Sunday, October 26, 2014

Finding Self: Eradicating So

Reexamination of various text has been replete with removal of "so".  The edits have made the text more clear because it has forced me to know better what I had to express. I have not been sorting out the real weeds in my thoughts here.

Yesterday my house was full of strangers and my dog handled it better than I. I did worry that he would respond to a sudden movement, or come to realize it was his ball being passed among little people. I tried to ensure that he would not do something that brought on tears and blood and insurance premium increases because he was undeclared. This was not my family and I sensed a hostility from one that gave me concern  Things could tumble. I gave up an engagement with art for disengagement in my house. I did not effervesce because I did not feel it.

I was about to type "so" and thus I conclude: It was not the best of days. I left much unsaid because the piano had dust, the room had a chill and the preparation was both over and under the top.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

ReStart with Challenges

I have been procrastinating for days my return to this blog:  then I try to log in and it is missing. Suspicious activity.  New pw needed. 

As I select PUBLISH I am not sure if it will.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

In order to strive for a remarkable life you have to decide that you want from it

So the chat went something like this:

What would you do differently?
Maybe see more live theater.
Okay, you can do that.
It would be a fairly big budget item. 
Would you want to travel?
I do not like beaches.
Same here. Sun. Florida. I do not have any inclination.  
Maybe I'd walk the wall of China.
You, walk?
Not the wall wall just a few feet.  Get on it and look out.
I think I am just as satisfied with pictures for most places.
Maybe Europe but I did that already.
I do not travel well.
That is right, you do not.
So you are comfortable?
Nothing to change.

Then I go to my computer to do some admin tasks I checked my RSS feed. There I see a post with a short video by a life coach that suggests that for the new year transition we reflect as follows: Imagine being 90. Ask yourself these questions: What really mattered? What had meaning? What did you love?

My gut reaction was the answer will be the same and that it did not change since the day my son was born.

So I change up the question: Imagine being 95 and feeling comfortable because you had a  remarkable life.  I think of my grandfather whose imagination made his life bigger. I muse, I want to be able to tell compelling stories. To do that means being open in my life to the adventures presented and having memory to be able to share them.  Memory is already a challenge. Cocoa each morning is suppose to help.

Back to a long list of tasks that distracted days have left for me to do at year's end until distracted again by an idea or story from elsewhere.  Welcome 2014.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

ripe venues for poems

Experiences of suppression are often ripe venues for poems.  This poem may finally have come to a close with tweeks (shown in red) a decade later that ripen its potential to provoke.  For Example: Tea becomes Rooibosch, the Dutch etymology for South African Rooibos said to have anti-anxiety properties. I did not update the context as this could have been updated in the context of social media which magnifies its inferences. It remains a circa 2003 poem. 

At a recent gathering for a matriarch in the family circle ~ those in attendance were asked to share a reflection. What I had surface in my mind could not be shared there. Very few, even those much closer than I,  found not much to share. Perplexing. Ironically the recall I suppressed was about suppression of an experience that influenced my choice of discomfort in the shallows for many years because some ways of thinking go to the grave. And so it did.

GOOD & black 

Four generations 
stretching a good table. Fine china well smeared with gravy and the blood 
of cranberries as the dapper 4-year old topples 
dessert in conversation: "That’s bull-shit!"

What follows? 
The murmur of mimic, watershed tales of pre-school teacher 
complaints; a rambled ‘What can be done?’ retort 
to what was heard, spoken, repeated: "That’s bull-shit!"

Small talk brews aromatic. ‘What can be done?’
topics twist to most seen TV, turns to telling stories 
of road-rage. Son and daughters tasting how possible - a chiffon identification with fear, the shooter’s fear, emerges 
like apples from the cut wedge of 
the other pie. 

“It must have been one ...” 
“No, Grandma. Both were women. Both were white.” 
pours past Diet Coke, Asti; Rooibosch running at the mouth “Well, most times its men. Most times it is Blacks. Shooting even 
each other.” “No Grandma” steams above black coffee. 

“Every time it is 
a person with a gun made only to shoot people - a handgun 
in an angry hand! More pie with your drink of choice?” Every holiday there is too much. “Anyone-else need tea?” consumptive shallows drip into Internet shopping. What children get, every
thing they do not need. ‘Did you hear?’ current events get swallowed like the offer of a second dessert, discomfort 
to return later.

She is 75. She repeats what she believes above sugar powdered angel’s wings. She fears, the real thing.

The child hears fear, and repeats. The child gets everything
"That’s bull-shit!" is mimic in the world, good

and black for Christmas.

This post was prompted by a publicly shared comic's Aziz Ansari expression of similar sentiment. 11.8.2013 Racist grandmas are dying, and that is a good thing.