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 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I can remember the days when I used to get up at 4:30 am to write. Ideas desiring to become words drove me from my bed and sat me in front of the flickering light of an old CRT monitor, a fan blowing on the open side of the PC tower in order to prevent it overheating. I remember so many fumbled attempts to make coffee before my eyes even opened and the coffee pot I destroyed by making coffee without water while virtually sleepwalking. I don't know what fueled that need to write. Was it inner turmoil? Passion? Competition? Whatever it was, it's gone. I no longer engage in emotional shouting matches with myself that eventually become poems. No flashes of brilliance get scribbled on scraps of paper to flesh out later. I write, but it’s like I’m writing a check. Paying dues. I don't even make coffee in my sleep anymore. I set up the pot the night before and just flip the switch in the morning. I turn on the laptop and open YouTube and watch videos to avoid writing anything until a deadline forces the requisite number of words into lines. I think I miss the clunky old PC. |
This morning, the conversation over "SMALL TALK "  is about dreams. Well, it's also about cheese but that's not going to come up in this blog post so we'll just concentrate on dreams. My last blog was about dreams, too. Over at Small Talk, Solace.Bring  asks about three topics that come up in your dreams from time to time. My answer: " Three topics that come up into my dreams from time to time are my childhood home, people who have passed on, and hiding from some unknown danger."And strangely, just after I posted that, I opened an old poetry file at random which appears to have been created at this same time of year a few years back (Google docs says it was April 2023), and found this little poem tucked into the scramble of ramblings -- The weight of the blanket comforts, it’s a warm arm draped across my shoulders, even though the chill of a spring morning leaks through the window casement. The birds sing the songs of my youth ancient trills that convey their secrets they will sing long after I am gone and call to others who lie abed but for this moment, I am lost in reverie with no desire to greet a new day satisfied with drowsy memories my eyes unopened. I am beginning to wonder if this yearning to enter into an unchanged past through dreams and the resistance to reality is a sign of senility or if it is just the natural reaction to a world that has changed in so many ways and brought so many losses. I am not sure nostalgia is a disease, even when one prefers to stay in the warm embrace of memories and linger in the presence of those who no longer inhabit the physical world. I think it may be emotional defense, a way to preserve sanity rather than give in to unspeakable grief. |
| One thing about getting old is you look back much more than you look forward. It only makes sense I suppose, since there is more behind than ahead. But it's also a sense of loss, and wishing that old times and the people there could be brought back. Last night, I fell asleep for a minute or two and the television woke me. When it did, I was in the kitchen of my childhood home, talking to my mother. Both have been gone for many years. But it's always a difficult transition from comfortable dream to reality. I found this little poem in a file of doodads and scribbles. Don't know where on WDC it might be found, but it's probably out there, somewhere. Never believe a dream, that shows you what you want to see. Never mistake your desire, for somnolent prophecy. So often I wake, in a place I hold dear, until I open my eyes, and your face disappears. Or, as Roy Orbison put it: In dreams I walk with you In dreams I talk to you In dreams you're mine all of the time We're together in dreams, in dreams |
| April is here. I had barely got my mind out of February and into March before Spring arrived and April showed up. It's been a calm April so far, but I always think of April as a windy month. Perhaps because I always put kites in the kids' Easter baskets and we always took them to the park to fly them. I was reminded of those excursions today when I stumbled upon this little poem in my portfolio. The kite is heavier than air So, one would not fault it For lying on the ground And refusing the sky But when April boasts and blusters And the air is full of gusty arguments The trees wave their arms wildly and The kite is goaded into a reply Of course, once I had read it I remembered only the one reviewer who came upon it and rubbished it for various reasons. I felt the reviewer didn't understand the concept of quickly writing an eight line poem from a prompt on a daiy basis, as this was written for "EXPRESS IT IN EIGHT " . A lot of my little poems there are roughly drafted. Nevertheless, harsh reviews stay with us much longer than lavish praise.Still, it's April. Spring is here and there's time to write more bad poetry about it before Summer hits. |
| The laptop should be such a portable joy. But I find that many people don’t actually use it in a portable manner and it is installed on a desk or table with a mouse. I think that’s because for many of us who learned to use computers back when they were honking huge pieces of machinery with separate monitors and had a mouse with which to navigate, the transition to portable feels unnatural. Or, maybe that’s just me. I don’t adapt well. I finally figured out what makes laptops so awkward for me to use. Someone decided way back when the first laptop was made that the keyboard should be behind the touchpad. This means that your arms naturally hang over the touchpad and make it more likely that you will accidentally touch it. If I could just find a laptop with the keyboard closer to me and the touchpad behind, I think it would work much better for me. Of course, I am an ergonomic anomaly. |
| These are two of my favorite things to do: 1. Falling asleep in front of the TV. An old sitcom that I've seen a zillion times with comfortable characters who are like family friends and whose voices will lull me to sleep is a perfect choice. Or Midsomer Murders. I always fall asleep somewhere between the first and the third murder. 2. Drinking a hot, freshly brewed cup of coffee so I won't fall asleep in front of the TV. |
| So, Spring was here for a few minutes. Spring usually shows up in March for just long enough to get you to put away some of your winter clothing, to stop knitting mittens, to take the heavy comforter off the bed and put the Spring comforter on instead, to get you to turn down all the thermostats and start thinking about how you'd love to plant some flowers and then, suddenly in the night, Spring sneaks off and Winter creeps back in. Well, sometimes it creeps. This morning Winter is wailing outside my windows. I tried to warn people. You don't put away the snow shovel before May. To do so is flirting with fate. How's your Spring going? |
| Most people in the US will be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day today. It’s the day when everyone searches their genealogy for Irish ancestors and wears green to work. Nowhere is this day celebrated with greater enthusiasm than it is in Boston, MA. Yet, it’s not the only notable event on the calendar today. In Boston and all of Suffolk County, it’s also Evacuation Day. Evacuation Day commemorates the evacuation of British forces from the city of Boston in 1776. During the night of March 16th, Washington had installed an impressive amount of artillery on the ridge of Dorchester Heights. On the morning of the 17th, the British, finding themselves in full view of this well-armed fort, quickly decamped to Nova Scotia. It wasn’t a battle, but it was a win and it preceded the Declaration of Independence by nearly four months. Evacuation Day is only an official holiday in Suffolk County with only some State offices closed but the kids in Somerville get the day off from school and if you’re a kid you’ll celebrate anything that gets you a day off. I think it’s just a good way of teaching history, which is made up of more events and battles than are generally in the list of memorized dates. History is people and decisions and consequences - and days off from school. |
| I am not big on chanting. I like political discussions. I like debate. I totally love historical context, experience, data, insight, apologetics and perspective. Give me some persuasive argument, logic all over me. I might not be converted, but at least I will respect you and feel respected. If you chant at me, I am going to doubt you have anything to say. If you shout me down, I am going to know you fear the power of my speech. I don’t accept your labels. Sometimes it seems that in order for some people to feel they belong, they have to create groups to be excluded, to be labeled and targeted. And I know that everyone who reads this, regardless of which side of the political spectrum they are on, will think this is about how good they are and how bad the other side is. |
The biggest problem with maintaining a blog is finding something interesting to write about. Unfortunately, most of my brilliant insights into life occur to me when I am nowhere near my keyboard. Right now, I am hovering over my keyboard, unable to see the letters because I am sitting in the dark. I don’t turn on the light so as not to wake a sleeping toddler grandson. A toddler grandson is staying with me for a few days, so I don’t know if I will be able to maintain any 7 Day Streak, not even one for sleeping. So, there are enough excuses to cover me for the week. |
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