One could go on and on forever talking about anything, but I'll just touch on it here.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Paying for Your Imagination

A punch of the air with my feet and palms propels me fifty feet above the children's heads. They stare up at me, whistle admiration, and ask to learn how to do as I do. 

The latest flying dream. Memory tells me that I fly in my dreams at least once or twice a year. Perhaps I flew more often in my childhood. Perhaps that's because I also flew in the daytime then. 

I'm not convinced that adults, in general, lose their imaginations; they put them on a type of layaway. They promise themselves that when they save up enough time, then they will get back to creativity and play. But time is spent doing the necessary grown-up occupations that, if ignored, would cause a lot of trouble. Soon, adults are in the red and imagination gets dusty on the shelf. Or, worse, it gets put out on the rack for someone else to buy. Sad truth is, few people buy it. 

Secret Santas get recognized in the news every Christmas season because they pay for strangers' items that are on layaway. If I had a million dollars—or half a billion if I chose the winning number for tonight's Mega Million jackpot draw—I would go buy all the imagination that is on layaway. Then I would give it back to every sad-faced, weary, dreary, overworked, stressed, depressed, bored grown up out there. Maybe then they would smile more, laugh more, play more. Maybe then they would create and share and give such as never before. 

I suppose I should do what I am able to—since I have not the wealth of Bill Gates—and rescue my own imagination, support my husband's, and feed my son's. I should fly while the cage door is open instead of locking it shut. 

Friday, December 6, 2013

Conscious Stream of Thoughts by Unconscious Zombie Mother

A buzzing. Thoughts of Pooh and bees. No. Must open eyes. Must move. Can't. Must cover the baby. What? Who? Coming up the stairs. No, my husband left for work. Did he lock the door? Oh the neck twinges. Once, I had a pillow under my head. Sweaty baby fingers find my hair and pull a little. Sniff. Sniff. Suck. Suck. Then the fog consumes. Where? How? Swishing sound like a winter coat on a moving body. Wait. No one's there. He's crying. Still asleep. I have to finish the laundry, clean the toilet. Paris? I can take a train to Paris? But should I go tonight? Alone? Seriously. Now my nose has trouble breathing, too. Not fair; he took NyQuil! Wow, baby feet are so cold! I must warm them up. You just ate. Now too hot. Sleep. Sleep again. Shhh, shhh, shhh. Someone's at the door; I'm sure of it! Still in my pajamas. But it's dark, dark, dark inside and out. We don't have a dog. Why is the dog barking? Or is the baby crying? No. He's asleep again. What is that sound? All I had to eat was hot chocolate and graham crackers. Of course I'll get sick too. Is it Friday or Tuesday? This sweater. This sweater hasn't seen the washing machine in days. Something crusty on the shoulder. Just five more minutes and then I will get to that list. Still that buzzing. . . .

"Tah, tah, tah."

Hello, sweet one! Yes, that's my nose. OK. OK. We can do this.