Missalexgreenturtle - Seasons, Teaching, And Adventures

Toad Words

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

So…do you remember that pork belly I was drooling over last week and how I was unsure how to cook it? 

Well I cooked it super.

I found an awesome recipe and used half of the brown sugar it called for and added some ex sweetz to it. Served it with cauliflower mash and a spinach & mushroon salad dressed with lemon & olive oil. All of the flavors just melted together. 

thinking about all the “small” art that’s ever existed. songs that were only ever sung in one village. stories written by children that got lost in the shuffle. personal paintings that didn’t survive the test of time. how they affected the lives of just a few, but still existed, still mattered to someone.

“i don’t like writing about my day, but i want to keep a journal”:

quotes and copywork. when reading, if you find something you enjoy, just copy it into the notebook. you can copy a whole chapter if you wish, highlighting what caught your attention the most.

definitions. look up on a dictionary and copy it. you could write your own dictionary as well, making up definitions for words.

lists. a classic, write movies to watch, books to read, the playlist of the month or just the groceries you have to buy.

maps. when going somewhere, you could draw the route you took or just a map of the place itself. just look up the place on google maps and copy it. you can draw a little map of all the places you have lived or the schools you have attended as well.

photos

take “notes” as you watch movies / documentaries. write down phrases that caught your attention or doodle.

illustrations and clippings. if you see an image or piece of art that you liked, put it in your journal. if it’s from a book or from a magazine I would recommend scanning it, tho’. it will serve as a record of what kind of art you enjoy through the years.

newspaper clippings from the day.

tickets and pamphlets. from movies, museums, transportation.

postcards

records. you could record for a month what the temperature was when you woke up and when you went to sleep. if you do that for a year, it gives you a better notion of the passing of seasons. you could record rainfall and other seasonal changes as well. you could choose something (an animal, a plant, an item or object) and write down every time you see it.

rubbings of leaves, coins, landmarks.

count. there’s a scene in the movie Caroline (2009) where Caroline’s dad tells her to go count the windows. you could do the same type of counting game if you are bored and write down.

mindmaps/sketchnotes + timelines of books, movies, music albums.

collages

pressed leafs and flowers

your collections. if you collect anything you could write down an inventory or maybe try to draw the items.

recipes. write down recipes and give it a score every time you try it. you could do the same for drinks you try out.

stickers

comic strips. you can find a bunch of it online, glue your favorites in your notebook.

people talk all the time about “primal instincts” and it’s usually about violence or sexual temptations or something, but your humanity comes with a lot of different stuff that we do without really thinking about, that we do without being told to or prompted to

your average human comes pre-installed with instincts to:

Befriend

Tell story

Make Thing

Investigate

Share knowledge

Laugh

Sing

Dance

Empathize with

Create

we are chalk full of survival instincts that revolve around connecting to others (dog-shaped others, robot-shaped, sometimes even plant-shaped) and making things with our hands

your primal instincts are not bathed in blood- they are layered in people telling stories to each other around a fire over and over and putting devices together through trial and error over and over and reaching for someone and something every moment of the way

talk street magic to me

drawing power from the metro lines

illusionists busking illegally, shimmering lights disintegrating as they run

plant mages tending tiny rooftop and windowbox gardens

elementary kids learning basic sigils on the playground

wixen taking a while to key into the magic in new cities when they move

alchemists dealing on the side to support their experiments

middleschoolers making friendship talismans and amulets for everyone

numerologists who’ll do your math homework for $5 or divine your fortune for $10

kids mass-texting luck and speed spells when their parties get broken up by the cops

I might do this with my class

Glowing base of tree made by arranging leaves. This was taken by Andy Goldsworthy.