Portrait in Linen

I’ve read before of mini-seizures that go off in someone’s brain. They can cause her to slur her words, mix up her consonants, transpose syllables. I don’t know if that extends to writing/typing or not, but I find the verbal affliction affects me often, and more often the writing/typing condition. Everything seems to be in good working order in my head, but it gets jumbled up once it hits my lips or my hand.

Boo tad.

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Was in the Walmart bathroom yesterday and noticed the writing on the wall. Times must really be changing if folks are beginning to quote classic poetry on the grimy chipped paint instead of marking it up with bold, bubbly expletives.

Granted, the quote was incorrect, and every woman since who has relieved herself in that stall now knows it. Someone else had come along behind the “original poster” and proofed the line.

At least someone was trying to be literary.

But the proofer was trying to be a literary snob.

If I were given to vandalism, I’d have to bust out my own red Sharpie and add my own comments, ala homeschool mom.

Lovely line. However, when quoting poetry, always cite the author–no exceptions. And if you do cite an author, always make sure to cite the correct author. These immortal words are not Shakespeare’s; they belong to Edgar Allen Poe.

A less illegal way to right the wrongs might be to write the correction on an index card and tape it to the wall beneath the previous posts. This way, it’s easily removed and discarded, but then at least a few members of the “captive audience” may be prevented from showing their…rears…should they ever hear the quote again and attribute it to the wrong poet.

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Oh, what does it say about me that bathroom graffiti has given me more to contemplate than any of several other unremarkable encounters I’ve had over the last 24 hours.

In traffic today, I was tailgated twice, but wasn’t honked at. Marked improvement.

I saw a beat-up old truck with a huge sign stuck on the back that said in big, block letters: “PLEASE NO TAILGATING–BACK OFF!!!”

I think it’s an ingenious strategy. I made a point to drive at least two car-lengths behind him. I totally, totally appreciated the written notice.

We have a different strategy, though. When someone tailgates us or honks at us (or both), I tell all five kids, “Alright…stare at ‘em!” Then every head in the van turns around and looks straight at the person behind the wheel.

It’s non-violent, non-aggressive, and it works. Why?

Because people react with road rage because they feel safe and anonymous within the confines of their vehicles. They feel honking or tailgating or cutting off other vehicles is impersonal and justified.

But when a van-full of kids turns around and looks them in the eye, that windshield buffer of anonymity disappears, and suddenly, the honker is an individual, facing other individuals, and suddenly, there’s accountability. People are far less likely to “act out” if they’re held immediately accountable, and that’s what our strategy does.

So far, the tailgaters/honkers have reacted in a few different ways–definitely backing off, cooling down; passing without any obscene gestures; even pulling off of the road so they don’t have to continue driving behind us under the kids’ collective scrutinizing stare.

That works just fine until I can get my hands on one of those “BACK OFF!!!” signs.

The bottle rolled from her fingertips into the sea, turned into envy-green folds of glass and foam, drew farther and farther from the shore like a prodigal son from his father’s guiding side.

The sand for her feet, the sun for her skin, and the wind–to encircle, envelope, to hold, to keep all her parts sewn up like the seams of a paper sail that would not see the greater latitude lines.

One possession her own, cut from her heart, from her hand, from the hem of her thin linen gown and wrapped up in a scroll.

A prayer that the words would not drown, but survive at the breast of the heaving-green sea, carried abroad with a name and the hour seized at the moment the ink stained the page.

And she counted the days in waiting, in faith, for the answering cry to return on the crown of a white noonday tide.