The thing is; only trouble comes 'all at once'. I live in an immobile RV. The carpets represent the total census of every bacteria, mold, cigarette ash, dog hair, and rowdy parade of flaura & fauna since 1986. Well now, I'm a Hardwood Floor Guy.
I ripped out the carpet. It did not yield easily. The 1 inch staples holding it down were sewn with admirable progeny.
I walked around on that stained plywood until I lost sense of Time's scale. Had I been looking at (while sitting downcast above, or moping barefoot on) the dirty brown, stained plywood floor a few moments in eternity, or for all eternity every few hours? Somewhere out there, on the horizon of my Hopeful Mind, lies my dream: installing a Floating, Engineered Hardwood Floor (complete with Sound Silencer Underlayment with an Rh value). But first the Work Phone needs to coronet, distracting my attention from my own bored company with this plywood.
Back where I'm from in the Midwest, they say, that come Fall you can tell whether it will be a harsh or mild winter, just by looking at the Willy worms crossing the road. Sparse fuzzies means it will be a mild winter. My instinctual hide is bristling with thick woolly fuzzies already.
To a Hardwood Floor Guy who lives Off-the-Grid of Employment that means that there isn't going to be much work, if any. I despair- for months.
This year I'm preparing. I decided to Paint my plywood floor, then protect it with Floor Finish.
As a Hardwood Floor Guy, I'm a frustrated artist. I've had grand schemes, but no room to experiment. Until now. So, I dug out my copy of Annie Sloan's “Paint Alchemy”. I peruse the pages, over and over.
Lime Wash: a simple paint much used in the past and now admired for its matte, chalky texture. It consists of lime putty, some water, and pigment. Sounds pretty natural.
I begin thinking. I'd like to walk on a floor as fragile as chalk dust, yet as durable as the molecular structure of chalk.
I pull out my copy of “Recipes for SURFACES, Decorative Paint Finishes Made Simple”. I peruse the pages, over and over. Lime Wash always catches my eye. You've seen it Art Films with old Italian Villas.
Faux Marble paints have always wowed me. Why not in my RV? All those different colors should also help camouflage my dirty floor. I peruse some more. “Ragging Off and Cheesecloth-ing: Light over dark” has the soft look I'm imagining.
I feel good. I'm full of the belief that this project is laying away some Nuts of Happiness for my winter. 1
Color?
As a HFG, I prefer natural, light toned wood. It makes small spaces look larger, it's easier to maintain, and they look great. Sign this place up. I'll paint it Apricot- marbled with Cinnamon. I like it.
At the paint store, deep blues kept catching my eye. I took a gradiated sample card, and then picked a complimentary (?) green card. Once I got home and placed the cards in the hallway, along with Mango Juice and other Apricots, I felt I needed to fall back on the ancient concept of what tone a floor should be- something that makes you feel Solid. I went with Azurite Blue (Imagine a deep Mediterranean Sea Blue) and Green Bay Green.
Texture?
Almost every HFG has experienced the misfortune of trying to apply a Floor Finish over a stain that isn't dry enough. What happens is that the texture of the Floor Finish Applicator pulls some color off the stain. I have always wanted to manipulate that technique throughout an entire floor. Home owners always stagger back from me with a look of staturesque fear when I suggest this. In Decorative Painting this technique is called Dragging. The Dragging is done in a lighter colored glaze over a darker color. I bought a thick bristled Roofing brush, in the hopes that I can show brush patterns in the solid, dark blue base color.
For the Faux Marble pattern (in Green Bay Green) I wanted to convey the idea of movement.
Prepping!
It was too Overwhelming. For two days, I languished. Then, I knew: it had to begin today- or- Despair would show up earlier than Willy worms on a Harvest Moon.
Efficient manual labor works one section at a time, with one set of tools. I noticed that my RVs floor space is broken up into 3 sections of plywood. The sections could be seen to separate the kitchen/dining area, from the living/creative area, and the bed&bath section. How nice! I've been trying to suggest that this Hallway of an Abode is three separate living quarters, but my attempts had been greeted with disappointment.
Thinking task(icaly)- The K/D area offered the least resistance, so I started there. Pulling staples, only in that area. Sweeping that, and the surrounding area; sanding with an Orbital Sander (60 grit); vacuum; Spackle: filling all holes, cracks, and assorted imperfections. That cured. I used 120 on the Orbital Sander, vacuumed that all up and applied a coat of Kilz Stain Blocker and Primer. While that was drying, I started prepping the Living/Creative area.
Well... Behind my back, Overwhelming was sucking up my shares of Willingness. “I gotta do the whole floor! With that wickedly long narrow length- how can I paint That to look random, and just not 'chaos for chaos' sake'?” You know, “How can I capture that Japanese Rock Garden Thing? “
Oh, thoughts like 'those' become Spirals Downward with the increasing speed of one of the world's greatest predators, the Peregrine Hawk. I focused on the effort of my backbone where my wishbone had once been lounging. Once you have your sleeves rolled up, you often discover that Life's obstructions often become the solution you seek. (Often is as Often does).- No matter what I do; it will look like three separate floors. There's no hiding the Seams of Plywood. “So go with it”. I'll make three large single pieces of deep sea blue granite stones, one for each separate living quarter, which will gracefully achieve the affect that has alluded me.
The shaping of the Dragging and Marbling pestered me; those chalky colors comforted me, and I thought of an old dream- a tree as old and magical as the first colors in the cosmos had charged me with Heavenly Destiny. That Tree must be in it, but how? And what else? It took me a couple of days to create 3 living environments. But it's been worth the humility of grasping at The Evermore Elusive Floating Whims of Un-gestured Feathers.
The Complete Floor Plan: All the base color will be Azurite Lime Wash, portraying in texture, 3 different realities. Separate living spaces (each with it's own aspect of our Planet and Spirit- Earth). The “L” of the Dining Area will be Drugged Upward in the wave form of the Ying/Yang coupling. The length of it's hallway will convey the boughs of a Deciduous Tree. The Faux Marble Green Bay green will express the movement of boughs Praising the Full Sun.
For many years now, I've wanted to paint a Lilly Pond in my bedroom. That way I can say, “Every day I wake up, I walk on water”. That was the birth of the Lilly Pond idea, but not its geography. I'm opting to paint a Lilly Pond in my Living/Creating Room. The Green Bay Green will create faux lily pads, and I've have to coax some gold fish into it too.
My Bed and Bath will be textured like Big Fluffy Clouds, yet behind them will be the excitement of Green Bay Green Faux heat lightening.
I'm thrilled.
No. The thing is, it's more than that. You see, this winter when Despair is talking shit, I will have spent the night, and woke up with my head in the clouds. I'll make some coffee where the Earth gives birth to the infinite tenacity of life, and I'll sip the nectar of the gods, and go stoke up the Creative Surety of Walking on Water.
None of these leaps from Despair would have possible if I had not first subscribed to Imagination Troubador.
For the first time in my life, I see my down time as The Cycle of Creativity: composing at the the Subconscious Level- transposing it into the Life-Giving Language, and Dreaming in the Unconditional Thunderclouds of Forgiveness.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Toe-Crossed Lovers
I think my toes are Star-Crossed lovers.
It's written in the planets, where omens
come to prosper as sure as tomorrow.
I find myself in curious jams, which I just seem to naturally walk into: the occasional bank robber, an irate husband or more, embarrassing klutzy moments, and 'the proverbial foot in mouth' giddy bastard.
Will you take my Big Toe out on the last Great American Cattle Drive?
My Little Toe is dabbling in West Texan Oil Fields.
My feet are Giants,
Rock, and James Dean.
Before there was Steinbrenner and the Yankees, there was Johnson's Texas and NASA.
My toes, with the burning urgency of puberty, want it all
All God's little children got toes,
some be gifted, some be bone bare
some just stand around with their hands in their pockets
wondering just who the hell they am.
The other day, I had my toes in sand and foam of sea, walking along with sand in my pocket. Carrying sand like loose change, remembering the weight of loose change, and the unconscious comfort of having loose change. I wasn't looking anywhere, aside from inside my head. I stubbed my toe and nearly fell on a woman reading a book on the beach.
She became alarmed. I have this way with women, yet seldom do I have a comforting line. I had caught the title of the book, “Oh, you're reading 'One Summer's Bud'. I know that book. In fact, I once wrote a book called 'One Summer's Bud'. My picture's not in there, is it? My picture was in the one that I authored; first. By the way. Oh, yeah, it's a different book alrighty. But the title. It was the title that was mine. Title is everything. I mean, that's how you find books, isn't it.
No, I didn't actually think that you could be reading my book. It didn't sell very well, on this planet. It had huge sells across The Milky Way, though”.
She had paid her way through Charm School working as a lumberjack in the Pacific Northwest. After charm school there were athletic scholarships that would blunt a buzz saw. Then she met an Island Boy and ran away. Got into voo-doo, and crossed into the spirit world for a lifetime or two.
One summer afternoon she just appeared on this beach; she found a place to live near-by, and has been coming back every day to read. She's reading the worst fiction first. Because it's comforting to know that her life is far better than theirs, no matter how well-off their assets conclude: Poorly written, haphazardly conceived, boring dialogue, weakly developed; she knows she's better than that, even after the lapse of physical memory within the physical world for the last couple of years.
These were not her exact words. I read it from the energy that radiated from her cheek bone, from the way the light fell across her eyes, and the way her hair moved like aroma. I rubbed my sore toe, and forgot what it was like to know that you're rubbing your sore toe, while I read the heart of a friend.
“Can I ask you a question?', and she went on talking, without a way to get a wrench in sideways, “Why are you talking to me?”
Some friendships don't mean a thing if they don't have that BS thing, and some... well, you can't even imagine bullshitting. “Because, I know who you are”.
“That just can't be. That's all there is to it, and there ain't no more to it, than... it just can't be”.
“Tisk, tisk. Tisk-a-kiddy. Don't you believe that The Heart Ain't in the Details, Babe”.
“I know exactly what you mean. And it's all details. Pure Love and details.
“Then, we agree. We gotta find more places to talk”.
“It may take a Lifetime to arrange it all”, she said.
It's written in the planets, where omens
come to prosper as sure as tomorrow.
I find myself in curious jams, which I just seem to naturally walk into: the occasional bank robber, an irate husband or more, embarrassing klutzy moments, and 'the proverbial foot in mouth' giddy bastard.
Will you take my Big Toe out on the last Great American Cattle Drive?
My Little Toe is dabbling in West Texan Oil Fields.
My feet are Giants,
Rock, and James Dean.
Before there was Steinbrenner and the Yankees, there was Johnson's Texas and NASA.
My toes, with the burning urgency of puberty, want it all
All God's little children got toes,
some be gifted, some be bone bare
some just stand around with their hands in their pockets
wondering just who the hell they am.
The other day, I had my toes in sand and foam of sea, walking along with sand in my pocket. Carrying sand like loose change, remembering the weight of loose change, and the unconscious comfort of having loose change. I wasn't looking anywhere, aside from inside my head. I stubbed my toe and nearly fell on a woman reading a book on the beach.
She became alarmed. I have this way with women, yet seldom do I have a comforting line. I had caught the title of the book, “Oh, you're reading 'One Summer's Bud'. I know that book. In fact, I once wrote a book called 'One Summer's Bud'. My picture's not in there, is it? My picture was in the one that I authored; first. By the way. Oh, yeah, it's a different book alrighty. But the title. It was the title that was mine. Title is everything. I mean, that's how you find books, isn't it.
No, I didn't actually think that you could be reading my book. It didn't sell very well, on this planet. It had huge sells across The Milky Way, though”.
She had paid her way through Charm School working as a lumberjack in the Pacific Northwest. After charm school there were athletic scholarships that would blunt a buzz saw. Then she met an Island Boy and ran away. Got into voo-doo, and crossed into the spirit world for a lifetime or two.
One summer afternoon she just appeared on this beach; she found a place to live near-by, and has been coming back every day to read. She's reading the worst fiction first. Because it's comforting to know that her life is far better than theirs, no matter how well-off their assets conclude: Poorly written, haphazardly conceived, boring dialogue, weakly developed; she knows she's better than that, even after the lapse of physical memory within the physical world for the last couple of years.
These were not her exact words. I read it from the energy that radiated from her cheek bone, from the way the light fell across her eyes, and the way her hair moved like aroma. I rubbed my sore toe, and forgot what it was like to know that you're rubbing your sore toe, while I read the heart of a friend.
“Can I ask you a question?', and she went on talking, without a way to get a wrench in sideways, “Why are you talking to me?”
Some friendships don't mean a thing if they don't have that BS thing, and some... well, you can't even imagine bullshitting. “Because, I know who you are”.
“That just can't be. That's all there is to it, and there ain't no more to it, than... it just can't be”.
“Tisk, tisk. Tisk-a-kiddy. Don't you believe that The Heart Ain't in the Details, Babe”.
“I know exactly what you mean. And it's all details. Pure Love and details.
“Then, we agree. We gotta find more places to talk”.
“It may take a Lifetime to arrange it all”, she said.
Monday, September 21, 2009
dragon tales
My son cried after I read a story about
the last living Dragon.
He cried as if his Hopes and Dreams had been
born a mythical age too late.
My heart chasmed wider with each sob,
cranking tighter on my blunder.
How could I not have known?
Whatever hardened my own memories?
My God, how can a mere mortal, with no means
fix it? To make it All better?
I had to lie!
Create a new mythical promise
of Hope and Dreams, and
make it a promise that he could
see and touch, every day.
I pulled my heart into my fingertips,
laid my hand on his silky childhood hair
and pointed across our backyard to
the side of our mountain,
“You see that vein of quartz over there?”
His Innocence nodded the head of his sobbing heart.
“I've been saving a secret to share with
only you. Saving until today.
Today, you need to know.
A secret like this is always on “A
Need To Know” basis.
That's not really quartz. It's
really Dragon Eggs,
waiting to hatch”
He groaned, “They're rocks, Dad. I have one
in my room.”
My knees gave out.
My Hopes were grasping for
a handhold of hope.
“Oh, no. They're Dragon Eggs all right.
All those old stories about Dragon Eggs were made-up. No one ever saw a dragon's egg. How could they ever get close enough? So, they made up a story so silly, everyone believed it. They claimed that Dragons believed they were no more special than chickens: laying their eggs in a nest that anyone and anything might possibly steal.
Oh, no.
Dragons knew they were special.
So, Dragons would fly to special mountains
and with a mighty blast of Dragon fire
as hot as their strength of Will
they would melt rock,
lay their crystal eggs and fly away,
letting the lava start the fire in her eggs.
Then the stone cools, protecting her
eggs with solid rock.
Nobody, or nothing could reach them.
So thought the Dragons.
They never dreamed that someday
Man would devise a desire
and means to strip part of a mountain
in exchange for a nicer car.
So you see, they are Dinosaur Eggs.
And someday-
They will hatch”
My son's sobbing had stopped,
long ago. I've been feeling
the expressions of his soul
struggling against some serious doubt.
“How do you know? Did the Tooth Fairy
tell you? “
“No. I just, know- that's all. It's
just like loving someone. No one tells you.
You just know”.
He falls against my chest,
trusting my heart will break
his fall. He looks up to me,
“That was a good story dad”.
I sigh, as mercy caresses me
with a lover's touch.
I roll my eyes, “It's not my story;
Dragons told it me”.
“When will they hatch dad?”
“Any day, I reckon.
Not even the Dragons knew that
much magic”.
the last living Dragon.
He cried as if his Hopes and Dreams had been
born a mythical age too late.
My heart chasmed wider with each sob,
cranking tighter on my blunder.
How could I not have known?
Whatever hardened my own memories?
My God, how can a mere mortal, with no means
fix it? To make it All better?
I had to lie!
Create a new mythical promise
of Hope and Dreams, and
make it a promise that he could
see and touch, every day.
I pulled my heart into my fingertips,
laid my hand on his silky childhood hair
and pointed across our backyard to
the side of our mountain,
“You see that vein of quartz over there?”
His Innocence nodded the head of his sobbing heart.
“I've been saving a secret to share with
only you. Saving until today.
Today, you need to know.
A secret like this is always on “A
Need To Know” basis.
That's not really quartz. It's
really Dragon Eggs,
waiting to hatch”
He groaned, “They're rocks, Dad. I have one
in my room.”
My knees gave out.
My Hopes were grasping for
a handhold of hope.
“Oh, no. They're Dragon Eggs all right.
All those old stories about Dragon Eggs were made-up. No one ever saw a dragon's egg. How could they ever get close enough? So, they made up a story so silly, everyone believed it. They claimed that Dragons believed they were no more special than chickens: laying their eggs in a nest that anyone and anything might possibly steal.
Oh, no.
Dragons knew they were special.
So, Dragons would fly to special mountains
and with a mighty blast of Dragon fire
as hot as their strength of Will
they would melt rock,
lay their crystal eggs and fly away,
letting the lava start the fire in her eggs.
Then the stone cools, protecting her
eggs with solid rock.
Nobody, or nothing could reach them.
So thought the Dragons.
They never dreamed that someday
Man would devise a desire
and means to strip part of a mountain
in exchange for a nicer car.
So you see, they are Dinosaur Eggs.
And someday-
They will hatch”
My son's sobbing had stopped,
long ago. I've been feeling
the expressions of his soul
struggling against some serious doubt.
“How do you know? Did the Tooth Fairy
tell you? “
“No. I just, know- that's all. It's
just like loving someone. No one tells you.
You just know”.
He falls against my chest,
trusting my heart will break
his fall. He looks up to me,
“That was a good story dad”.
I sigh, as mercy caresses me
with a lover's touch.
I roll my eyes, “It's not my story;
Dragons told it me”.
“When will they hatch dad?”
“Any day, I reckon.
Not even the Dragons knew that
much magic”.
Friday, April 10, 2009
forgiveness
“Creation is the single greatest moment of forgiveness in any man's life. As it was in God's.”
That's a quote from Jesus, from some text which the Official Church deemed as heretic. Who among us can say what's politically correct? May he without any bias throw the first stone.
I've been wondering if Forgiveness can be so simply attained. More so, I've been pondering, “What did God do that required forgiveness? What triggered The Beginning? What Wrong begat The Word?”
I may be totally wrong, but I believe I've felt God's pain for most of my life--- Loneliness.
Even within the small confines of my two pound heart, I know that my love is infinite. In my life, there is infinite longing to Share.
What is light without reflection? Does the sun really exist without the earth? Can there be starlight without the night?
Some say that the story of Job is older than Genesis. It makes sense to me. Every babe knows that it didn't do anything wrong to be this hungry. So they cry out. It's not until much later that they have the awareness to ask, where did I come from? How did it all begin?
They say in the Beginning that God walked with Adam, that they shot the breeze together. Still the flesh was lonely. So God understanding Adam's pain forgave him by creating woman, knowing all the while that He, Himself would become the Gooseberry, the third wheel.
There are many arguments about Original Sin. There are many arguments about the meaning of the original words. I don't really care anything about that. Beauty lays in the eye of the beholder. Therein rides the crest of the double edged sword. Judgment. Before The Two ate of the Tree of Knowledge, they hadn't made the judgment call that they were inferior to God, they had been the best of buds. Not a care in the World. Not a stitch of fig leaves.
I lay awake at night, alone, in my crowded bed of judgments. Some people are too fat, some are too beautiful, others too self-absorbed, I am too poor, too mentally & bodily feeble for infinite love to be divine. I toss and turn under the covers of Madison Avenue, Fear driven government control.
I long for forgiveness. I long to create a story that will make everyone feel okay about their own Godliness. God didn't give anything to Jonah that he didn't already have.
Today, I cut my hair, cut my fingernails, brushed my teeth, and showered. Forgiving my descent into mortality.
That's a quote from Jesus, from some text which the Official Church deemed as heretic. Who among us can say what's politically correct? May he without any bias throw the first stone.
I've been wondering if Forgiveness can be so simply attained. More so, I've been pondering, “What did God do that required forgiveness? What triggered The Beginning? What Wrong begat The Word?”
I may be totally wrong, but I believe I've felt God's pain for most of my life--- Loneliness.
Even within the small confines of my two pound heart, I know that my love is infinite. In my life, there is infinite longing to Share.
What is light without reflection? Does the sun really exist without the earth? Can there be starlight without the night?
Some say that the story of Job is older than Genesis. It makes sense to me. Every babe knows that it didn't do anything wrong to be this hungry. So they cry out. It's not until much later that they have the awareness to ask, where did I come from? How did it all begin?
They say in the Beginning that God walked with Adam, that they shot the breeze together. Still the flesh was lonely. So God understanding Adam's pain forgave him by creating woman, knowing all the while that He, Himself would become the Gooseberry, the third wheel.
There are many arguments about Original Sin. There are many arguments about the meaning of the original words. I don't really care anything about that. Beauty lays in the eye of the beholder. Therein rides the crest of the double edged sword. Judgment. Before The Two ate of the Tree of Knowledge, they hadn't made the judgment call that they were inferior to God, they had been the best of buds. Not a care in the World. Not a stitch of fig leaves.
I lay awake at night, alone, in my crowded bed of judgments. Some people are too fat, some are too beautiful, others too self-absorbed, I am too poor, too mentally & bodily feeble for infinite love to be divine. I toss and turn under the covers of Madison Avenue, Fear driven government control.
I long for forgiveness. I long to create a story that will make everyone feel okay about their own Godliness. God didn't give anything to Jonah that he didn't already have.
Today, I cut my hair, cut my fingernails, brushed my teeth, and showered. Forgiving my descent into mortality.
Heroes Ho
I was taking a class on Heroes in mythology, when it began. My wife breezed through the door one day; said she wanted to be single, and booted me out of Home. I longed to be myth-like, and be the Hero to my three year old son, but legally, all I could do was wave goodbye, often.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest shame.
Maybe it was because we had lost the daily touch of each other that we grasped for any will to collapse the distance between us. Exploring our family heritage became a gift we shared that no person, no institution, no geography could take away from us. By God and Darwin, we shared the same ancient genes of a single Norse family that had been run out of Norway, taken flight to Iceland, shipwrecked off the coast of The Hebrides Our family were the only survivors. So we became Highlanders.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest understanding of 'The One and the Many'.
He's a History major now. Several Spring Breaks ago I helped him build his own Inuit style kayak. He did it without book or class, just off the Internet. I'd been dreaming this plan for years, but like most father's dreams, life didn't support them. A few weeks into his last college semester I broke out my plan. “For your graduation present, lets kayak around the Outer Hebrides,Let's go stand where the first of our people stood”.
He laughed. “Dad, no way! It's freezing up there!.... I was thinking about Iceland”.
My voice slumped, “Iceland?”
“Dad, it's Viking. Most likely, that's where we were headed when the sea took our boat. Let go to Iceland for them”. He's magical like that. “Dad, Iceland has hot springs in their glaciers. Not only that, but all the women are Hot!”
Sometimes having a son is a great comfort. Yes, there will be that.
Iceland became my bookmark, not only on the Internet, but in my heart's dreams. When I stepped down from the plane, I didn't see any of the scenery or buildings from the brochures. I was overwhelmed when the weather became my skin. Unlimited fulfillment shone bright and as warmly as encouragement in the mid-day sky. The spray of a thousand ' Thank You, Praise You' s from every plant cooled my skin. The Wind of Possibility caressed from the Southwest. The scent in the air instigating the sweet pollination of breathing. Even the sulfur taste induced by the Hot Springs felt as relaxing as a suntan. The everlasting contentment of the glacier cold. After a deep breath I wondered if every new place possessed the same magical climate. Perhaps even my little End of the Line Hometown once felt like this too.
Standing together on the ground he slaps my shoulder, “Hey, ol' man, do you feel it in the air?”
I look him in the eye, “Yes. It feels like home”.
His smile engulfs the horizon, “Just what I was thinking”.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest miracle.
It cost extra for a non-guided tour of the inlet. To spend this adventure between just the two of us, the ol' man and his hero we had to take a class from the place that rented my kayak.. How many centuries ago have guides been replaced by teachers? A guide knows his lessons protect your life from the painful consequences of poor judgment. Guides plant signposts in your expectations to stop, look, and listen to the Spiritual Experience of being overwhelmed by beauty, wonder, awe, and unbounded joy.
Dreaming and being the dream seldom honeymoon. But there in the Icelandic Sea, in a cove of glaciers and steaming hot springs beyond, rocked on the waters of promise and power older than Life, the young man of my first born sat in a working piece of art made by his own hands and passion—kayak as old as the Eskimo, and me-- the ol' man-- in the rented plastic kayak.
Breathing, paddling, seeing, listening, blinking all became taste. A taste you try to feed every cell of your being. Then, a whale broke the water, with a mission. I was capsized. My son's kayak of over a thousand generations of hand me down knowledge survived. The whale had come up between us. We were on different sides of the ripple. Somehow my foot had tangled with a strap inside my kayak, and it was upside down. I was bobbing up and down, taking in too much water. I never liked being in water over my head. And I rented the cheapest wet suit they had, also the thinnest.
His rescue efforts rivaled the Norse Sagas. I'm not saying that these waves were epically large, or that a flip flop of a whale compared to the the disturbance of a sea monster. No. But in the space of a bolt of lightening to be thrust into the charge of saving a loved one--right here, right now he and I might exchange our last look: knowing and ,yet disagreeing, “ Love absolves disappointment”.
That Fear is the greatest enemy.
As we both struggled against the fury of the sea, me at water line's mercy and his supremacy of this craft and its power against the sea, I heard him singing softly the melody and words I sang to him in times of trouble or bedtime,
“ Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink.
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.”
He grabbed me, and pulled me close. As he vigorously rubbed my body to generate warmth I looked into his eyes and he smiled, “What's new Dad?”
I begged away from his gaze, so I could gather the courage to play act, “Since when did you start stealing my songs?”
His expression darts away as quickly as a humming bird's heartbeat and as poetic as a butterfly's dance. “First time”.
Embarrassing him has the same affect as getting Nature to reveal a secret. “Why?”
“Whenever I was weak from hopelessness, lovesick, or feeling sorry for myself, or just afraid of the dark at bedtime, you sang me that song. Because you sang it, I knew you meant that love was around me, so much love I didn't have a care in the world. It always gave me strength I didn't know I had”.
Sometimes, a grown child can be the greatest guide to redemption.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest shame.
Maybe it was because we had lost the daily touch of each other that we grasped for any will to collapse the distance between us. Exploring our family heritage became a gift we shared that no person, no institution, no geography could take away from us. By God and Darwin, we shared the same ancient genes of a single Norse family that had been run out of Norway, taken flight to Iceland, shipwrecked off the coast of The Hebrides Our family were the only survivors. So we became Highlanders.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest understanding of 'The One and the Many'.
He's a History major now. Several Spring Breaks ago I helped him build his own Inuit style kayak. He did it without book or class, just off the Internet. I'd been dreaming this plan for years, but like most father's dreams, life didn't support them. A few weeks into his last college semester I broke out my plan. “For your graduation present, lets kayak around the Outer Hebrides,Let's go stand where the first of our people stood”.
He laughed. “Dad, no way! It's freezing up there!.... I was thinking about Iceland”.
My voice slumped, “Iceland?”
“Dad, it's Viking. Most likely, that's where we were headed when the sea took our boat. Let go to Iceland for them”. He's magical like that. “Dad, Iceland has hot springs in their glaciers. Not only that, but all the women are Hot!”
Sometimes having a son is a great comfort. Yes, there will be that.
Iceland became my bookmark, not only on the Internet, but in my heart's dreams. When I stepped down from the plane, I didn't see any of the scenery or buildings from the brochures. I was overwhelmed when the weather became my skin. Unlimited fulfillment shone bright and as warmly as encouragement in the mid-day sky. The spray of a thousand ' Thank You, Praise You' s from every plant cooled my skin. The Wind of Possibility caressed from the Southwest. The scent in the air instigating the sweet pollination of breathing. Even the sulfur taste induced by the Hot Springs felt as relaxing as a suntan. The everlasting contentment of the glacier cold. After a deep breath I wondered if every new place possessed the same magical climate. Perhaps even my little End of the Line Hometown once felt like this too.
Standing together on the ground he slaps my shoulder, “Hey, ol' man, do you feel it in the air?”
I look him in the eye, “Yes. It feels like home”.
His smile engulfs the horizon, “Just what I was thinking”.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest miracle.
It cost extra for a non-guided tour of the inlet. To spend this adventure between just the two of us, the ol' man and his hero we had to take a class from the place that rented my kayak.. How many centuries ago have guides been replaced by teachers? A guide knows his lessons protect your life from the painful consequences of poor judgment. Guides plant signposts in your expectations to stop, look, and listen to the Spiritual Experience of being overwhelmed by beauty, wonder, awe, and unbounded joy.
Dreaming and being the dream seldom honeymoon. But there in the Icelandic Sea, in a cove of glaciers and steaming hot springs beyond, rocked on the waters of promise and power older than Life, the young man of my first born sat in a working piece of art made by his own hands and passion—kayak as old as the Eskimo, and me-- the ol' man-- in the rented plastic kayak.
Breathing, paddling, seeing, listening, blinking all became taste. A taste you try to feed every cell of your being. Then, a whale broke the water, with a mission. I was capsized. My son's kayak of over a thousand generations of hand me down knowledge survived. The whale had come up between us. We were on different sides of the ripple. Somehow my foot had tangled with a strap inside my kayak, and it was upside down. I was bobbing up and down, taking in too much water. I never liked being in water over my head. And I rented the cheapest wet suit they had, also the thinnest.
His rescue efforts rivaled the Norse Sagas. I'm not saying that these waves were epically large, or that a flip flop of a whale compared to the the disturbance of a sea monster. No. But in the space of a bolt of lightening to be thrust into the charge of saving a loved one--right here, right now he and I might exchange our last look: knowing and ,yet disagreeing, “ Love absolves disappointment”.
That Fear is the greatest enemy.
As we both struggled against the fury of the sea, me at water line's mercy and his supremacy of this craft and its power against the sea, I heard him singing softly the melody and words I sang to him in times of trouble or bedtime,
“ Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink.
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.”
He grabbed me, and pulled me close. As he vigorously rubbed my body to generate warmth I looked into his eyes and he smiled, “What's new Dad?”
I begged away from his gaze, so I could gather the courage to play act, “Since when did you start stealing my songs?”
His expression darts away as quickly as a humming bird's heartbeat and as poetic as a butterfly's dance. “First time”.
Embarrassing him has the same affect as getting Nature to reveal a secret. “Why?”
“Whenever I was weak from hopelessness, lovesick, or feeling sorry for myself, or just afraid of the dark at bedtime, you sang me that song. Because you sang it, I knew you meant that love was around me, so much love I didn't have a care in the world. It always gave me strength I didn't know I had”.
Sometimes, a grown child can be the greatest guide to redemption.
Monday, March 16, 2009
my wild rose
My wild rose died. The exact moment of death was never noted, nor were any circumstances sought out. I made no note of it to anyone. Not “Home & Garden”, not the local paper, not even my immediate family.
It was a Tuesday, Trash Day, when the corner of one's eye hyper-ly seeks out distractions from the loathsome burden of 'hit the mark or miss out entirely until next Tuesday'. The Mafia does not dish out second chances. I always thought it incongruous that the Mafia holds a stake in Waste Management. Then again, what better daily legality to hide evidence than in a landfill, which explains why the natural urge: to scavenge there, is not allowed.
Now, you know why the events of Friday knocked me off my feet. It began over organic, free trade, instant coffee. I was dishing some honey out of my “Save the Bee Foundation” honey jar, when there was a knock at my door. I dropped the spoon into the honey. The spoon and I both gasped, as the honey made the sucking sound of a feeding butterfly, as golden as honey itself. Rising above the situation I went to the door. My daughter from New York stood like an Italian Water Fountain beyond the screen door.
Stunned slapped me soundly upside my frontal lobe. I opened the door with all the speed of anticipating heartache. She lunged forward, and threw her arms around my neck. She snuggled her moist eyes just above my left ear and whispered in the rhythm of her sobbing heart. “Don't worry Dad. We'll get through this”.
The trials of being her father flashed before my eyes. The utter joy, the heart stopping regrets, the singing DNA of hope eternal, all stopped in their tracks, and popped the question, “Now what?”
Hugs are much older than language, and far more essential. But she pulls away from me, and looks me in the eye, so I can see the cards she's laying on the table.
“I heard your wild rose died”.
“WHAT!” Every infinite space within my body shouted as the subatomic particles of essence came to a screeching halt, “WHAT?”
She looked away from me. She turned her head to the corner of the garage where I had planted the wild rose shortly after she had moved to New York and became as distant as ambition's siren.
From the back of her head I could tell that her eyes ,as blue as the gratitude of a summer's sky, took in the proof that my wild rose had died. Her body went as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.
I grabbed her as quickly as if I was twenty again, and she, again, was that two month old baby falling from the kitchen counter top straight to the tile floor. “But How?” My body, my spirit, my logic, all: denied what was happening. “But how?”
In my arms I felt her become whole again, strong again, my hero again. At that instant, I learned that touch between two people creates a new Life, not any sensation of mine or the other's, but the experience of a better life form, perhaps the highest life form we'll ever know in this world.
She felt it too. I could tell by the way she turned back to me and, yes, even as she stepped away from our embrace; I could tell.
These were worldly matters now.
“Dad, you know, I'm not a movie buff. Especially not films from the old school. But ever since this past Tuesday, Burt Lancaster has been popping up in my meditations on creativity and form. I had no idea who he was until he showed up in “Field of Dreams”. I don't know how many films he made, or how many interviews he gave, but I'd say he's appeared to me for each occasion. He's appeared to me from every stage in his career. Every time, he said the same thing to me, 'Your father's wild rose died, and he needs your help'. He kept me up all night on Wednesday. I had to get a flight”.
My head and lower jaw drop as if the strings of preparation had been cut by my aspirations for healing her.
She rubs the arms at my side as if I'm a magic lamp. “I came for the Service, Dad”.
“What service? There's no service”.
“There will be”, and she sashays past me, through the doorway of my large empty house and lights at my small kitchen table like the reflection of candlelight.
I put on the odd shaped kettle, hammered out by child labor as distant and as formidable as the Great Wall of China. I add some Fair Trade, Pure Spring Water collected in Hemp Canvass containers, shipped via 'free range,organically fed and documentedly so, Pure Ass over the Swiss Alps, to a French seaport, where it's loaded onto kayaks made from all natural products and paddled across the Atlantic by an Intuits who are paid, not in Francs or Dollars, but in Respect for their Tradition, finally arriving at the East Coast Ports of America. It's then put onto a travois and hauled by a Native American Indian who follows the various Trails of Tears to the 'Made in China- bought at Wal-Mart' water cooler on the West Side of Santa Cruz, California, on a solar stove made from recycled gutters.
Perhaps if I had been allowed to focus on my daughter, the next few hours would have been accessible to memory, or sense. But the phone rang as if it were going for some mechanical endurance record. It wore me down, unprecedentedly to two naps. I dreampt that the wooden screen door strummed as if it were decoding the DNA of God.
I remember that someone woke me shortly before the Service. 4 P.M. I recall smiling at the reciprocal of The Witching Hour- 4A.M.- the moment when the human body reaches maximum vulnerability. My guess is, that it was that shock of ironic laughter that brought my consciousness to bare.
There's hardly anyone here. No Priest. No pall bearers. No media. Not one body of voice for compassion, or support. No grave diggers. Just me, and my daughter.
Then, there was a feint flash of stage lightening. Then, seven seconds of rain, fell as lightly as if it had traveled a thousand light years, just so it wouldn't be noticed.
After a moment of silence, a Ragweed, cleared its photosynthetic throat, which is not anything like subduing a cough. The Ragweed clears its throat by massaging the air beneath its leaves, which then turns away from itself and enters beneath your skin, forming words. “I am the ninth generation who has lived beside this wild rose. I swear by all the genetic code in my being, which is tied together throughout the perception of Time's Past and Future, that this wild rose has been 'a boon and a blessing' to us. When there was drought, she gathered the dew. When there was searing heat, she gave us shade. When we stood alone without the possibility of a mate- she drew in the butterflies and the bees. Until the last of my kind are sieged out of this place, my children's umpteenth grandchildren shall know of her Good Works as surely as own their roots and leaves”.
The impossible can not be shared. Yet, only the impossible is shared between a man and his daughter. Nine Humming Birds appeared, and hovered before my dead wild rose. I'd never seen a family of Humming Birds, but -There -they -were. Their wings beat Stillness into a divine melody, “Among the man-made homogenized color schemes and despite their destruction of the scent of life, which is broader than their tiny little light spectrum, this Wild Rose was always been our Blinding Desire of Hope, and The Sweet Fragrance of Life”.
Then, these nine Humming Birds, turned in flight, as only they can move, faced my daughter and I, curtsied, and scattered too quickly for traces.
Silence.
Silence as taut as string between two empty cups longing for the touch of connection. Such cups can not be held, or guided, or conceived. They just clamp about
your heart longing to touch, your heart of hearts.
My wild rose died...
To arise from the dead, in me, three days, and three thousand miles later.
It was a Tuesday, Trash Day, when the corner of one's eye hyper-ly seeks out distractions from the loathsome burden of 'hit the mark or miss out entirely until next Tuesday'. The Mafia does not dish out second chances. I always thought it incongruous that the Mafia holds a stake in Waste Management. Then again, what better daily legality to hide evidence than in a landfill, which explains why the natural urge: to scavenge there, is not allowed.
Now, you know why the events of Friday knocked me off my feet. It began over organic, free trade, instant coffee. I was dishing some honey out of my “Save the Bee Foundation” honey jar, when there was a knock at my door. I dropped the spoon into the honey. The spoon and I both gasped, as the honey made the sucking sound of a feeding butterfly, as golden as honey itself. Rising above the situation I went to the door. My daughter from New York stood like an Italian Water Fountain beyond the screen door.
Stunned slapped me soundly upside my frontal lobe. I opened the door with all the speed of anticipating heartache. She lunged forward, and threw her arms around my neck. She snuggled her moist eyes just above my left ear and whispered in the rhythm of her sobbing heart. “Don't worry Dad. We'll get through this”.
The trials of being her father flashed before my eyes. The utter joy, the heart stopping regrets, the singing DNA of hope eternal, all stopped in their tracks, and popped the question, “Now what?”
Hugs are much older than language, and far more essential. But she pulls away from me, and looks me in the eye, so I can see the cards she's laying on the table.
“I heard your wild rose died”.
“WHAT!” Every infinite space within my body shouted as the subatomic particles of essence came to a screeching halt, “WHAT?”
She looked away from me. She turned her head to the corner of the garage where I had planted the wild rose shortly after she had moved to New York and became as distant as ambition's siren.
From the back of her head I could tell that her eyes ,as blue as the gratitude of a summer's sky, took in the proof that my wild rose had died. Her body went as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.
I grabbed her as quickly as if I was twenty again, and she, again, was that two month old baby falling from the kitchen counter top straight to the tile floor. “But How?” My body, my spirit, my logic, all: denied what was happening. “But how?”
In my arms I felt her become whole again, strong again, my hero again. At that instant, I learned that touch between two people creates a new Life, not any sensation of mine or the other's, but the experience of a better life form, perhaps the highest life form we'll ever know in this world.
She felt it too. I could tell by the way she turned back to me and, yes, even as she stepped away from our embrace; I could tell.
These were worldly matters now.
“Dad, you know, I'm not a movie buff. Especially not films from the old school. But ever since this past Tuesday, Burt Lancaster has been popping up in my meditations on creativity and form. I had no idea who he was until he showed up in “Field of Dreams”. I don't know how many films he made, or how many interviews he gave, but I'd say he's appeared to me for each occasion. He's appeared to me from every stage in his career. Every time, he said the same thing to me, 'Your father's wild rose died, and he needs your help'. He kept me up all night on Wednesday. I had to get a flight”.
My head and lower jaw drop as if the strings of preparation had been cut by my aspirations for healing her.
She rubs the arms at my side as if I'm a magic lamp. “I came for the Service, Dad”.
“What service? There's no service”.
“There will be”, and she sashays past me, through the doorway of my large empty house and lights at my small kitchen table like the reflection of candlelight.
I put on the odd shaped kettle, hammered out by child labor as distant and as formidable as the Great Wall of China. I add some Fair Trade, Pure Spring Water collected in Hemp Canvass containers, shipped via 'free range,organically fed and documentedly so, Pure Ass over the Swiss Alps, to a French seaport, where it's loaded onto kayaks made from all natural products and paddled across the Atlantic by an Intuits who are paid, not in Francs or Dollars, but in Respect for their Tradition, finally arriving at the East Coast Ports of America. It's then put onto a travois and hauled by a Native American Indian who follows the various Trails of Tears to the 'Made in China- bought at Wal-Mart' water cooler on the West Side of Santa Cruz, California, on a solar stove made from recycled gutters.
Perhaps if I had been allowed to focus on my daughter, the next few hours would have been accessible to memory, or sense. But the phone rang as if it were going for some mechanical endurance record. It wore me down, unprecedentedly to two naps. I dreampt that the wooden screen door strummed as if it were decoding the DNA of God.
I remember that someone woke me shortly before the Service. 4 P.M. I recall smiling at the reciprocal of The Witching Hour- 4A.M.- the moment when the human body reaches maximum vulnerability. My guess is, that it was that shock of ironic laughter that brought my consciousness to bare.
There's hardly anyone here. No Priest. No pall bearers. No media. Not one body of voice for compassion, or support. No grave diggers. Just me, and my daughter.
Then, there was a feint flash of stage lightening. Then, seven seconds of rain, fell as lightly as if it had traveled a thousand light years, just so it wouldn't be noticed.
After a moment of silence, a Ragweed, cleared its photosynthetic throat, which is not anything like subduing a cough. The Ragweed clears its throat by massaging the air beneath its leaves, which then turns away from itself and enters beneath your skin, forming words. “I am the ninth generation who has lived beside this wild rose. I swear by all the genetic code in my being, which is tied together throughout the perception of Time's Past and Future, that this wild rose has been 'a boon and a blessing' to us. When there was drought, she gathered the dew. When there was searing heat, she gave us shade. When we stood alone without the possibility of a mate- she drew in the butterflies and the bees. Until the last of my kind are sieged out of this place, my children's umpteenth grandchildren shall know of her Good Works as surely as own their roots and leaves”.
The impossible can not be shared. Yet, only the impossible is shared between a man and his daughter. Nine Humming Birds appeared, and hovered before my dead wild rose. I'd never seen a family of Humming Birds, but -There -they -were. Their wings beat Stillness into a divine melody, “Among the man-made homogenized color schemes and despite their destruction of the scent of life, which is broader than their tiny little light spectrum, this Wild Rose was always been our Blinding Desire of Hope, and The Sweet Fragrance of Life”.
Then, these nine Humming Birds, turned in flight, as only they can move, faced my daughter and I, curtsied, and scattered too quickly for traces.
Silence.
Silence as taut as string between two empty cups longing for the touch of connection. Such cups can not be held, or guided, or conceived. They just clamp about
your heart longing to touch, your heart of hearts.
My wild rose died...
To arise from the dead, in me, three days, and three thousand miles later.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
do you hear voices?
- I have sat before desks and been asked, “Do you hear voices?” I once replied, “No, but once while I was camping, about to fall asleep listening to the crickets sing the night into day, I realized the crickets were repeating a radio broadcast of Game Two of the 1946 World Series; Musial hit one out”.
I didn't realize it was a question to be taken seriously until one day, I did meet a young man who had heard voices, no cricket fantasies for him. He took a butcher knife and did as the voices instructed; attacked his wife. She escaped, unharmed.
Recently, the question has been set before me again.
“Voices” however, goes without definition. Does it mean that I hear external voices without a physical being in the external world? Or does it mean that I hear external voices within my own head? Or does it mean that my own internal voice sometimes takes the guise of The Muse? Or does it mean the damaging energy of screams, anger, hatred, and wailing (in my own internal voice) that jolt into my calm mind are voices? If the latter be the case, then are we not all living in the Age of Voices?
I've been asking myself, “When did I first hear voices in my head? Maybe they occur before memory, like impulses of hunger. Maybe they are merely the tangibility of thoughts. Like the time, before the rule of schooling, I passed some bright yellow flowers and said to myself, “When I head back home I'm going to pick some of those for my mother.” I picked all the most beautiful yellow flowers that my little hands could hold. When I gave them to her, I received screams of anger & hatred, and was duly whipped with a 'rod' of Biblical proportions, a 'rod' that wasn't Biblical in nature whatsoever. My good intentions had no voice, hiding instead behind a wall of tears, and wails -of pain, not only against my bleeding skin, but in my brain: the physical twisting struggle against an iron grip, and electric shocks jolting against my skull for escape. It wasn't until Seventh grade biology that I realized those pretty yellow flowers had been potato blossoms, and just as impossible to preserve in a vase as they were to produce potatoes.
Often when Night settles in, and man-made lights disrupt the darkness, and my eyes beg for rest, I turn off the lights, crawl beneath the blankets of alienation and seek- the deep breath of my calm mind. At that moment, don't well all become young again, defenseless children, who had spent the length of seemingly eternal days (after all it was day when we awoke, and still day when sent to bed) absorbing the wonder and awe of being alive. It was during those days, also known as the days of growth that accidents and misunderstandings occur as brilliantly as good intentions. It's then that my mind rages against the alienation of our Age: physically twisting, jolting like lightening against baby soft membranes. And I hear my internal voice berating my being.
When these voices rule my nights, my mornings are ruled by helplessness. A host of lies become the voices in my head. I'm worthless. Hope, like wealth is something other people are entitled to. And not a natural power on earth can encourage me: not the ocean, the majestic Redwoods, the magic of Spring, the glory of a thunderstorm. I remain jobless. Broke. Hungry, Dirty, A Beggar among friends.
We are living in the Age of Voices, where the masses in America are victims of Larger Than Life greed: stealing from the helpless, forcing homelessness, poverty, and wars we oppose. Some say, the victims are creating a new Age of The Muse. That a great voice from the Wilderness of Being is being prepared for us. An empowering voice: that out of our defenselessness shall come Command and Power, that from war shall come the Golden Age of Brotherhood and Harmony.
I envy the voices they hear at night.
These days, my Muse merely rants. The voices in my head wail for self-respect. My heart drowns in self-pity. And my attempts at well intended humor come across as despair. I struggle to twist away from such Muses. I turn to more ancient means to cast out the voices of the Night. I leave the fires burning (I sleep with the light on, as if there was someone else actively living in my house), and I listen to the Storyteller's repetitive lines (I leave TV re-runs on, or old movies I've seen a hundred times).
Per haps, I am too immature to hear the words of my Muse. My eyes still see ,with a child size view of the world; when I lay my gift of yellow flowers upon the altar, I'm sent reeling, “My Joy, My Joy, why hast thou forsaken me?”
I didn't realize it was a question to be taken seriously until one day, I did meet a young man who had heard voices, no cricket fantasies for him. He took a butcher knife and did as the voices instructed; attacked his wife. She escaped, unharmed.
Recently, the question has been set before me again.
“Voices” however, goes without definition. Does it mean that I hear external voices without a physical being in the external world? Or does it mean that I hear external voices within my own head? Or does it mean that my own internal voice sometimes takes the guise of The Muse? Or does it mean the damaging energy of screams, anger, hatred, and wailing (in my own internal voice) that jolt into my calm mind are voices? If the latter be the case, then are we not all living in the Age of Voices?
I've been asking myself, “When did I first hear voices in my head? Maybe they occur before memory, like impulses of hunger. Maybe they are merely the tangibility of thoughts. Like the time, before the rule of schooling, I passed some bright yellow flowers and said to myself, “When I head back home I'm going to pick some of those for my mother.” I picked all the most beautiful yellow flowers that my little hands could hold. When I gave them to her, I received screams of anger & hatred, and was duly whipped with a 'rod' of Biblical proportions, a 'rod' that wasn't Biblical in nature whatsoever. My good intentions had no voice, hiding instead behind a wall of tears, and wails -of pain, not only against my bleeding skin, but in my brain: the physical twisting struggle against an iron grip, and electric shocks jolting against my skull for escape. It wasn't until Seventh grade biology that I realized those pretty yellow flowers had been potato blossoms, and just as impossible to preserve in a vase as they were to produce potatoes.
Often when Night settles in, and man-made lights disrupt the darkness, and my eyes beg for rest, I turn off the lights, crawl beneath the blankets of alienation and seek- the deep breath of my calm mind. At that moment, don't well all become young again, defenseless children, who had spent the length of seemingly eternal days (after all it was day when we awoke, and still day when sent to bed) absorbing the wonder and awe of being alive. It was during those days, also known as the days of growth that accidents and misunderstandings occur as brilliantly as good intentions. It's then that my mind rages against the alienation of our Age: physically twisting, jolting like lightening against baby soft membranes. And I hear my internal voice berating my being.
When these voices rule my nights, my mornings are ruled by helplessness. A host of lies become the voices in my head. I'm worthless. Hope, like wealth is something other people are entitled to. And not a natural power on earth can encourage me: not the ocean, the majestic Redwoods, the magic of Spring, the glory of a thunderstorm. I remain jobless. Broke. Hungry, Dirty, A Beggar among friends.
We are living in the Age of Voices, where the masses in America are victims of Larger Than Life greed: stealing from the helpless, forcing homelessness, poverty, and wars we oppose. Some say, the victims are creating a new Age of The Muse. That a great voice from the Wilderness of Being is being prepared for us. An empowering voice: that out of our defenselessness shall come Command and Power, that from war shall come the Golden Age of Brotherhood and Harmony.
I envy the voices they hear at night.
These days, my Muse merely rants. The voices in my head wail for self-respect. My heart drowns in self-pity. And my attempts at well intended humor come across as despair. I struggle to twist away from such Muses. I turn to more ancient means to cast out the voices of the Night. I leave the fires burning (I sleep with the light on, as if there was someone else actively living in my house), and I listen to the Storyteller's repetitive lines (I leave TV re-runs on, or old movies I've seen a hundred times).
Per haps, I am too immature to hear the words of my Muse. My eyes still see ,with a child size view of the world; when I lay my gift of yellow flowers upon the altar, I'm sent reeling, “My Joy, My Joy, why hast thou forsaken me?”
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)