I just had the brilliant thought that Voldemort should have gone for a much easier target than an eleven-year-old boy; by storming the Ministry of Magic (or wafting through the walls as the spirit he was), stealing a Time Turner, and re-doing that whole getting killed thing.
That wouldn’t be a long enough story for seven books, though.
…Maybe if Rowling described all the times he camped out along the way.
Do you ever stare at the human face, and think that it’s a really strange feature?
Bony bumps protrude beneath squishy orbs that we call distinct and handsome, and fangs spread wide in a gesture we recognize as friendly.
Droopy parts are pasted on the sides and smack dab in the middle -plus dead cells sprout from the top or ears and nose like a wild jungle plant’s fronds…
What gets me, when I’m in this mood, is how the arrangement of these fleshy parts causes us humans to say how attractive an arrangement it all is (or not).
You’re all so weird.
Occasionally a moment freezes in place for me; a sensory object is encapsulated in a transparent memory bubble.
I take it, hold it, and try to preserve it.
At night, if there’s time, I look over my bubbles and move the contents slowly in a swirl ’round the bottom. Looking at it in this light and that, I try to describe it to others and expound on the moment.
I love the feeling of being in healthy shape
almost as much as the
Lush, soft melt of a rich, delicious chocolate dessert
singing along my tongue and nerves
as my brain enters euphoric choruses of rapture.
Expression is a noble attempt; one that must be made in lieu of telepathy.
I feel constricted, however, as my ideas form into that ever-inaccurate medium of language and attempt to convey an entire panorama of thought -that, honestly, has already moved on to different scenes.
When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to grow up. Among my reasons were: the ability to drive, not doing chores, and having more friends because adults are so much more mature.
At least I get to drive.
As a young adult, I anticipated the job interview question: How do you handle stressful situations?
It concerned me so much that I’d think over what an interviewer would say as I dragged a screaming child off his brother or blearily and mentally blocked off life in the closet once my husband got home.
I thought that we need to withstand ever-increasing pressure whilst smiling.
In truth, we are a construction like a bridge. Or, a rubber band. Or, sometimes the three eggs with pieces of carton on top you’re using as an object lesson. You and your audience pile books on excitedly till finally –crack!
We have computers and mathematical software to know exactly how much weight a bridge can support before structural failure. After many years of living with ourselves, we have a similar mental gauge. However, guilt and comparison and self-judgment glare at us to keep piling on.
Stop before structural failure. I’m not judging. Given that most people laugh empathetically when you relay an everyday story, I know that everyone goes through it and honestly doesn’t mind if you stop.
It’s easier than piecing eggshells back together.
If you tell your children to get dressed, you will probably find them half- and wholly-naked and playing with toys. If you tell them to pick up the toys, they will realize their brother is downstairs racing his cars on the floors. They will throw their toys over the railing and join him.
Once you threaten to put all playthings underfoot in the garbage, the children will most likely announce they are hungry. Right. Then.
When you suggest breakfast, the only capable one will think it’s a good time to make crêpes.
When he is elbow-deep in flour, egg, and milk; his brother will dump out a board game and the toilet-training boy will get The Look. The children will also need syrup, fruit, sugar, meat, cheese, and utensils set on the table with their plates.
It’s just a good thing they didn’t get dressed yet, or their clothes would have gotten sticky from the crêpes.
Sometimes, I finally convince myself to tackle those chores.
That’s when a large, imposing matron of mood swings leans across, slaps me back down, and says:
We don’t need no motivation.
Hey! Leave those clothes alone!
Life is not scripted.
We forget this, and also that others are ensconced in their own feelings and thoughts -and can’t hear and feel our own. In pain inside, we say something to convey our discomfort. Then, we are surprised at a negative reaction.
So many times two people just need to hear love, but speak hate and receive it back. Feeling dejected, they further barrier themselves against affection till all that’s apparent is their horse-chestnut shell that gives you foot slivers in the grass.