Midnight Buzzing of the Night Blhome

The following edition of the "Morning Blagel" is an hypocrite. It was not written in the morning. There were no bagels or freshly made coffee at arms length. No buying of selling of warm goods. No. I am at my parents home wrapped in a waning net of safety and comfort. I've been attempting to ween myself from these late night visits for several years now. This year is the year. I am sure of it!  Besides, if I make this the preferred method of matters I'd have to change the title to "Night Blhome", and that is just not even half as catchy as "Morning Blagel".


The blog took four hours to write. My mind is a'jumble. I've been pacing frantically throughout the three main living areas of my parents home in correspondence to the three most stressful areas of my life: living room, den, kitchen, poor classwork, living room den kitchen, family stress, livingroom dne, kitchnic, too many jobs and hopes for the future, livegritchen denrivin ldkpclrd denliving and on and on....

I'm nervous, verbally fumbly, and itchy—as if I’ve used itch powder in the place of lotion.  My body wants exhaustive motion because my soul is feeling the repercussions of an ancient torture.  My mind is lacing in and out of the past and future, trying to tie itself around the present. 

But what’s this? At every point in which I come into contact with the present I hear an obnoxious buzzing sound.

But there isn’t the time to figure out its source. I’ve got to discover the source of things more world oppressing than annoying sounds in order to bind up the world’s wounds.  After all, I am the world dominator. Right?

Again?!

Nope! I’ve got to find that buzzing sound.

From over my shoulder I catch a glimpse of Greg sitting at the kitchen table beside Elizabeth. He is grinning expectantly. So what? That’s not unusual. I pace, waiting.

Buzzing then grinning then buzzing again. a-ha! A coincidence? I think not!

Then I understood. In the moments of laughter that ensued, the world freed itself from my grasp, and I slowed down.

You see, while I’ve been pacing in a rather circular pattern he’s been buzzing. From an aerial view it might have looked like I was a bee dancing out directions to the nearest flower patch. I'd been dancing for awhile.

I come home for this--not the refillable refrigerator or the free Port Wine. I come home for the laughter. I come home for the reminder of who I am in a real community and not in that flat wasteland of an excuse for a community we call 'college'. I come home to remember I am one child of six and no more important than all the other eleven to twelve family members. But mostly I come home to laugh even when everything is absurdly un-laughable.

By the way, I've arranged the creation of an oddly Greg-like character to come to a gruesome end by bee swarm in my latest stab at children's literature. Interested?