Another First Draft Done

I started the Sequel to my Dragon book on Oct 14th, 2010 and completed it tonight. I'm just documenting this for later.

Now to do some fixes in the first, get it submitted, and then decide what I'm working on next. Naturally I could just write another Dragon book, but the Moon has been calling to me, plus I'm out of marshmallows to roast.

Decisions, decisions.

My Son

My Son
I tried to write a poem,
to describe what I see in you,
by my time was out of line,
and my rhyming book fell through.

I tried to sing a song,
about the glory that I see,
but my voice is cracked and broken,
and my fingering paltry.

I tried to find a flavor,
to match the gusto within you,
but I spilled the spice, once or thrice,
and the sauce was thick as glue.

I tried to paint a picture,
as brilliant as your eyes,
but the paint just wasn’t patient,
and the brush saw through my guise.

So I sit here at my keyboard,
staring at the screen,
knowing that the pixels,
will never capture what I mean.

Now, I’ve struggled with the words,
and I think I’ve thought of what to say,
You see my son, I love you,
today and every day.

Thora
3/14/2011

(He's doing a unit on poetry at school.)

I Don't Do Cute

Jordan stuck a flower hairpin in my hair on the way out of church. I just pulled it out and it made me remember a conversation I had with my co-worker the other day. We were talking about some hair clips she is having made by a mutual friend and she said I would look so cute in them.

I, being me, was not taken by the idea in the least. I don't do cute. I really don't do floral either.
I didn't know how to explain it to her at the time, and the needs of the kids didn't leave us time to get into it, but it just occurred to me why I don't do cute.

I see beauty differently because I attribute to it to one or the other of two desires; to be liked, or to be respected.

Cute things want to be liked. Flowers, most hair clips, bows, doo-dads and what-nots all want to be liked.

Cute things are not taken seriously. Cute things have little substance. Cute things denote energy, but not power. Cute things are coddled, adored, taken care of.

I am not cute. I am beautiful in many ways, but I am not cute.

It's like the difference between a bunny and a tiger. A bunny is cute, a tiger is beautiful. I am not a bunny.
Pink! Pink is a cute color. I hate pink. Pink is washed out red, pink is fragile, it lacks substance. I am not pink.

I wonder if it's because I was raised in the desert. (It took me years to get to the point where the forest didn't feel claustrophobic to me.) I'm used to a different kind of beauty. I find true beauty in rocky crags, in the snow on a distant peak, on a little plant struggling up from a crack in the rock. I love the spines on cacti and the horns on lizards. I love the way the sky goes on forever in the desert, I love the way the mountains lay against it like someone chiseled away at the blue. I love reaching my arms out and touching nothing but air and sunshine.
I AM the desert. I am chiseled lines and orange and blue. I am built to survive the heat, the deprivation, and the predators. I don't take existing for granted. I don't climb all over other things in order to grow. I would much rather stand alone, stark against the sky, buffeted by the storm than to be crowded into a forest.

Don't make me compete with others, let me do and be my best and then respect me for it.

I think I finally understand why I can't stand the thought of scrap booking.