I was ABEND in Febuary. The Theory runs thusly: If I stop weblogging for a while – and I don’t know what the definition of a while is yet – I might get some writing done, and since writing is the thing that I think I’m good at – far more than any of the stuff I blathered on about for months on here – I have decided that it’s worth the experiment and the number of complaints I’ve had that the site is down.

I hear these words most deeply. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to write just for the sheer joy of writing, myself. But I kick at the screen when another voice goes quiet.

Just Shelley

The Odds

He was born with the odds against him and the miracle of his birth was accompanied by the miracle of his life. Arms too short and body so weak, they said he would never make it through high school, but he did. And like a weakling at the beach, he kicked sand into the face of his own mortality.

Must not run hard, they would say, and he’d grab tennis racquet, holding it close to his chest because he could hold it no other way and he ran and he hit and he lived. Every time the odds would try to hold him back, he’d look right through them and just continue on.

He’d sneak out at night to join his friends, getting into the mild trouble all teens get into, drinking a bit too much, partying a little too hard. His parents were aghast and scolded him and said to stay away from his Bad Friends. But they weren’t bad — they just saw within him the spirit, the normalness of him.

He grew from a frail kid into an adult, spending too many days looking at white walls. Getting too many cards along the way. Against the odds, in spite of the odds, he thrived. “How are you feeling?”, you’d ask and he’d say, “Heck with that, let’s go ride a horse.”

I remember once when he helped us move, watching him haul boxes into a moving truck, shoving them in so hard I thought something would break and I’d say “Take it easy”, and he just laughed.

The spirit, even the strong spirit can’t work around a leaky heart and he had surgery yet again. And once more, he beat the odds, turning around at the door when he walked out, saluting the hospital good-bye.

But then, a few weeks later, he went for a walk and when he returned he said he felt tired. Wanted a nap. When he didn’t show for dinner, they went to check and found he had died in his sleep.

He was 48, and the odds had finally caught up.