angst, Bucket, depression, writing

Eight Weeks Later

Michael says that every time he logs on to check the status of our server, he gets all sad again. I can’t believe it’s been eight weeks. So here is something silly:

IMG_1236Teakettle water tower, spotted in Lindstrom, MN, on a leaf-peeping drive.


We’re recovering as well as can be expected, and things have been otherwise pretty quiet. We took our annual Autumn pilgrimage to CoMo, saw mom’s new place, and met a couple of delicious babies. Work is still good. I finished several knit projects, including Michael’s behemoth, and met the goals for my Year of the Stash. I’m not feeling terribly interesting tonight, but I did want to move the sadness off the top, and I have a small interesting thing to share in lieu of actual events.

When I was visiting my mom last month, she brought this out for me to take home:


It was kind of neat to look through, though I’d taken several stabs at it throughout my elementary school years, so it’s hard to get any cohesive sense of identity. The main thing that caught my attention – and by caught my attention I mean got me choked up with horror – was a section near the end with a couple of pages headed “I Like to Write Stories.” My handwriting wasn’t up to the task at the time, so I dictated the story and Mom wrote it down for me.

Once upon a time there was 3 kittens and they lost their mittens and their mother said you may not have any pie tonight if you don’t find them then the kids said they fell into the water down deep where the fish live. We will go get them if we can swim down deep with you.

So their mommy said that they could swim down deep where the fish were but be sure to bring some gold fish and your mittens so they went down themselves and the goldfish were shining a little sunlight there mommies and daddies were real worried because they thought they would blind their eyes. They could see very well so they caught the goldfish in their little bag and then they got their mittens. They swam back up and went home.They had some pie and then they went to bed.

When they went to sleep they had a bad dream with alligators and dragons. They had dreams of deep deep deep deep water and they could not swim and they drowned. They could not swim back up. They heard a real scary sounds. They tried to swim back up but it was no use.

When they woke up they started crying. Their mommy and daddy came and said it was just a dream and the kittens said no no there are real dragons and alligators under you. Then they were always scared of their dreams, even happy dreams. Stories made them scared so they scream in their sleep and when they woke up. But screaming hurt everyone’s ears in the house. The end. THE END.

I was four and a half.  What the fuck. I’ve been freaked out about stories and dreams for over thirty goddamned years. I can’t decide what disturbs me more, the idea of my mom calmly writing that down as such fear comes out of her baby’s mouth, or the fact that when she read it last month she thought it was cute.

BRB, gotta go figure out how to time travel and hug my little self.


One Comments

  • Reply


    November 26, 2013

    “…move the sadness off the top” – you did that literally and figuratively. I love the way you put it and can certainly relate to it.

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