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by Fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2248288
Interactions of the greenest kind 4-11-2021

Something About a Frog & a Man Named Jim




Always identified with Kermit:
         he of rainbows and believing in possibilities.
         Kermit was green and I was odd. It just fit.

Argued with the logic of story problem in math; they
         rarely made any sense. 'I have two apples
         and John gives me three pineapples,
         how much fruit do I have?' Two apples.
         I wouldn't take the pineapples, I don't like them.

Read the entire Compton's Encyclopedia A-Z
         by the time I was ten. Assigned classics to read
         in school were re-reads. Some for the fifth or sixth time.
         I could have written the Cliff Notes for them. They
         were old friends.

Assignment: Color in the snowman. Why? It is
         drawn on white paper/ Why waste my crayon?
         I colored in around the snowman, adding in shovel,
         scarf and hat. I failed because
         I didn't follow directions.

But I would watch people interact. I also watched them act.
         Playing preconceived roles to other's expectations.
         Never any good at games, I sat against the wall. I
         didn't play. But then again, I didn't lose.

Parents didn't always want me to play with their kids.
         Was accused of subversive behavior--
         didn't play by the rules of the games I didn't understand.
         Walked my own way, made my own paths, found
         my own journey. Not better or worse: just different.

Met Jim Henson long ago: wandering storytellers
         we swopped stories mid-tell and then swopped back
         without missing a heartbeat. Our audience thought
         it was planned. It wasn't. Just happened. Connections.

He liked my character name. He called me
         Kira of the Pointy Ears. (My ears have no curl to them--
         just points at the top.) Said I was magical.
         I had no clue who he was; it didn't matter anyway--
         we were both in persona. He liked my stories.
         That was enough. Didn't click until much later.

Wrote books while others fell in like, was still writing
         while they fell in love. My characters were more real
         to me than people who seemed to change who they were
         like other people changed socks. Sometimes,
         their socks had more character.

Happenstance intersections with other writers. Some inspired;
         others, unknowingly, became gods. I read, learned, practiced,
         and covered walls with rejection letters before the one
         that never made it to the wall. That was the start.

Sent a letter to Jim Henson, who, miracle of miracles
         (or maybe not) remembered the pointy-eared wandering storyteller
         and said to send him my book of Alyndorian dragons.
         When he'd read it, he called and said he still liked my stories
         and we arranged to meet. Except it had to be postponed;
         he wasn't feeling well. Then it was postponed forever.

Still have a thing for Kermit and Jim Henson.
         Of course, the two are entwined.
         Each gave me treasured gifts.
         Each taught me priceless lessons.
         And they both said it was okay to be me.











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