Proud Parenting fact: Duke #1 taught himself to read when he was about 3 years old. His vocabulary was stunning.
However.
When it came to art projects, my darling little Duke #1 was, um, a ponderist.
A minimalist.
Oh, alright already. He was a bona fide perfectionist.
I do not know where this comes from, said the Baroness, averting her eyes from the incredulous stares and gaping pie-holes of those who know her well...
Needless to say, every time I went to pick him up from preschool, regardless of what fantastic creation his teachers had inspired, I knew right away - as I assessed the drying paintings in the hallway - which one was his.
That would be the piece of construction paper/kraft paper/fingerpainting paper that was completely blank, save for his name in the lower right hand corner.
That his teacher had written.
He was fine with this, and did not seem to be bothered by the reality that while his classmates were getting their Dali-esque grooves on, he stood solemnly in front of his easel. And produced nothing. Not a brushstroke. God only knows what was cooking in that cranium of his. I began mentally reviewing his infancy, to think as to whether or not he had incurred any blows to the creative area of his brain.
All this seemed to change as he entered Kindergarten. He had an amazing teacher who knew how to crack the code, and get him to take the baby steps of putting pen to paper.
Soon, he was unstoppable. He would rush downstairs in the mornings before school, still in his pajamas, and scream like a tortured artist: "I need paper!! I need a pencil!! NOW!!!!".
I was more than happy to oblige. I heaved a huge sigh of relief that the synaptic connection between his amazing brain and the page had finally begun.
I recall these long-ago moments when I find that there are times when my mind is racing at such an alarming rate, I have to quell the urge to scream: "I need paper!! I need a pen!! NOW!!!". (I also add "AND COFFEE!!! LOTS AND LOTS OF COFFEE!!!!")
Which is why I always keep a notebook and pen with me. This mindful act stops me from writing on napkins and newspaper borders and old grocery lists in lip liner (which I have resorted to, on occasion)(sad, really).
The "Mystery" part of this post comes from a page in one of my books. I've read it and re-read it about a hundred times, and for the life of me, I cannot even begin to unravel what I was driving at when I scribbled this crap down. I would like to point out here that I was neither:
a) sleepwriting.
b) drunk,
c) under the influence of cough medicine, mushrooms or legally obtained glaucoma medication (I don't even have glaucoma), nor
d) huffing keyboard cleaning spray.
So, I will leave this with you, and let you take off your cool sunglasses, smooth your tie out, and go all Caruso on my ass. Tell me, please, what the hell I was thinking? It's mess.
Working Title: Look in Your Own Backyard
The elusive hunt for fulfilment/happiness/health/prosperity begins 2 feet ahead of you. No, not the big screen tv. Nor the liquor cabinet or bread box. It's true - really - you just have to see it. Sometimes you have to work insanely hard to move 2 feet forward. It may require taking 2 steps backwards, in order to get a view of the larger picture, to behold the extraordinary in a different light. To repair the damage.
We're a lazy lot by nature, so is it a surprise that this minimal effort seems so unappealing?
Something obviously got my knickers in such a knot that I had to jot these passages down in a hurry, and then have such a brain fart (more like olestra-induced brain shart) that I can't even remember where I was going with this.
Thoughts? Ideas?
Help!
