Oh Gord, sing to me about wine and Willie Nelson. Driving down this country road, tell me about where you saw the constellations reveal themselves one star at a time. Pulling down the shade against the setting sun, I want to hear about the sky, dull and hypothetical, falling one cloud at a time. I want to hear this love, in your song and your voice, tonight. I want to hear about staying hung up on that girl in the middle of a riot. And I want to think about that place where I saw the constellations reveal themselves one star at a time, clouds falling all around.
If this is the poetry that smoking copious amount of weed produces... then toke me up. Fer real.
The people I went to Palmer with I think have a general impression of me as a goody goody. And I get where it's coming from - church every Sunday, didn't go to the bars, didn't seem to drink or swear or whatever. Got good grades, whatever that means (We all got good grades. There were four valedictorians in our class. And I wasn't one of them.) Never mind that I swear like a fucking trucker. (A Palmer friend recently commented on facebook that I'm adorable when I swear, FFS.)
And here I am thinking, "But I'm from Canada! I'm from the land of legal pot!" And it really seemed the other Canadian gal in our class and I swore more than any of the good Midwestern kids around us. We felt downright crude. And anyone who spent any amount of quality time with me knew I'd tell a dirty joke sooner than I'd say anything else. My mind is perpetually (perpetually) in the gutter (perpetually.) (always.) (right now.) But I suppose my Canuckhood only confirmed how polite and buttoned up I must be?
Truth is, I didn't go to the bars because I couldn't afford the drinks. And if I was gonna spend the money, I'd rather see a movie and eat butter drenched popcorn.
But they never asked what I was drinking or smoking at home...
Well. But I'm no Gord Downie. I'm no poet.
I'm your Bobcaygeon hookup. Also, I promise not to tell that you're really a goody-goody at heart. :)
ReplyDeleteDear, Super Awesome Mamabean,
ReplyDeleteI think you are on to a few things with this post. I do think that some of the perceptions you identify were definitely projected upon you by others unfairly, including my very own. I also think that you are full of fascinating contradictions which, combined with your wonderful writing voice, help garner a following of this blog. These contradictions are not an Achilles' heel for you, but sometimes can be for those around you who tend to make judgments. Lucky for them, a quality you almost radiate is patience, especially in the context of your motherhood. I, for one, aspire to exercise the patience you have exhibited with children and friends alike. I also humbly apologize for the times I have put forth ignorant generalities.
Love, Palmer Friend
Aw, thank-you kind anonymous Palmer friend. If you're who I think you are, your comment is extra sweet :) Maybe I got my tone wrong; this post isn't angry or anything (it's a little melancholy, because the song makes me melancholy, that's all.) I think it's * funny * that I was just cheap! Well, and in the context of my Christianity, I think I made my (pinko Socialist) politics so clear while at Palmer, I'd think it obvious that I wasn't the picture of conservative religiosity regardless lol. I think since being at Palmer, we've all grown into our personhoods a bit, right? And found partners and had babies, etc. And the realities of who folks have become don't necessarily jive with who * I * thought they were or would be, you know? Anyway, here I am writing a novel for a comment, I should probably just write a whole new post! For the record, it's not as though I don't like being called adorable, because a) who doesn't and b) everyone knows my quotient of adorable to bad-ass is right around 2:1 (that's why my kids are so cute...) But for serious, you are very kind to think I radiate anything, let alone patience. I will frame this comment for my children's (daily) reference, "Look! This IS me being PATIENT! I fricking RADIATE patience!"
Delete