|July 4, 2014|
Ordinarily, Devyn has strong opinions about what we will do and about where we will go, but not on the fourth of July. On this day, it mattered only that Devyn be allowed to read The Fault In Our Stars by John Green.
|July 4, 2014|
It's just -- they read Clifford the Big Red Dog to you at a rate of fifty minutes a page. And you have to sit there and be horribly proud and bored at the same time.
I hate Clifford the Big Red Dog. I hate him. There's fifty books about Clifford the Big Red Dog. Fifty books. There's seven books about Narnia that cover the birth and death of a nation, and mice with swords and a lion who's a god. They did it in seven books.
Fifty books about Clifford the Big Red Dog, and they all tell the exact same story: 'Look how big this dog is.' That's it. That's it...'Look how big this dog is.'
It's the whole book. 'Here's how big he was at the firehouse. Here's how big he was at Thanksgiving.' Who gives a ****? You just drew him big. You just on purpose made him bigger than people. It should be, 'Look how big I drew the dog in this book. Isn't that a mistake?' There's no story. You maybe even just drew him closer to the page. I don't even know if you did it honestly.On the issue of adding dramatic interest, Louis C.K. continues:
Tell a story about Clifford. Make something happen where maybe he steps on a policeman and shatters his spine, and it's devastating to the community. He hangs on for two months and then dies, and there's a whole, you know, funeral with bagpipes, and everybody is crying. And Clifford gets the death penalty and there's a whole book about his appeal process and how he found Jesus but everybody said it was b******* and the cop's wife was like, 'I want that dog dead!' And then he goes to the chair and they shave all his red fur off and now he's Clifford the Big Pink Dog. And they put him on a big, funny electric chair that the town got together and built...Alas, one of my children no longer cares about Clifford the Big Red Dog, and the other only occasionally pays attention to him. All those moments in which I had found myself pleading inwardly, "No, not another Clifford book" and "No, not this book yet again" while experiencing the almost unbearable repetition of the same books day after day and night after night? They are the stuff of good memories. So, Clifford? I have to keep Clifford. Clifford stays.
Molly: He just threw a book in the fireplace: a big, old, beautiful book! Do you ever have the problem where you think people are selfish sometimes?
Nat has the kitchen chair pulled into the living room, wedged between three crates. "Hey, Natalie, the sun get up okay this morning?" I ask like I do every morning.
She never answers, which used to really bug me...One day last year, I got so mad, I just walked right by her, didn't say anything. Not one word.
That day, after I left for school, my mom said Natalie sat outside my room and cried for two straight hours. Natalie isn't a crier, she's a screamer. You never see her cry for plain old hurt. I'd say my mom made it all up, but she didn't know I'd snubbed Natalie. My mom had no idea why Natalie had cried.
Now I ask Natalie about the sun every morning and it only bothers me a little when she doesn't answer.
|(my journal 6/12/14)|
The days are short,from
The sun a spark
Hung thin between
The dark and dark.
Fat snowy footsteps
Track the floor,
And parkas pile up
Near the door.
The river is
A frozen place
Held still beneath
The trees' black lace.
The sky is low.
The wind is gray.
Purrs all day.