RoseWolf's blog: "Writings"

I came upon this topic on an email list a few days ago. I was going through some of my old college books and found Joan Didion's essay, Why I Write and was contemplating using this topic as the basis of a biography I need for another venture. Ah synchronicity! So, why do I write? I write as a hired gun, putting words to other's ideas. For my daily bread I am called upon to clean up the rambling technical verbiage of the overly educated or to put order in the brilliantly disheveled thoughts of executives. My task is to turn somewhat obscure concepts into easily understood documents. Watch me pull a rabbit out of a hat! Why do I write? As a child I was afraid to write anything on paper, afraid of being punished by my mother for having thoughts that didn't match hers. I wrote my forbidden wisdom on frosted windows sending it away with warm breath and a sweep of a hand. My contraband thoughts were painted with water on summer sidewalks, burned onto the night sky with lit punks and composed in the air creating a grand symphony of feeling. These are the words that will live forever, etched upon the ethers and fashioned in the heart of a child. Why do I write? I write to make sense of my life as it rushes indifferently by. Putting words to paper, or screen as it were, allows me to see the patterns and themes as they develop. I write to remember the events of my days. I have no record of my parents lives. I do not know who they were or what they truly thought. I write so my children have a legacy, a history to fall back upon. Why do I write? I write to learn about the world around me. And in learning about the world around me I always learn something about myself. Why do I write? I write to matter, to have meaning. I write.

Somehow somebody got in and changed all of my profile settings to disallow any type of commenting by anyone. I've changed the settings on my profile -- can you let me know if it works for you?

Several years ago while at the post office, I found myself in waiting in a very long line. The line wasn't moving and Edain, who was several months old, began fussing. I began to sing quietly to her hoping to soothe. Her favorite song at the time was the Talking Heads' "Up All Night" and I used to sing it to her all the time. A heavily made up and excessively groomed blond woman (I'll call her Muffy) behind me looked at her friend and said, "That song is horrible. Why is she singing that to her baby? " Her friend asked, "Why? I think it's a cute song." Muffy: "Well, they say, "pee pee" in the song." "So? What do you think they should say then?" Muffy: "You should teach your children the proper terms for body parts." Muffy's young son (about 3 or 4), listening to this exchange, looks up at his mom and says, "Penis, mama. Right? It's called a pee-nis!" Muffy, looking a bit askance, put her fingers to her lips and says, "Shhhh... not here!" "But Mama, I've got a penis, right? Right?" Muffy tries to ignore him. "Mama, Look! I've got a penis, right?" At this point the little boy pulls his shorts down to his knees and starts pointing with both of his index fingers: "See! I've got a penis... a peee-nis!" He repeats this phrase several times taking extreme glee in saying the word and shaking his hips for emphasis. Muffy: "John Thomas! Stop that! Pull your pants up!" John Thomas? The boy's name is John Thomas? John Thomas sashays away from his mother's grasp. John Thomas: "Look at my penis!" Muffy: "John Thomas, please stop that and get back here" John Thomas: (laughing) "My PENIS!" Muffy: "John Thomas, John Thomas. JOHN THOMAS!" He begins a little bump and grind and starts a singsong chant while keeping just out of his mother's grasp. "PENISPENISPENISPENIS... PENIS... PENIS... PENIS.... PENIS... PEEEEEEE-NIS! P-P-P-P-P-EEEEEE-NIS! P-P-P-P-P-EEENIS! After this little performance went on for about a minute, Muffy finally breaks out of the line. "John Thomas! Pull your pants up!" John Thomas runs away, shorts around his ankles, giggling. "Now you can see my butt too!" he crows. The people in the line begin to laugh hysterically as this semi-naked little boy makes his mother chase him around the post office lobby. John Thomas: (giggling) "See my penis! See my butt!" Finally Muffy catches him and throws him over her shoulder carrying him out of the post office. In the distance we hear: "Did you like my butt?"