I have resolved not to blog about blogging.
Therefore, I will not write what I have just written.
by Yours Truly
Thanksgiving Thanksgiving Thanksgiving
It's here again
It comes every year
This is about when
Turkey in the oven
Football on TV
Relatives in guest rooms
Get to eat for free
Government-mandated gratefulness
It's a beautiful thing
Hearkens back to our founders
Let the oven timer ring!
What are you thankful for?
Everything and not enough
Family, friends, health
And all the incidental stuff
Thanksgiving's here again
Time to loosen your pants
Eat yourself into a stupor
And don't forget to say thanks
My latest appalling, time-wasting endeavor is to make portraits online of myself and others. Here's me:
Here's everybody else:
If you see yourself and you like it, it's yours. If you would like to have one done, you may commission the artist. She always welcomes new business.
An agglomeration of various household images. Click to view.
With the force of one breath the bits of spent eraser flew off the paper and onto the floor. Once solid and geometrical, they were now sundered and disorganized. Unrecognizable, they had taken on the grayish stain of disfavor. They were to be forgotten.
But within their shriveled kernels was contained nothing but the deepest, darkest secrets of mankind: that which was never meant to be read. The early drafts. The miscalculations. The Freudian slips. The mistakes. To possess these things equaled power, enough power to draw one rubber splinter to another. And then another. And then another, until the whole of the eraser was reunited, larger than before, as it was now pregnant with all the erasures it had enacted. And then the eraser did what no one knew to fear. It wrote back.
It etched obscenities on every surface it touched.
27 + 45 = 73
It wrote with the angry scrawl of something tossed out as garbage, abandoned to oblivion.
The problem is that the strategy does not support the needs of the client is the problem.
Propelled by fury, the eraser spread humiliation faster than anyone could hide the embarrassing missives.
I love John Taylor.
Jennifer Marie Taylor
Jennifer Marie Taylor
Jennifer Marie Taylor
Try as they might, the incriminated authors could not unwrite their regurgitated blunders, for what can erase an eraser? Yet in its bold move to escape extinction, the eraser fatefully rendered itself obsolete. No one dared employ an eraser ever again, turning instead to the fount that covers a multitude of sins...
White Out.
I was going to submit this to the Mirror Project, but I don't know if they would accept it, since you can't see the camera.
She put her teeth in a glass of water on her nightstand, then did the same with her eyes, popping them out one at a time. She brushed her hair, then put it back on her head before placing it gently in a round box. She hung up her arms and torso and neatly folded her legs. Then she walked over to the bedside, slid out of her feet, and climbed into bed.
I penned this poem a few years ago and I thought it was dumb. What do you think? (Only constructive comments, please.)
Read it in your best Louis Armstrong voice.
___
Jazz
There's a real place in my heart for jazz music.
I'm not talking about this smooth jazz crap
where they take all the soul out of it
put it through a blender
and spoon-feed it to you.
I'm talking about real jazz, raw jazz,
the kind with rough edges that
stick out and poke you, make you
sit up and take notice, make you
ask, was it talking to me?
And the answer, my friend, is yes.
Yes, I got to hab' me some o' dat jazz.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Must write. Must write something. Must write something brilliant. Must crack under pressure.
One down; three to go.
I sang a song in church today. People are always so nice when you do stuff like that. Perfect strangers will come up to you and express their appreciation. I guess when you put yourself out there, at that moment, you belong to everybody.
It was cool, too, because I really felt like God wanted this song to be heard. When I wrote it, I had no ambition to sing it for the whole church. And yet, circumstances just worked out that way. I was supposed to do a harp solo, but one of the mechanisms on my harp broke the week before. I offered to sing instead so that they wouldn't have to find someone else short notice.
It's not as if I can take credit for the song itself, either. I had asked God for a song--something that I could offer up to Him when I wanted to worship Him in my own words. For a long time, nothing came. I would sit down, welled up with emotion and wanting to pour my heart into a new song for my Savior, but I was blank. Then, finally, He gave me this song. People asked how long it took me to write it. Not long at all; it came all at once.
Here are the lyrics, if you are interested:
What will my offering be
What will my offering be
Frankincense, myrrh and gold
For the Babe Whose birth was foretold
What will my offering be
What will my offering be
Two small fish, some loaves of bread
That by Your hand the multitude is fed
What will my offering be
What will my offering be
With pure nard to anoint Your head
As the King Who rose from the dead
What will my offering be
What will my offering be
Take my life, and all I am
I sacrifice it to the Lamb