Phobic Growths
I saw your lie-ie-ie-ie-ightYour blinding light Casting dark shadows all through the nightNow there are no stars to navigate byI see the work of the devilIn your blinding light
My current phase of light phobia began in May, 1999 when my big, ol' CRT monitor shorted out during a volunteer production run of Honor Roll certificates for a very large, inner city High School. When my oldest son began attending this school, it was one of the most troubled high schools in our city. At the moment of this production run in 1999, it was beginning to win national awards for excellence. We still believe that taking those honor roll certificates VERY seriously was part of how that transition was accomplished. The presentation ceremonies were the very next week when the monitor shorted out and began strobing through its color/light spectrum. I endured the discomfort rather than let the kids down.
Concurrently, my oldest son was adapting to his recent narcolepsy diagnosis, my husband and youngest son were in the final stint of a winning little league season and Mrs. Hisser was breaking in her newest mister next door. Mrs. Hisser went through so many misters that we nick named her after her extremely noisy porch light rather than keep up with her rapid name changing. It fit. She was a woman who kept 9-1-1 on speed dial. Hissy fits were the heart and soul of her neighborhood relations. Her glaring porch light glared directly into the narcoleptic son's bedroom window.
The newest Mister Hisser was campaigning for bonds with my house full of men folk and permission to keep my garden to his pro mow whack standards. No way I was gonna let his power toys into my garden, but I kinda sympathized with his need for male bonding. Missus Hisser had found him over the internet and he was new to the area. He was hoping to begin with a collaboration to replace the fence between our yards. Unfortunately, my men folk were not biting. There was not allot I could do about that. Still, I was hopeful they might be interested after the demands of the little league triumphs were past.
Not fast enough for the pathetic old coot. His noisy antics became a constant presence outside my office window. The whirrs and rhythmic pounding of his boy toys added a hideous soundtrack to the monitor's strobing. When I asked if he could wait a week, he told me straight up that his fence posts were more important than honoring inner city punks. Ouch.
Long story short, I ended up in the slammer prior to being committed and Mister Hisser's fence posts won precedence over honoring inner city punks. Nobody even cared enough to deliver the honor certificates I had managed to finish. Light lover's wisdom.
My current phase of light phobia began in May, 1999 when my big, ol' CRT monitor shorted out during a volunteer production run of Honor Roll certificates for a very large, inner city High School. When my oldest son began attending this school, it was one of the most troubled high schools in our city. At the moment of this production run in 1999, it was beginning to win national awards for excellence. We still believe that taking those honor roll certificates VERY seriously was part of how that transition was accomplished. The presentation ceremonies were the very next week when the monitor shorted out and began strobing through its color/light spectrum. I endured the discomfort rather than let the kids down.
Concurrently, my oldest son was adapting to his recent narcolepsy diagnosis, my husband and youngest son were in the final stint of a winning little league season and Mrs. Hisser was breaking in her newest mister next door. Mrs. Hisser went through so many misters that we nick named her after her extremely noisy porch light rather than keep up with her rapid name changing. It fit. She was a woman who kept 9-1-1 on speed dial. Hissy fits were the heart and soul of her neighborhood relations. Her glaring porch light glared directly into the narcoleptic son's bedroom window.
The newest Mister Hisser was campaigning for bonds with my house full of men folk and permission to keep my garden to his pro mow whack standards. No way I was gonna let his power toys into my garden, but I kinda sympathized with his need for male bonding. Missus Hisser had found him over the internet and he was new to the area. He was hoping to begin with a collaboration to replace the fence between our yards. Unfortunately, my men folk were not biting. There was not allot I could do about that. Still, I was hopeful they might be interested after the demands of the little league triumphs were past.
Not fast enough for the pathetic old coot. His noisy antics became a constant presence outside my office window. The whirrs and rhythmic pounding of his boy toys added a hideous soundtrack to the monitor's strobing. When I asked if he could wait a week, he told me straight up that his fence posts were more important than honoring inner city punks. Ouch.
Long story short, I ended up in the slammer prior to being committed and Mister Hisser's fence posts won precedence over honoring inner city punks. Nobody even cared enough to deliver the honor certificates I had managed to finish. Light lover's wisdom.
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