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The Blue Cardboard Today, The Blue Cardboard

My Mother seeped in, riding on
blue cardboard. She’s always there,
creeping inside of those odd parts
of the mind with defective connections
that make me run wild while walking
slowly, looking like death, and then I hate
all that I see, and I battle myself by hating
my wiring, but I want manners, things that don’t
interfere with the beauty of the world,
knowing that I am fully responsible for all
of the ugliness in the world and it is
everywhere, turning my stomach and
the blue cardboard is wrapping around
me and turning me into disgustingly
used paper towels, and I didn’t invite
my Mother today, but she’s always
here instead of resting in her urn.

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  1. #1 by Carl D'Agostino on August 7, 2011 - 8:55 pm

    I can’t remember a single day when my mother did not yell, scream, hit or punish me in some day. 50% of her vocabulary was the word “no”. I was a pretty darn good kid. Her blue cardboard still haunts me for decades and now I have often played the bad boy so I could be punished with self inflicted setbacks. It is an important insight to understand. I am not the bad boy. I take her cardboard box and set it afire so it may burn into nothingness and I am free. I am not responsible for the ugliness of the world. I may have a moral responsibility to try to alleviate it but I am not responsible in the sense of being its source. The box is guilt and I AM INNOCENT of the alleged crime.

    • #2 by Carl on August 9, 2011 - 6:00 am

      Carl, you are understanding and you have good strategies.

  2. #3 by Kay Camden on August 8, 2011 - 10:58 am

    Why blue cardboard?
    It still amazes me how easy it is to forget those who are alive yet impossible to go a minute without thinking of those who have died.

    • #4 by Carl on August 9, 2011 - 6:04 am

      If I told you about why the blue cardboard is there, you might think me to be off my rocker.

  3. #5 by Indigo Spider on August 8, 2011 - 2:41 pm

    Like Carl D. says, the blue cardboard box traps me, too, although I, too, am innocent. My father’s favorite expression, no matter what I did, no matter what I showed him, no matter how hard I tried, was “almost isn’t good enough.” My mother spent 50% of her time telling me to shut-up and the other 50% crying on the sofa about being homesick (parents immigrated from Germany) and it was the children who ruined her life. Amazing how they stick in your head even after they hit the urn. Their voices so ingrained that it becomes hard to discern if it is theirs or yours. Powerful piece Carl.

    • #6 by Carl on August 9, 2011 - 6:06 am

      Yes, you understand it, and that means a lot to my heart. Writing helps me heal, and then Carl D just tells me to burn the cardboard – Why didn’t I think about that?!

  4. #7 by claudia on August 8, 2011 - 3:57 pm

    this was a great illustration for a haunting experience.. my dad died when i was seventeen but sometimes he still turns up..

    • #8 by Carl on August 9, 2011 - 6:07 am

      Thank you, Claudia. I think there are large amounts of ghosts inside of us, many of them really good for us, some are harmful.

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