“I taught you to fight and to fly. What more could there be?”

"You're proud that you've matured with your sense of childlike wonder intact, but others are tired of hearing you yell "Fire truck! Fire truck!" whenever one goes by."


Things seemed terribly dreary this past Saturday. All the stresses bubbling furiously within came to a raging boil and I felt lost if not hopeless. On the exterior, I smiled, but they all knew it was a hollow expression, particularly my eldest son. He's so very sensitive to my omni-changing moods. When his Mama slips off into periods of despair, his developing coping skills send him into action - taking his little brother by the hand and drifting delectably off into an imaginary world ripe with various Matchbox cars or Legos as props. Through my own selfishness, I was barely aware enough of the two sweet and inexplicably well behaved boys on the floor near my feet. My 'Ol Man, certainly not one to take on the dragon that is my emotional tides, retreated to his garage to build, rearrange and fancy up new functionality for his various assortment of tools. 


I don't even quite remember doing so, but I must have wandered to the bookshelf to locate the book my brother had highly recommended to me, and made my way back to the kitchen table with it. For the first time in what seems like years, I opened the cover to my new book and escaped into its pages. Only glancing up every half hour or so in response to a shriek or a *THUD!*, I was afforded enough time to read this delicious book in one sitting. Roughly 4 or so hours later, I reached the end with tears streaming effortlessly down my cheeks. A portion of that was a credit to the author, for it was a phenomenal read. The other, larger portion, was saying goodbye to my little tangible escape and returning back to the real world. Every time. Every last damn time my brother recommends something to me, I'm sucked in and spit mercilessly out again. Every time, the books are as absolutely amazing as promised. And every time, I emerge feeling abandoned knowing it had to end. 


After running my fingers along the spine of the book as though saying goodbye to a dear friend, things did look up. I was able to pull myself out of my funk just in time to move the cars out of the driveway and gather up all the outdoor toys I could possibly manage. We spent the afternoon blowing bubbles, digging up bugs in the dirt, playing "Halloween Spooks" (some oddly creepy game the boys dreamt up a few months back) and drawing crude renditions of actual things with sidewalk chalk. There was lots of giggling and my 'Ol Man even provided a backdrop of music for our combined listening pleasure (not to mention the perceived pleasure of the entire neighborhood, though they may have taken exception to some of the death metal tunes in the mix). The following day was even more enchanting, ickily necessary chores aside. Yet I couldn't help but think back to my book. Back to that and all the books either loaned to me or suggested for purchase by my favorite brother. 


In those moments lost in thought, it dawned on me why I was so drawn to these stories - and even more so, why my brother was. 


Let's back that up for a moment. Most, if not all, of the literary suggestions passed along from brother to sister come, amusingly enough, from the "young adult" section of any given book retailer or library. Before one jumps to immediate judgement, I can and DO read "real adult" books from time to time.... Though, in all fairness, not anytime in recent history given my complete lack of my OWN time.... I'm spiraling, here. Anyway, I found it odd that I had not arrived at this conclusion sooner. My brother is Peter Pan. (Sans the green tights and Disney features of course)


My brother is an extraordinary genius (notwithstanding the 6 or so college degrees he holds) and always has been. His sense of humor and adventure is quite literally not of this earth with a quick wit and charismatic charm all his own. He never related to the other inhabitants of this planet..... nor did I for that matter. Even in the midst of fist-fights or temper tantrums, he was always the closest thing I had to a best friend from the time I was a small child. He was always able to help me escape into a realm where anything is possible and the most mundane is thrilling. As he was 4 years to the day older than me, he went off into the world first. Always sure to relay back the fantastical parts of his journeys. Whether from another state, or another continent, he followed his curiosity without a second care or hesitation. I always marveled at his bravery. His utter lack of fear when it came to wanting to learn about something.... someplace new. 


I envy that. Him. That youthful reckless abandon. Impulsive and uninhibited. And yet, the REAL him is sad. Miserable, even. Miserable when forced to live in a small corner of the world that doesn't look kindly upon these differences, upon  uniqueness or sense of adventure. I take a step back and wonder whether many of the authors of these books look at the "real world" with the same distaste or dissatisfaction? Perhaps they lacked that fear of creating the sorts of worlds they would wish to reside in rather than waiting for another to paint the picture for them?... Rather than hoping the real world would heal itself and the people upon it would care enough to not only salvage what is, but to inspire what could be?


Do you ever start a post wondering where in the hell you were supposed to go with it? Yeah. But god damn, that was a good book. *daydreaming* Happy Monday, indeed.

2 comments:

  1. Beautiful post Ninja Kitty! Now I feel the need to both call my sister and read a book.

    And PS - I start posts all the time with no idea how they'll end. I like to think of it as a surprise for everyone:-)

    ReplyDelete
  2. *blush* Thank you, Doll! I completely endorse both calling your sister and reading a book (you know, because my endorsement was requested)! :) And thank you for the reassurance that I'm not alone in rambling. The element of surprise! Perfect! I'm totally stealing...er...embracing that!

    ReplyDelete

Kitty

Monday, March 5, 2012

“I taught you to fight and to fly. What more could there be?”

"You're proud that you've matured with your sense of childlike wonder intact, but others are tired of hearing you yell "Fire truck! Fire truck!" whenever one goes by."


Things seemed terribly dreary this past Saturday. All the stresses bubbling furiously within came to a raging boil and I felt lost if not hopeless. On the exterior, I smiled, but they all knew it was a hollow expression, particularly my eldest son. He's so very sensitive to my omni-changing moods. When his Mama slips off into periods of despair, his developing coping skills send him into action - taking his little brother by the hand and drifting delectably off into an imaginary world ripe with various Matchbox cars or Legos as props. Through my own selfishness, I was barely aware enough of the two sweet and inexplicably well behaved boys on the floor near my feet. My 'Ol Man, certainly not one to take on the dragon that is my emotional tides, retreated to his garage to build, rearrange and fancy up new functionality for his various assortment of tools. 


I don't even quite remember doing so, but I must have wandered to the bookshelf to locate the book my brother had highly recommended to me, and made my way back to the kitchen table with it. For the first time in what seems like years, I opened the cover to my new book and escaped into its pages. Only glancing up every half hour or so in response to a shriek or a *THUD!*, I was afforded enough time to read this delicious book in one sitting. Roughly 4 or so hours later, I reached the end with tears streaming effortlessly down my cheeks. A portion of that was a credit to the author, for it was a phenomenal read. The other, larger portion, was saying goodbye to my little tangible escape and returning back to the real world. Every time. Every last damn time my brother recommends something to me, I'm sucked in and spit mercilessly out again. Every time, the books are as absolutely amazing as promised. And every time, I emerge feeling abandoned knowing it had to end. 


After running my fingers along the spine of the book as though saying goodbye to a dear friend, things did look up. I was able to pull myself out of my funk just in time to move the cars out of the driveway and gather up all the outdoor toys I could possibly manage. We spent the afternoon blowing bubbles, digging up bugs in the dirt, playing "Halloween Spooks" (some oddly creepy game the boys dreamt up a few months back) and drawing crude renditions of actual things with sidewalk chalk. There was lots of giggling and my 'Ol Man even provided a backdrop of music for our combined listening pleasure (not to mention the perceived pleasure of the entire neighborhood, though they may have taken exception to some of the death metal tunes in the mix). The following day was even more enchanting, ickily necessary chores aside. Yet I couldn't help but think back to my book. Back to that and all the books either loaned to me or suggested for purchase by my favorite brother. 


In those moments lost in thought, it dawned on me why I was so drawn to these stories - and even more so, why my brother was. 


Let's back that up for a moment. Most, if not all, of the literary suggestions passed along from brother to sister come, amusingly enough, from the "young adult" section of any given book retailer or library. Before one jumps to immediate judgement, I can and DO read "real adult" books from time to time.... Though, in all fairness, not anytime in recent history given my complete lack of my OWN time.... I'm spiraling, here. Anyway, I found it odd that I had not arrived at this conclusion sooner. My brother is Peter Pan. (Sans the green tights and Disney features of course)


My brother is an extraordinary genius (notwithstanding the 6 or so college degrees he holds) and always has been. His sense of humor and adventure is quite literally not of this earth with a quick wit and charismatic charm all his own. He never related to the other inhabitants of this planet..... nor did I for that matter. Even in the midst of fist-fights or temper tantrums, he was always the closest thing I had to a best friend from the time I was a small child. He was always able to help me escape into a realm where anything is possible and the most mundane is thrilling. As he was 4 years to the day older than me, he went off into the world first. Always sure to relay back the fantastical parts of his journeys. Whether from another state, or another continent, he followed his curiosity without a second care or hesitation. I always marveled at his bravery. His utter lack of fear when it came to wanting to learn about something.... someplace new. 


I envy that. Him. That youthful reckless abandon. Impulsive and uninhibited. And yet, the REAL him is sad. Miserable, even. Miserable when forced to live in a small corner of the world that doesn't look kindly upon these differences, upon  uniqueness or sense of adventure. I take a step back and wonder whether many of the authors of these books look at the "real world" with the same distaste or dissatisfaction? Perhaps they lacked that fear of creating the sorts of worlds they would wish to reside in rather than waiting for another to paint the picture for them?... Rather than hoping the real world would heal itself and the people upon it would care enough to not only salvage what is, but to inspire what could be?


Do you ever start a post wondering where in the hell you were supposed to go with it? Yeah. But god damn, that was a good book. *daydreaming* Happy Monday, indeed.

2 comments:

  1. Beautiful post Ninja Kitty! Now I feel the need to both call my sister and read a book.

    And PS - I start posts all the time with no idea how they'll end. I like to think of it as a surprise for everyone:-)

    ReplyDelete
  2. *blush* Thank you, Doll! I completely endorse both calling your sister and reading a book (you know, because my endorsement was requested)! :) And thank you for the reassurance that I'm not alone in rambling. The element of surprise! Perfect! I'm totally stealing...er...embracing that!

    ReplyDelete