Saturday, October 9, 2010

The Balloon


The Mother’s Loathing of Balloons

BY A.E. STALLINGS
I hate you,
How the children plead
At first sight—

I want, I need,
I hate how nearly
Always I

At first say no,
And then comply.
(Soon, soon

They will grow bored
Clutching your

Umbilical cord)—

Over the moon,
Lighter-than-air,
Should you come home,

They’d cease to care—
Who tugs you through
The front door

On a leash, won’t want you
Anymore
And will forget you

On the ceiling—
Admittedly,
A giddy feeling—

Later to find you,
Puckered, small,
Crouching low

Against the wall.
O thin-of-skin
And fit to burst,
You break for her
Who wants you worst.
Your forebear was

The sack of the winds,
The boon that gives
And then rescinds,

Containing nothing
But the force
That blows everyone

Off course.
Once possessed,
Your one chore done,

You float like happiness
To the sun,
Untethered afternoon,

Unkind,
Marooning all
You’ve left behind:

Their tinfoil tears,
Their plastic cries,
Their wheedling

And moot goodbyes,
You shrug them off—
You do not heed—

O loose bloom
             With no root
                              No seed.




While it isn't the same movie as the one we all saw as children in the basement of the Public Liberry, it looks interesting enough to check out. I'm in a giddy, balloony kind of mood, today. Can't imagine why. Might have to do with the fact that I should be getting some sleep and I'm wide awake. And 2 pm is the big balloon moment for me as I watch Irksome Middle Child become Mrs. Irksome Middle Child Bride. Yes, I know she's 20, now, but she's always going to be my little girl. I promise to put up pictures of the nuptials. Oh, how her dad's gonna weep. Here's the original Red Balloon movie, by Albert Lamorisse, in 4 parts:


12 comments:

  1. Must be me, this soulless old guy. When I saw the original as a kid in French (I'm childhood fluent) it didn't do anything for me.

    Maybe you have to be 8, not 13. Maybe it's a woman thing; Herself go wobbly over it. Qui sait.

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  2. C'est pas une chose trop chère pour moi. Mais le premier film, c'est bon, n'est-ce pas? Que crois-tu?

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  3. Ahh, le film d'Homemade Space, je le vu sur d'autre blog.

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  4. Je ne parle pas Francais, damnit.

    After dinner tonight, I, like that space balloon, am feeling rather close to my bursting point.

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  5. Wait, utting it together:

    "It's my favorite movie ever, jerk. But the first film, it's good, no? Wow me with your insight"

    "I didn't watch the damned thing. figured it would suck. Ahhh, the Homespun Space Flam. Yeah, saw it at a better blog, like forever ago."

    How's my French? I just got back from Quebec, so I it should be spot on.

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  6. My English needs work, though. Sheesh.

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  7. I spend half my day thinking to myself in French, Andy. For no particular reason. One of the reasons I started learning French was the Red Balloon. Which is odd, since there is very little dialog in the movie. But VW is entitled to his views. How was Quebec? I always wanted to visit Quebec City.

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  8. Check my site. I was in the middle of nowhere.

    But I did go to Quebec City for a couple of weeks while I was in the Army. ABout 30% training, 70% party. I loved the place.

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  9. That is the strangest part of all; I went to Montréal once, never to Québec and lived what 100 miles away. We traveled across the border with frequency for dinner in some of the small places. Mostly it was cheaper to go south.

    The Frenchies all go to Cape May or did for the beaches since the waters in Canada coasts are a bit below tepid.
    I used to see that when visiting my sister and brother-in-law in Cape May. They owned the Anchorage Inn until the late '80's

    To this day I can't understand much of what the Québecers say in French Canadian. Neither can the French.

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  10. Funny about the French of Québec. I used to live 5 miles from the border near Saskatchewan, alfalfa and wheat for as far as the eyes could see, and one of the only radio stations that came in with any strength was CBC Radio Fransaskoise, which is what the francophones called themselves. Mostly country music. But boy was there a twang in all that French. When we moved to Lancaster PA from there, my French speaking Vietnamese neighbor asked if I was a Canadian, because I sounded like one to him.

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  11. Truly, the only time I can say, if it quacks like a duck, it ain't a duck.

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