Blog Manifesto

Blog Manifesto


This blog is dedicated, as the title would suggest, to the qualities of being young. We are young writers. We are playful and sensitive, fluid and changing. We are unashamed with our art. We wonder at the world, puzzle over the meanings of things and twirl in delight at images and ideas that float by, grabbing at them as they pass. We are curious and constantly inquiring and prying concepts open and taking assumptions apart. We are on the ground, close to the earth. We have bare feet and wiggle our toes into nature. We carry our blankies still and wrap up cozy and comfy with each other and tell ghost stories and shiver at creepy things. We laugh and we cry and we take a lot of naps, drained from our outings and exertions.

We write as gifts to each other, tying them up in ribbon and leaving them around for each other to find, hiding and waiting for the person to wake up and read. Surprise! We weave our stories together to create a bond. One writes, then the other. then another again. We have a shared reality that we have crafted, bit by piece by patch, by string. We write simple, honest authentic things, with our unique voices. You can tell each one of us from the other, without knowing who wrote what. Our voices are clear and gentle and original. We whisper and our personalities roar! Like children, our feelings are strong, our passion for what we write shakes us. We are moved and sometimes left breathless, by our own words or the words of each other. We cannonball into each others spaces. We fall backward into each others writing, like into a pile of leaves or a soft bed. We gobble and grin and ask for more. (footnote kudos to JC)

Then we go to bed, wake up to a new day and do it all over again!

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Disappointment

I am not a happy camper this morning.  My tent leaked through the night and my sleeping bag is damp and clammy on my legs.  It's raining off and on and overcast.   It's just a little bit too chilly for even the hardiest of us to go swimming.  It is sweater weather, the last week in August in Wisconsin.

Have you ever spent the day inside a leaky tent?  You can't touch the walls because if you do the water will wick through.  You read or play cards with your tent mates,  adjusting your bodies around in varying contortions to stretch out your legs, almost.  You run off to the outhouse, made all the more aromatic by being watered down and the windows closed against the rain.

Great, you've started your period.  You stand in the rain fly of the picnic table holding an umbrella and trying to make some tea to ease your cramps.  Being young, you have fertile cramps, not old worn out periods, but optimistic ones.  It is going to be a long day if the rain holds out.  

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I am not a happy camper this morning.  My son is home... AGAIN.  from school.   He needs to be in school. He's got all the energy of a well kid, the giddiness of a kid who's off the hook and the crankiness of a kid who is a bit sick and it is driving me crazy.  I want my peace and quiet, so I can think and write. 

I thought my hubby had left me the new car to drive, but took the keys with him.  So I was super disappointed and had all these negative thoughts of all the fun I was missing without a  car.  Then I called him and he told me where to find the keys.

Darn it.  Now I am curiously deflated.  All those fun destinations which I had imagined up for myself, just fizzled away in the reality of being able to go to them. I had made peace with my disappointment and had worked myself up into a comfortable snit.  Now what?  I have no excuses. 

Meh.


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