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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 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. |
| If you want to feel a real sort of despair about the state of humankind, just read the comments section of any article or video posted on the internet. ANY article or video. News, opinion, lifestyle, fashion, motherhood... doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if the commenters are for or against, there is plenty of stupidity, hatred, bias and anger on both sides of every issue. It doesn't have to be about politics to get people riled up, it can be about anything. There are plenty of people willing to hate and abuse people they don't even know about almost anything from their choice of swimwear to their weight or their child-rearing abilities. The internet has become a place for unhappy and emotionally unstable people to take it all out on strangers. It is the easy outlet for misplaced anger. This is the real problem with society. Humans are just real jerks, sometimes. Failure to recognize that is what makes some people think that humans can solve global problems when they can't even stop hating one another over TikTok videos. |
| After nearly a quarter century on the internet, my hands are numb. Not from typing. From sitting on them, trying not to type. So many idiotic comments, so many people looking for a fight, so much anger and so much effort to refrain from responding. I honestly don’t even care if they act this way because they are unhappy, insecure or just don’t have a life. Something deep down inside me at my most basic Viking DNA level wants to trample them, to stomp on their petty opinions, to gargle with the blood of my enemies. But I don’t. I don’t because you can’t win a fight against an open wound. You might score a point, you might manage to pour a little lemon juice into it, maybe pick the scab and get it bleeding, but in the end you will be the one who suffers. Things get messy, and it’s hard to get those bloodstains off your soul. But there’s a little lingering itch, like a mosquito bite that will flare up again if you accidentally scratch it. So the battle of conscience against instinct goes on and on. And the thought that haunts you is that the troll may think he has won because you didn’t hit back. That’s why forgiveness is almost always our last thought in these situations. Because, we worry, this turning the other cheek business might look like running away. Being the bigger person is not entirely satisfying. And, your hands get numb. |
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