Bright but Oh So Lazy !

Those words were written at the top of the paper. A poem I had written in a 8th grade English class at Rim of the World High School. The script was as beautiful as the teacher that had written them. I was clearly her favorite. I had just returned to regular classes after having been banished to continuation for a few months. It was the result of getting busted for pot. In 1967 it was a major crime. She saw me as a misunderstood rebel.
Anyway, the words were there and their truth was burning a hole right through me. It's probably the most accurate description of me then, and since. In 3rd grade I had been deemed a genius by my teacher in Rialto. I was put in accelerated learning until my mother put a stop to it. She was a Christian Scientist and took umbrage at the schools request for a psychiatric evaluation. Again at the beginning of 7th grade I was placed in student leadership. A month later we moved to Twin Peaks and that was then end of that. I seldom studied. Shit just seemed to come easy to me.
Okay so I'm bright. However I just don't seem to be willing to make the efforts or exercise the discipline needed to fully develop my potential. I guess that's called being lazy.(Sloth) Isn't that one of the Deadly Sins? Oh God, I'm going to Hell !
Two years after writing the poem and reading the remarks, I found that paper again. It was in my mother's desk along with two other letters. The first was authored by that teacher and addressed to me. In it she spoke words of encouragement and understanding. She identified with me and thought people like us were ahead of our time. The second letter was a copy of a letter my mother had written to the principle of that school. My mom told the principle that she believed the teacher was responsible for my use of marijuana and general rebellious nature. Teachers like her were corrupting our youth.
I have no idea how much damage that letter caused, but I'm sure my teachers career wasn't helped any. That was 1967 remember.
The finding of those letters and the fact that I had been kept from reading my own mail infuriated me. I vowed never to hide the truth from my children and to be as honest with them as I could. I have kept that vow.
One of the things I learned in my youth was that kids always know , or find out when you're full of shit. So I let them see that I'm only human and an imperfect one to be sure. They seem to love and respect despite that. Go wonder!
Still, I guess I'm gonna burn for that laziness crap.

Blogging

In order to reach somebody I missed and wanted to say hi to , I had to start a blog. When he suggested I actually contribute. I figured "Why not?"I feel the need to write out my thoughts. Here's the rub.I find my writing to be clod like,unsophisticated, and scattered. It's the same feeling I get when I play guitar. My head tells me "You're an impostor! Leave these things to real artists !" In most things I have no end of self confidence. However when it comes to creativity I become incredibly self conscious. But then again, this ain't about art or creativity. Or is it? I think it's about letting some of this shit out of my head. Which brings up another thing. What if someone actually reads this?Or more precisely someone I know.How open and vulnerable do I want to get?You know what?FUCK IT !!! I'll continue to babble on. Maybe someone will read this and comment or maybe I'll just have a record of some of my ramblings.Hopefully both.

Bernice's Funeral

Al's wife of 69 years has finally passed. The final 2 were spent in partial dementia.Everybody loved her.How could they not?She was a a trash talkin straight shooter who always made people feel special somehow. Her sons were there, rough and tumble ex-drunks, waxing poetic.The grandsons, another bunch of ex-con drug addicts,keeping the faith.
Me, I was there to support the family.Or so I thought. My thoughts were constantly on my own mother's final years of dementia and the betrayal of her years of faithful service to Christian Science.She left no legacy of grieving children behind. No funeral for Mom, no loving memories,no touching anecdotes. Of course I have some. It's just not okay to share them.The blame game is strong in my family.I keep her ashes in my CD collection.A place of honor.My dad's flag sits atop the TV on the other side of the room,she'd just die if she knew they were in the same room.
Will my children have a funeral for me? Will they tell amusing stories of the times when I did the most amazing things?I think they probably will. I am a nut, with some incredible life experiences, and they know without a doubt that I love them fiercely. I just hope they play some decent music at my wake.
I hope Al's going to be alright. I really love that man.