Recently I had a conversation with someone about my blog. There were two take home points for me:
1) That I had no idea he had been reading my blog.2) That the “dirt” part about this thing, whatever it is, gets lost sometimes.
In that spirit, and in the spirit of the tradition of the secular holidays I observe, I dedicate this post to that secret reader, and all my readers in Norway. (Seriously, who is reading this in Norway? Hit me up on twitter!). I also dedicate this post to continuing to ignore the dirt-issue.
It’s a secret-santa-type gift (get it? “-type” because it’s written? No?). It’s a song I wrote.
I call it “The Twelve Days of Digging.”
On the first day of digging my true love gave to me a partridge in a pair-tree
On the second day of digging my true love gave to me two ways of thinking about a partridge in a pair-tree
On the third day of digging my true love gave to me three ways of words for “time,” and two ways of thinking of that partridge in the pair-tree
On the fourth day of digging my true love gave to me four culling words, three words for “time,” and two ways of thinking like a partridge in a pair-tree
On the fifth day of digging my true love gave to me FIVE RINGS OF TREES. Four culling words, three ways of “time,” and two kinds of thought as a partridge in a pair-tree
On the sixth day of digging my true love gave to me six dogs a sleeping, FIVE RINGS OF TREES, four words that kill, three dimensions of time, and two schools of thought on a partridge in a pair-tree
On the seventh day of digging my true love gave to me a week seven seas a sailing, six dogs to let lay, FIVE YEARS IN TREES, four words that cull, three folds of time, two sides of coins bearing partridges in paired trees
On the eight day of digging my true love gave to me eight maids in masks, seven seas a swimming, six dogs not barking (the five rings of trees), four culled herds, three times two thinking equals one dimensional partridges in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of digging my true love gave to me nine ladies lying to eight maids in masks swimming the seven seas home to six sleeping best friends through all the forest despite words that cull or years of searching, even as they doubt their courage. All for that partridge in a pair-tree.
On the tenth day of digging my true love gave to me ten lorded larders, nine ladies lunching, through masks with big mouths, sea sick on seven seas, six dogs dismissing scraps, and five trees dried as I finger their rings, four burning words, three sides of time, two ways to be right about what lives in them thar trees.
On the eleventh day of digging my true love gave to me the smoke of eleven pipers that stank up the larder, sickened all the ladies even through their lunch masks. So then they swam away with Odyssean-like dogs, mawing sticks and trees UNTIL THE TREES ARE GONE. Four words broke away and changed the time into a squacking hen whose truth might be a lie depending on if there ever was a fucking partridge in a pair-tree, at all.
On the twelveth day of digging, this is what I learned:
My heart beats beats with the force of twelve tiny drums, depending on what kind of smoke is being blown towards the aft of my larder.
Ladies need to dance, and play with masks, and we need to trust each other. Internalized misogyny ensures doom when setting to sea. If you can’t trust those you ride a tanker with, more will sink than your spirits.
My dog is my best friend, he likes to dig at trees, and he’ll never say anything that hurts me (even if he will sneak-poop on my yoga mat). Past, present, future, it’s the kind of love that’s true. Sometimes the truth hurts, but dogs don’t know that twisted rhetoric.
There are two sides to every story (usually more). But the only one that matters is the one that does the least harm, protects kindness and a partridge in a pear tree.