I tweaked a couple things on here and, like rearranging a room, stepped back to get a feel for things. There are a few posts that are definitely me, but overall, it’s less than stellar. One factor is not knowing what and how much to write about. When so many local people have the potential to read my words, how much of me is too much? I realize a certain amount of restraint is a good idea. That’s why I use the filter feature on Livejournal, after all, where I’ve been blathering on since 2001. But the more I censor and filter the more I lose the Linnetude and the more bland this space becomes.
Archive for March, 2010
Jakob turned 8 on Nov 4. EIGHT. Because 7 8 9. I can’t believe I have a second-grader. Notes from spring to now-ish [precious few, I know]:
Oh, great, we start with a sad one…He called himself “stupid” and my heart broke. On the other hand he’s having trouble putting down a book and I love it.
Saturday, April 25
J – What does suspended mean?
L – That you got in so much trouble they won’t let you go to school. You have to stay home.
J – *jaw drops* Then you can’t even learn!
L – Exactly.
He knows the different kinds of clouds.
He already outgrew his shiny black bike. He experimented with his dad’s old skateboard. He played soccer, baseball, and hockey and took swim lessons. Before you get your panties in a twist they don’t overlap and I know my kid. kthx.
He’s responding awesomely to my personal growth and changes in how I approach things. Not even changes so much as doing a much better job at what I was trying to do before. His teacher has noticed too.
Despite the tumultuous year, he has been doing well. Considering. His evaluations are often the highest in the class and always well above the goal. He is still very social, having worked through a more withdrawn couple of months before Christmas. The move to Orange City was hardest on him and he has thrived since being back in Sioux Center.
He’s taller still. His 12 slim jeans won’t work in the fall. He likes to listen to music & stories on his mp3 player before he falls asleep. Sometimes he finds games on the radio instead. He loves to read and grasps new math concepts without blinking. His teacher loves his personality and well-developed sense of humor.
I’ve made – and continue to make – so many mistakes with him. He’s so special to me; he was not a mistake but a surprise. An unexpected, undeserved gift. He was part of me learning that I could be a mom; how to be a mom. That I love being his mom. What it is like to be filled to bursting with such love it surprises you.
by Anis Mojgani
This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.
This is for the school-yard wimps, this is for the childhood bullies who tormented them.
This is for the former prom queen, this is for the milk-crate ball players.
This is for the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters. Shake the dust.
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,
for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,
for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,
for the nighttime schoolers and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly. Shake the dust.
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-god. Shake the dust.
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,
for those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,
for the kid who’s always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,
for the girl who loves somebody else. Shake the dust.
This is for the hard men, the hard men who want to love but know that is won’t come.
For the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for.
For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself.
Do not let a moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats 900 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,
for the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone.
For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers’ singing lips and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.
This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who’ll never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the biggots,
this is for the sexists,
this is for the killers.
This is for the big house, pen-sentenced cats becoming redeemers and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.
This? This is for you.
Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.
Because just like the days, I burn both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.
So shake the dust and take me with you when you do for none of this has never been for me.
All that pushes and pulls, pushes and pulls for you.
So grab this world by its clothespins and shake it out again and again and jump on top and take it for a spin and when you hop off shake it again for this is yours.
Make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.
Walk into it, breathe it in, let is crash through the halls of your arms at the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood pumping and pushing making you live, shaking the dust.
So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.