Haikuffinated

Green and white mermaid

Grins, approving my choice of

Bliss: this sweet caffeine.

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Go Sports!

Today is The Big Game. Wait, can I say Super Bowl? Is that just for marketing and advertising or for everybody? Is it now The Game That Dares Not Speak It’s Name? I’m so confused…

Ahem.

Today is The Big Game. I will not be watching said Game because first of all, I have to work, so I won’t be watching anything. Second, we don’t have live programming at our house now, just Netflix/Hulu/Amazon. Third, I have nothing invested in the teams involved…neither the Patriots nor the… I want to say Eagles? And fourth…

…I just don’t like sports.

I don’t say that in a hipster, too-cool-for-school, sports-are-the-opiate-of-the-masses kind of way. I grieve my disinterest in sports. I’ve tried to fake it over the years because I know I’m supposed to be A Fan. If you’re an American male, black or white, gay or straight, you’re supposed to like sports. But I don’t.

I like sports movies just fine. I’ll watch the Rocky series, Rudy, Miracle, A League of Their Own, and don’t get me started on Field of Dreams. But the sports themselves to me remain incomprehensible. I’ll eavesdrop on people talking sports and try to figure it all out and fail, bored, each and every time.

I think possibly all my problems may stem from the fact that I don’t find joy in sports. Or maybe a chemical imbalance. But I’m going with the sports thing.

Happy Sports Day, everyone! I’ll be at Target backstocking stuff.

Why Write?

Why should I write in the first place? What is the point when there are only 26 letters in the alphabet and just under 200,000 words in the English language? Everything that can be said or written has undoubtedly been said or written before. Everything and anything worthwhile, at least. Nothing new under the sun.

Why write? Maybe because there is no point? Maybe because the only way to combat the demons of the day is to play with words even if the play is derivative, the song is familiar, the prose is heavily borrowed. Words are a way of seeing, a way of delineating, describing. While words can be dangerous and deceptive, sometimes they are the only light the can shine into the ever-creeping darkness. Words bear witness.

So I write because I can. Memoirs are a way of saying “This is what I saw. This is what I see.” The invisible becomes visible. Specifically, the things about myself that no one sees, sometimes not even seen by me. I pull the curtain back on the demon in the hopes that people reading might find it a familiar sight and thereby identify the demon that have hidden away inside them. To write about my demons is to take away their power of subterfuge and to show them for the clumsy brutes they are.