Stationary Unicycle

So I've been thinking a lot this week and I've been "journaling" which is a stupid word but there it is, that's what I've been doing...writing in a book with paper pages with a pen. I purchased a new journal. It's got graphy cubes instead of lines to write on and it's helping me with that little issue of legibility. As a poor speller, one of the tricks I learned early on was to write illegibly. Better to be thought a slob than stupid. But the sad thing, I'd go back later to reread my gorgeous prose and fabulously original ideas and, Huh? "Trehetnts ablinstenserlliting." Brilliant! Anyway, I have recently read that writing about writing is not legit, especially if YOU ARE NOT A WRITER. So, I stand before you ashamed. I will now change gears. I have been thinking a lot about what it is to be a mother. It was brought to my attention that "mommy bloggers" are exploiting their children by sharing intimate details of their child...

Okay people: Little intro here. I haven't felt the need to unburden my soul with foul language in a little while. I make up for it here. Do not continue if you're easily offended. And another thing. This is a rough draft but it's as done as it's going to get and I've got other shit to do. Thanks for reading. I received a thoughtful gift recently, A book entitled, How to Make $250,000 a Year Writing , or something like that. I assume it's full of smart ways to find freelance work, maybe copy editing, technical writing. Not stuff I excel at. I was employed as a copy editor for a while. It didn't really work out. I can't spell. I understand the mechanics of language emotionally not intellectually. My approach to grammar is similar to my approach to money; a frothy mix of magical thinking, intuition, and a little "Laissez Faire" which I think means "What the Fuck" in French. Sadly this approach is not Chicago Manual of Style ...

I promise to post whatever it is I write here now at this moment. Damn it. I feel some serious weirdness coming on. This is an exercise, a fragment, work in progress or something that will be discarded. It's just this, and so, I offer my apologies. You've been warned. This is just silliness with grammatical errors, prattling, so much blahblahblah and etc..... We sleep. We do not sleep quietly. We do sleep soundly. Except when we don't, and then well, you know, we don't sleep quietly or soundly. The sputter and snore of it, mumbled muttering, nonsense, “Monkeys on the roof, waffle umbrella-shark. Ahhhh...” The inevitable passing of gas; sleep farting. God forbid. My son laughs in his sleep. This is a delightful thing. My son laughing in his sleep is a beautiful thing and it makes me feel hopeful. My son is a dear darling boy so I imagine  that he dreams happy wholesome dreams, dreams about the things that delight children; puppies ...

It's disconcerting when your 9 year old son asks if there are any jails in town that he could tour. My first thought, naturally enough, was that my son was planning a life of crime and wanted to see where he'd be spending 5-8 years of his life. But then I took comfort in the realization that my son is a dear darling boy who absolutely can not think past this moment. THIS moment. THIS MOMENT. He is the boy who tried to pick up fire, the boy who tried to put the knife in the toaster, the boy who ate his entire chocolate Advent calender in one sitting, never contemplating for a second what would happen next. The look of surprise and hurt after the touching fire thing was heart breaking. He was utterly disconsolate on December 2nd when he found he had no more candy and would have to watch his sister eat her stale misshapen chocolate stockings, stars, and bells, one each morning, for 24 days, in front of his very eyes. He was completely dumbfounded not not just a lit...