Profanities, obscenities, expletives: We use these terms to describe words considered inappropriate in our language. By definition, a profanity is a word, phrase, or gesture that is abusive, vulgar, or irreverent, but many of these condemned words merely articulate intense emotion. These words fill a void in our language with their predominately-negative expressions of scorn, disgust, pain, or surprise. Many words used today as curse words did not originate as such. These once harmless words seemed to make that transition when it became common to use them to express some of our strongest emotions. This would indicate that we are not condemning the specific words, but the emotions they convey. Is our anger only valid if we express it through acceptable language? Do we lessen our pain by describing it calmly? While we should refrain from language whose only purpose is to abuse or offend, why must we censor expressions used solely to color our informal speech? We should be free to make full use of our language; if through conscious decision we find that the best word available is one our society considers unacceptable, then that should be only a factor in our choice, not the final ruling.
I wrote this in response to an English definition assignment. It has always been an irritant to me how variable the rules for accepted speech seem to be. While I personally choose to refrain from using questionable language, under many circumstances I do not find it offensive. As with many subjects, I secede from the usual preferring to judge according to motive than by appearance or socially set standards.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Raptor
The tangle of rods and strings, of paper-thin material lifted lightly from his small hands. It seemed intent upon dancing away from him with every pull of the breeze. His tiny fingers clutched at the insubstantial mass with great care. He was certain it would snap and tear if he gripped too tightly. Within moments, he reached his destination. Laying his slight burden upon the beach, he held it down with a sandy toe as he fumbled to untangle the dragging cords. He felt the burning heat of the sun against the exposed skin at the back of his neck.
With the strings now in order, he stepped away from the delicate bundle, holding thread and breath. Instantly the wind caught the fibrous material, drawing it up and away, tumbling and twisting toward sure disaster. The crash of the waves amplified in his ears with the howl of the wind, a warning, a threat to rip apart this new intruder to the sky.
He almost closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the imminent destruction when suddenly, unexpectedly the cord pulled at his palm, the thread line now taunt and singing with a slight vibrating whistle.
And it rose, away from the menacing waves, past the foam and spray. The wind strained against the thin rods and brightly colored canvas, but there was no snap of breaking, nor sign of a tear, only soaring.
The glitter of the sunlit wave caps caught in his wide, lifted gaze as the fragile, lifeless creature transformed into a powerful lord of the sky, like a raptor or eagle, a bird that dominated the sky, bending currents to its will. Among the clouds, in flashes of saturated color, it flew. It twisted and dived only to right itself and soar again. His brows relaxed and a smile overtook him.
He remained there, his attention fixed upon the sky, reveling in every gust of breeze. The wind carried his treasure to nest among the clouds and lifted sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, cooling his face and neck.
Only when his arms tired and his skin had pinked from the afternoon sun did he draw the string back, reigning in this noble flight. The bird lowered smoothly, caressing the current with an effortless descent. He gathered the cords, rods, and fabric panels of the now silent creature into his arms. With new reverence for his delicate possession, he started home again.
Again, in first person.
Jacob’s Kite
The rods and strings tangled together in my hands. It’s so thin, I thought. A slight wind came by that almost lifted it from my grasp. I clutched at it as carefully as I could. I was sure the material would tear at any moment. Please don’t break. Not yet. I was almost there. Just a little bit farther.
When I reached the place, the empty beach where I usually play, I set it down. The sand was warm. I used a gritty toe to hold down my new toy while I tried to untangle the mess I’d made of the cords. The sun was hot on my neck as I bent over the stubborn knots.
After I dealt with the knots, I held the string tight in my hand. I held my breath just as tight as lifted my toe and stepped back. The wind caught the material as soon as I moved and lifted it from the ground. It was tumbling and twisting, over and under. I was sure it was about to crash back down to the beach in a heap of splinters and ripped fabric. The wind was pulling it closer to the froth at the water’s edge. I heard the wave’s crashing louder now. It wasn’t the gentle rhythm I was used to. It sounded more like a warning; a threat for daring to invade the skies.
I wanted to close my eyes. I tried to. I didn’t want to watch destruction. Then the cord, the one still held tight in my fist, was pulling at my arm. I looked down. The thread line that had laid in lazy loops beside my feet was now stretched tight in the air. It pulled so hard that it vibrated with a slight whistle.
The wind had caught it now and it rose. It rose away from the angry waves, away from the foam and spray. The wind strained against the thin rods, but they didn’t break or snap. There was also no sign of a tear in the bright canvas. Against the sun and wind, against the ocean and the waves, it only soared higher.
The sun off the wave caps glittered in my eyes as I watched the flight. My lifeless, fragile creature had transformed. It was now a powerful lord of the air. High in the air, like a raptor or an eagle, it dominated the sky. Warm air currents bent to its will. Saturated color flashed in the clouds. It twisted and dived, but I wasn’t afraid for it any longer. It knew when to turn in the wind. It knew how to climb the sky. I smiled.
My treasure was at home here. It had made itself a nest in the clouds. My face and neck was hot, but the breezes cooled me. It lifted my dampened hair from my sweaty forehead.
I don’t know how long I stayed that day, my eyes fixed skyward. Only when the sun had burned my skin pink did I pull the string in. The bird lowered smoothly. Its descent was easy, graceful. It landed softly. I gathered the rods, cords, and fabric panels into my arms no longer worried. It wasn’t as delicate I had thought.
With the strings now in order, he stepped away from the delicate bundle, holding thread and breath. Instantly the wind caught the fibrous material, drawing it up and away, tumbling and twisting toward sure disaster. The crash of the waves amplified in his ears with the howl of the wind, a warning, a threat to rip apart this new intruder to the sky.
He almost closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the imminent destruction when suddenly, unexpectedly the cord pulled at his palm, the thread line now taunt and singing with a slight vibrating whistle.
And it rose, away from the menacing waves, past the foam and spray. The wind strained against the thin rods and brightly colored canvas, but there was no snap of breaking, nor sign of a tear, only soaring.
The glitter of the sunlit wave caps caught in his wide, lifted gaze as the fragile, lifeless creature transformed into a powerful lord of the sky, like a raptor or eagle, a bird that dominated the sky, bending currents to its will. Among the clouds, in flashes of saturated color, it flew. It twisted and dived only to right itself and soar again. His brows relaxed and a smile overtook him.
He remained there, his attention fixed upon the sky, reveling in every gust of breeze. The wind carried his treasure to nest among the clouds and lifted sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, cooling his face and neck.
Only when his arms tired and his skin had pinked from the afternoon sun did he draw the string back, reigning in this noble flight. The bird lowered smoothly, caressing the current with an effortless descent. He gathered the cords, rods, and fabric panels of the now silent creature into his arms. With new reverence for his delicate possession, he started home again.
Again, in first person.
Jacob’s Kite
The rods and strings tangled together in my hands. It’s so thin, I thought. A slight wind came by that almost lifted it from my grasp. I clutched at it as carefully as I could. I was sure the material would tear at any moment. Please don’t break. Not yet. I was almost there. Just a little bit farther.
When I reached the place, the empty beach where I usually play, I set it down. The sand was warm. I used a gritty toe to hold down my new toy while I tried to untangle the mess I’d made of the cords. The sun was hot on my neck as I bent over the stubborn knots.
After I dealt with the knots, I held the string tight in my hand. I held my breath just as tight as lifted my toe and stepped back. The wind caught the material as soon as I moved and lifted it from the ground. It was tumbling and twisting, over and under. I was sure it was about to crash back down to the beach in a heap of splinters and ripped fabric. The wind was pulling it closer to the froth at the water’s edge. I heard the wave’s crashing louder now. It wasn’t the gentle rhythm I was used to. It sounded more like a warning; a threat for daring to invade the skies.
I wanted to close my eyes. I tried to. I didn’t want to watch destruction. Then the cord, the one still held tight in my fist, was pulling at my arm. I looked down. The thread line that had laid in lazy loops beside my feet was now stretched tight in the air. It pulled so hard that it vibrated with a slight whistle.
The wind had caught it now and it rose. It rose away from the angry waves, away from the foam and spray. The wind strained against the thin rods, but they didn’t break or snap. There was also no sign of a tear in the bright canvas. Against the sun and wind, against the ocean and the waves, it only soared higher.
The sun off the wave caps glittered in my eyes as I watched the flight. My lifeless, fragile creature had transformed. It was now a powerful lord of the air. High in the air, like a raptor or an eagle, it dominated the sky. Warm air currents bent to its will. Saturated color flashed in the clouds. It twisted and dived, but I wasn’t afraid for it any longer. It knew when to turn in the wind. It knew how to climb the sky. I smiled.
My treasure was at home here. It had made itself a nest in the clouds. My face and neck was hot, but the breezes cooled me. It lifted my dampened hair from my sweaty forehead.
I don’t know how long I stayed that day, my eyes fixed skyward. Only when the sun had burned my skin pink did I pull the string in. The bird lowered smoothly. Its descent was easy, graceful. It landed softly. I gathered the rods, cords, and fabric panels into my arms no longer worried. It wasn’t as delicate I had thought.
©T.Lynn Smith 2008
This was a writing exercise in which I needed to describe in 500 words a child's first encouter with a creature, substance, or object.
Mortification
I know the meaning of mortification.
No, I intimately know what it means to be mortified.
There is a reason he’s called a mortician.
It is so much worse than the red burn of embarrassment.
The phrase “I wish the ground would swallow me whole” takes on a whole new meaning. If only that were possible.
If the ground would open up, take me down, and spit me out somewhere around the Polynesian Islands that way I would never have to see the people who witnessed the shining moments (yes, plural) that brought me to this point.
What’s a mortician do exactly?
Doesn’t he take out your organs and replace them with filler?
That would be nice.
Take the brain that can’t stop the replays.
Take the heart that makes me care what they think.
Take my stupid stomach that won’t stop churning.
Take it all and give me cotton. Nice, soft, fluffy cotton.
Cotton doesn’t judge you; can’t tell you how ridiculous you looked; won’t force you to face your embarrassment tomorrow and the next day and the next.
Why can’t I just drop this?
They will forget it long before I can.
I reserve the right not disclose the details of the event/events that inspired this piece.
No, I intimately know what it means to be mortified.
There is a reason he’s called a mortician.
It is so much worse than the red burn of embarrassment.
The phrase “I wish the ground would swallow me whole” takes on a whole new meaning. If only that were possible.
If the ground would open up, take me down, and spit me out somewhere around the Polynesian Islands that way I would never have to see the people who witnessed the shining moments (yes, plural) that brought me to this point.
What’s a mortician do exactly?
Doesn’t he take out your organs and replace them with filler?
That would be nice.
Take the brain that can’t stop the replays.
Take the heart that makes me care what they think.
Take my stupid stomach that won’t stop churning.
Take it all and give me cotton. Nice, soft, fluffy cotton.
Cotton doesn’t judge you; can’t tell you how ridiculous you looked; won’t force you to face your embarrassment tomorrow and the next day and the next.
Why can’t I just drop this?
They will forget it long before I can.
I reserve the right not disclose the details of the event/events that inspired this piece.
Friend
We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. Well, longer than that. We’ve been friends since before I was capable of remembering, since before I even had conscious thought, before I could see or breathe or had a heartbeat. There was never a time that we weren’t part of each other. We are the same down to our DNA.
What’s it like to have a friend like that? I don’t think I can accurately describe it because I’ve never known what it’s like not to have a friend like that; a friend so close that we finish each other’s sentences and with a simple look, know what the other is thinking. No, I’m not talking about telepathy here; it’s much more simple than that. When you know a person, really know them inside and out; know everything they’ve ever done, everything they want to do, and experienced most of it with them, knowing what they’re thinking is easy.
As alike as we are physically, we are still two very different people. Even though we’ve lived through near identical experiences, those experiences have shaped us differently. Like fingerprints, though our DNA can confound the best PI, one look at our fingerprints and our identity is exposed. Shaped differently. Slight differences in the uterine environment caused this defining individuality. Slight differences in perception and opinion shaped us into different people. I like blue; she likes green. I love to organize; she’s the decorator. I write; she paints. I can’t live without her, but I can’t be everything she needs. She loves my company, but sometimes all I need is space. Still, we are as close as we want to be and share a bond closer than many people will ever experience.
Is there anything that can come between a bond like that? Yes, there is, and actually, it’s the small things that do it. Tiny annoyances, if allowed to fester, can drive a wedge between even a perfect companionship. Small acts of selfishness can undermine a confident relationship. The biggest struggles, the hard, deep things only draw us closer. Distance, another one of those friendship enders, is no obstacle; we connect remotely as easily as we do face to face. Time or lack of is also a non-issue; we are as comfortable with each other after a month of silence as an hour.
There’s nothing like the feeling of being unconditionally accepted. Of revealing your darkness and finding it a mere shadow; not as black of deeds as you imagined for the one person you trust and believe in more than anyone else in the world deals with it too.
Consider this: if we all had a friend like this, would we be happier? I think so, yes. Isn’t that one of the profound things people search for, to have someone that truly understands and accepts them? The only difference is that I didn’t have to risk anything to trust myself, my truth with my sister. Put any two people in identical situations with identical experiences to direct their reactions and the ability to empathize with each other would be unavoidable. We would all feel the same pain or joy or love or hate. Discovery of your “twin”; however, will take much more courage. I’m just lucky God did my search for me.
For my sister.
What’s it like to have a friend like that? I don’t think I can accurately describe it because I’ve never known what it’s like not to have a friend like that; a friend so close that we finish each other’s sentences and with a simple look, know what the other is thinking. No, I’m not talking about telepathy here; it’s much more simple than that. When you know a person, really know them inside and out; know everything they’ve ever done, everything they want to do, and experienced most of it with them, knowing what they’re thinking is easy.
As alike as we are physically, we are still two very different people. Even though we’ve lived through near identical experiences, those experiences have shaped us differently. Like fingerprints, though our DNA can confound the best PI, one look at our fingerprints and our identity is exposed. Shaped differently. Slight differences in the uterine environment caused this defining individuality. Slight differences in perception and opinion shaped us into different people. I like blue; she likes green. I love to organize; she’s the decorator. I write; she paints. I can’t live without her, but I can’t be everything she needs. She loves my company, but sometimes all I need is space. Still, we are as close as we want to be and share a bond closer than many people will ever experience.
Is there anything that can come between a bond like that? Yes, there is, and actually, it’s the small things that do it. Tiny annoyances, if allowed to fester, can drive a wedge between even a perfect companionship. Small acts of selfishness can undermine a confident relationship. The biggest struggles, the hard, deep things only draw us closer. Distance, another one of those friendship enders, is no obstacle; we connect remotely as easily as we do face to face. Time or lack of is also a non-issue; we are as comfortable with each other after a month of silence as an hour.
There’s nothing like the feeling of being unconditionally accepted. Of revealing your darkness and finding it a mere shadow; not as black of deeds as you imagined for the one person you trust and believe in more than anyone else in the world deals with it too.
Consider this: if we all had a friend like this, would we be happier? I think so, yes. Isn’t that one of the profound things people search for, to have someone that truly understands and accepts them? The only difference is that I didn’t have to risk anything to trust myself, my truth with my sister. Put any two people in identical situations with identical experiences to direct their reactions and the ability to empathize with each other would be unavoidable. We would all feel the same pain or joy or love or hate. Discovery of your “twin”; however, will take much more courage. I’m just lucky God did my search for me.
For my sister.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Beware Jalapenos!
I will never, repeat NEVER, cook with jalapenos without the proper use of gloves again. Here’s why…
It was balmy Memorial Day, or Labor Day, whichever one comes at the beginning of the summer, and I was visiting my family back home. We—and by we I mean my family—had a huge gathering planned. My family does this. A lot. My parents own a restaurant, so large parties with tons of food are common place. So, we have this huge cook-out/swim party planned and since my cooking skills are rather pathetic in comparison to just about every other adult in my family—You know what, scratch that. I might as well admit it. I'm the worst cook in my family. Needless to say, I’ve never worked a day behind counter of previously mentioned restaurant Don’t feel bad for me. I really don't mind being on the receiving end of all that good food. So, I decided to help prepare one of the side dishes. You know, stay safely away from anything I could render inedible. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I've screwed up Hamburger Helper before. Don't ask me how, I don't know.
Anyway, my safe option—or so I thought at the time—was to help prepare Stuffed Jalapenos. Halved and seeded jalapenos, stuffed with cream cheese, wrapped in thick-sliced bacon, then grilled. Is your mouth watering yet? So my sister and I are moving along, prepping up peppers. No big deal, right? Yeah, that's what I thought until we started coughing. The fumes from the peppers we were slicing and deseeding were irritating our throats. We’d never had that experience prepping peppers before and we’ve made this dish several times if not on such a large scale. We probably had about thirty large jalapenos to prep. The coughing might have been our first clue, but we were almost done and didn't think much of it. A little later, just as we were finishing, my hands start to heat up. Uncomfortably. Still thinking nothing of it, I wash them off and keep going. Within minutes my fingers are searing; my palms and the skin underneath my nails is on fire.
Now I've worked with peppers before. I've made this dish before, with no problems whatsoever, but apparently this specific batch of peppers had something to prove. I tried washing my hands again, didn't work. I scrubbed them with the gritty stuff you use to make your feet soft. That only made it worse. Aloe Vera Gel, the kind used on sunburns, that was bad news also. Finally, I found that if I kept my hands in a bowl of ice water, it numbed the heat. Unfortunately, it also numbed my fingers and then I had to deal with the pain of defrosting digits. I spent the whole party alternating between the searing pain of a first degree burn and the half-frozen stinging sensation you get from playing in the snow too long. I was the life of the party that day, let me tell you.
Taking pity on me, my wonderful brother-in-law (love ya, Trey) offered to search for some remedies online. You would be amazed at how many normally intelligent individuals have made the mistake of brawling bare-handed with proud peppers. I would have been laughing at the comments we found... if I weren't agonizingly distracted at the time. We came across every remedy you could think of. One person would post a remedy, then the next person would reply, sometimes in all caps, whether the remedy worked for them or not. (Usually, the all caps meant not.) After several pages of this hilarity, we found something that looked useful, baking soda.
You see, the culprit in this scenario was the capsaicin oil in the peppers. Once that oil gets into your pores it does not want to come out. At least not without letting you know about it, loudly. After scrubbing my hands with the baking soda, the heat would diminish for a few minutes, but while that did alleviate the pain, it was tedious and my hands were raw already. Exasperated, I made a paste out of the stuff and coated my hands in it. Ah, finally relief...until it dried. And started flaking off everywhere on everything, but at least I wasn’t burning up anymore. I had to sleep with my hands coated in baking soda that night. As long as I left the baking soda on my hands—and a good thick coating of it I might add—it absorbed the oil as it left my pores. By morning my hands felt more or less normal with only residual heat detectable under my nails.
I have learned my lesson. So if the next time I’m with family and I go a little manic about proper pepper prepping procedures, you'll know why.
It was balmy Memorial Day, or Labor Day, whichever one comes at the beginning of the summer, and I was visiting my family back home. We—and by we I mean my family—had a huge gathering planned. My family does this. A lot. My parents own a restaurant, so large parties with tons of food are common place. So, we have this huge cook-out/swim party planned and since my cooking skills are rather pathetic in comparison to just about every other adult in my family—You know what, scratch that. I might as well admit it. I'm the worst cook in my family. Needless to say, I’ve never worked a day behind counter of previously mentioned restaurant Don’t feel bad for me. I really don't mind being on the receiving end of all that good food. So, I decided to help prepare one of the side dishes. You know, stay safely away from anything I could render inedible. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I've screwed up Hamburger Helper before. Don't ask me how, I don't know.
Anyway, my safe option—or so I thought at the time—was to help prepare Stuffed Jalapenos. Halved and seeded jalapenos, stuffed with cream cheese, wrapped in thick-sliced bacon, then grilled. Is your mouth watering yet? So my sister and I are moving along, prepping up peppers. No big deal, right? Yeah, that's what I thought until we started coughing. The fumes from the peppers we were slicing and deseeding were irritating our throats. We’d never had that experience prepping peppers before and we’ve made this dish several times if not on such a large scale. We probably had about thirty large jalapenos to prep. The coughing might have been our first clue, but we were almost done and didn't think much of it. A little later, just as we were finishing, my hands start to heat up. Uncomfortably. Still thinking nothing of it, I wash them off and keep going. Within minutes my fingers are searing; my palms and the skin underneath my nails is on fire.
Now I've worked with peppers before. I've made this dish before, with no problems whatsoever, but apparently this specific batch of peppers had something to prove. I tried washing my hands again, didn't work. I scrubbed them with the gritty stuff you use to make your feet soft. That only made it worse. Aloe Vera Gel, the kind used on sunburns, that was bad news also. Finally, I found that if I kept my hands in a bowl of ice water, it numbed the heat. Unfortunately, it also numbed my fingers and then I had to deal with the pain of defrosting digits. I spent the whole party alternating between the searing pain of a first degree burn and the half-frozen stinging sensation you get from playing in the snow too long. I was the life of the party that day, let me tell you.
Taking pity on me, my wonderful brother-in-law (love ya, Trey) offered to search for some remedies online. You would be amazed at how many normally intelligent individuals have made the mistake of brawling bare-handed with proud peppers. I would have been laughing at the comments we found... if I weren't agonizingly distracted at the time. We came across every remedy you could think of. One person would post a remedy, then the next person would reply, sometimes in all caps, whether the remedy worked for them or not. (Usually, the all caps meant not.) After several pages of this hilarity, we found something that looked useful, baking soda.
You see, the culprit in this scenario was the capsaicin oil in the peppers. Once that oil gets into your pores it does not want to come out. At least not without letting you know about it, loudly. After scrubbing my hands with the baking soda, the heat would diminish for a few minutes, but while that did alleviate the pain, it was tedious and my hands were raw already. Exasperated, I made a paste out of the stuff and coated my hands in it. Ah, finally relief...until it dried. And started flaking off everywhere on everything, but at least I wasn’t burning up anymore. I had to sleep with my hands coated in baking soda that night. As long as I left the baking soda on my hands—and a good thick coating of it I might add—it absorbed the oil as it left my pores. By morning my hands felt more or less normal with only residual heat detectable under my nails.
I have learned my lesson. So if the next time I’m with family and I go a little manic about proper pepper prepping procedures, you'll know why.
Sandglass
by T. Lynn Smith
A mirror like sand changes each wave.
Who can trust the reflection?
Beauty and disgust, both a temporary tide.
Each low removes a layer of truth.
Lies like sediment build.
Sands wash away, bare stones revealed.
Ebb and flood, view unclear.
Jagged and bleached, deceived.
Not a retreat, but a prison
Enclosed in a gold frame.
©T.Lynn Smith 2008
This poem is about how I sometimes see myself unclearly. Each mirror I pass is yet another occasion to judge myself. The image I see tells me who I am, what I’m worth. Like a troll that I must pay to pass the bridge, the mirror takes from me each time I see less, each time I pass sentence upon myself.
A mirror like sand changes each wave.
Who can trust the reflection?
Beauty and disgust, both a temporary tide.
Each low removes a layer of truth.
Lies like sediment build.
Sands wash away, bare stones revealed.
Ebb and flood, view unclear.
Jagged and bleached, deceived.
Not a retreat, but a prison
Enclosed in a gold frame.
©T.Lynn Smith 2008
This poem is about how I sometimes see myself unclearly. Each mirror I pass is yet another occasion to judge myself. The image I see tells me who I am, what I’m worth. Like a troll that I must pay to pass the bridge, the mirror takes from me each time I see less, each time I pass sentence upon myself.
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