%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
|
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. |
| Way back in the early eighties (the 1980s for those who didn't come about until the 21st century) I worked in a small room that adjoined a larger room. The large room was filled with industrial-sized laundry machines. There was spinning and swishing and running water, occasionally punctuated by the shout of "bag coming!" followed by the thud of a large sack of soiled laundry landing in the bottom of a huge plastic bin. The walls of the small room were lined with metal shelving that held stacks of linen. The small room also had a table and a chair, and a boom box. A boom box was a portable radio/cassette player with decently-sized speakers. And in those days, one turned on the radio, tuned into a station and listened to whatever music they played because it was really too much trouble to change the station to find a better song if one didn't care for the current selection. Do they do that anymore? It was a matter of finding the radio station you found least objectionable and letting it play. In this way, I became familar with many songs from many artists even without buying one album (buying individual songs was pretty much phased out by the advent of cassette tapes and the fading away of 45 vinyl records). In this way I became familiar with U2 and many of their songs, this one included. Even though we had MTV at that time - and they still played music videos back then- I had never seen this video for New Year's Day. I was always vaguely aware that much of U2's music was political but I didn't always subscribe to their political opinions. This was different, because it referenced the worker's struggle in Poland led by Lech Walesa. Who couldn't get behind that? But still, the song played on the radio all the time and I barely noticed, The words went in my ears and were memorized by my brain without any attempt to assign great meaning to them. I was working, I was young. Music was background noise meant to preserve my sanity. Listening to this song again reminds me that music doesn't have to be about drugs and sex or be written to appeal to the most base aspects of human nature. Over the years, many artists have tried to raise political awareness through their lyrics. Before U2 we had Bob Dylan. Now there are songwriters like Oliver Anthony. I won't try to name all the artists who used music to express the populist political opinion, every generation has them. And that's how it should be. There have to be dissident voices and expression in art. Not all may agree with the views expressed, but that's the beauty of free thought and free speech. We learn from each other, we learn from history, we learn from those who disagree with us. We might even learn from the music. |
| Honestly, I love Christmas commercialism. I have always loved stores that put up too many decorations and lights, have too many sales and specials that push us to buy things for people we don't even like just because that's the perfect gift for that person. Holiday sales are a huge chunk of the annual profit for most retailers, so they need the hyped holiday rush to stay in business. I mostly shop online these days, which makes me nostalgic for the magical delights of the mall at Christmas. It's tradition -even if it's gaudy and tacky and covered in tinsel. I want to hear non-stop Christmas music. I want to watch cheesy Christmas movies. I want Christmas to be big and loud and in my face. I also want the peace of watching a softly falling snow and the twinkling of my tree lights reflected on the window while I reflect on Christmases past and try not to project into Christmases yet to come. It's a time of year when people want to be, and strive to be a better version of themselves. Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards men. We ought to try that approach sometime. |
| I bought the worst coffee in the world. I didn’t realize it was the worst at first because it was mixed up in the coffee can with some of the old coffee and that helped take the edge off it, I guess. Or maybe my sinuses were congested and I couldn’t smell it. It smells like road tar under a hot, summer sun. It doesn’t taste much better. I think it’s made from wet leaves, mud and something they scraped off the floor at an oil refinery, I tried adding salt to the grounds. Okay, it’s slightly less bitter road tar. I can’t throw away coffee. That would hurt me on a spiritual level. Maybe I will freeze it for use when I really need it and will be glad of any kind of coffee. Some more dire time, like after the apocalypse. For this morning anyway, I am drinking it because it’s coffee. And bad coffee is better than no coffee. And I won’t say which coffee it is. Coffee, after all, is a personal taste. Besides, they sue people for Yelp reviews these days. Opinions will one day be totally outlawed because they offend people. Then you’ll all have to drink this nasty coffee and you won’t be allowed to complain. |
| I really like WDC as a site for writers and their writing. I really don’t like it as a political forum. That is not to say that I never wrote anything with political undertones or even overtones - probably way overtoned but completely missed by those who are of a different political opinion because even my overtones are really subtle and they can’t imagine anyone thinks THAT way and not THEIR way. And that’s all I have to say. I might occasionally write something that references generally accepted themes of freedom and human dignity, but I'm not going to fight with you. For one thing, I don’t know you well enough to worry about convincing you of anything and you don’t hold enough sway with me to convince me of anything. Discussion of issues is important but there’s not much of that going on, or at least, not much of any real substance. There are really excellent forums for that kind of thing. But I like WDC as a forum for writers. So, write something. Just my opinion. |
| The media prompt this month has reminded me of our family's brief stint as caretakers of a garden snail. I know very little about disco snails (other than what they told me in the song) but some deep diving into the care and feeding of snails makes me very glad that we didn't keep one for long. Did you know that snails are hermaphrodites and can reproduce without a mate, laying dozens to hundreds of eggs at one time? *shiver* Anyway, here's my snail poem: Snails are everywhere they say though I never saw one, till I moved away Away is a somewhere, though it closer be to the ocean, what some might call the sea It was there The Boy found a snail on the siding Was it slithering up? perhaps downward sliding? I said “I think it is just enjoying the view” “Whatever”, The Boy said, and launched a rescue It didn't matter that it was slimy and wet The Boy vowed it would make a fine pet Until, while in The Boy’s hand it did linger And left a trail of poop on his finger. |
| Poetry is not just a matter of finding words that rhyme, Even though it is oft believed that free verse is a crime. Yet these classical-minded poets say nothing beyond mere speech. Ordinary words in cliched rhymes While against free verse they preach. Must I endure a thousand lines of love and dove and moon? Tired emotional playthings they shove at you and swoon. All great poets are dead, I think Those who held power in their quills. All poetry lies between their lines Never in these modern shills. Still they persist in rhyming schemes from dawn to setting sun. Instead of rare, poets everywhere And yet in truth, there are none. |
| If it weren't for mood swings, I'd get no exercise at all. |
| My mouth has occupied the same spot on my face for as long as I can remember, so it has been a mystery to me why, every now and again, I manage to miss it completely and pour coffee down my shirt. Today, I decided the only possible explanation is that some mornings, my arm is shorter. |
I've decided to start abducting UFO aliens. It's time to even up the score.  |
| I have always liked crows. I don't trust them, but I do like them. I like those videos of crows sliding down a snowy roof and then doing it again and again just for fun. I like that they take time out of standing over carrion in the road and daring the cars to run them down to just relax and engage in some childish recreation. And this is, of course, because they are essentially children. I have always thought of them as being like perpetual adolescents. A crow is a bit of a bully amongst other birds, after all. A crow isn't afraid of your car, he is afraid of other crows seizing on his lucky find of roadkill. He doesn't step aside until the last minute to show you he's not afraid of you,but he doesn't go far because he doesn't want to share. Big Bird shares. Crows don't. And they hang out at the mall. Typical teenagers. But I just read that a crow is the intellectual equal of a seven-year-old human. That sounds great until you think about flocks of seven- year-old children flying over your head, pooing on you and then caw-cawing about it (let's face it, potty humor is big with seven-year-olds). Seven-year-old children who can remember your face if you make an enemy of them, and are equipped with a pointy beak to poke your eyes out. Maybe I don't really like crows, after all. But don't tell them that. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
