Lousy Lizard!

Came across this story i related about Mindi and me when she was 10 years old that sounds a lot like her stories about her kids, Nicholas and Thomas…


“Mindi (my 10 year old) brought in a big brush and started brushing my back. She looked at the brush and said, “There’s skin all over it, you lousey lizard!” I left the room, she stayed behind and began to sing, “Ninety-nine brushes of skin on the wall, ninety-nine brushes of skin….” I groaned, “Oh, boy…” She poked her head around the corner and said, “Well, it’s YOUR fault… YOU “gened” me!”

Auto Corrupt

Getting groceries delivered. In text communication with shopper. Tried to say “pate” for the kind of cat food. First auto correct: “potatoes.” Second auto correct: “tall tales.” Third auto correct: “Hot Ass.” Seriously. I gave up. He can get whatever he wants and the cats can damn well eat it.

Glacier

Can I find some peace of mind,
to dull the horrid daily grind,
or should I taste the bitter rind,
whose poison quells all pain?

Will I fight another day,
am I the one my Id will slay,
and what will be the price to pay,
to end this sad refrain.

From time to time I am compelled,
to neuter what I cannot geld,
that which never can be held,
melting in the rain.

Driven by the summer breeze,
to dash against the leafless trees,
then thrust to ground on brittle knees,
and never walk again.

Lifeless dreams through sightless eyes,
dance across the heartless skies,
and sing a ghastly last reprise,
that burns into my brain.

Empty husk of parasites,
humbled by a thousand bites,
drained of self and filled with mites,
resistance is in vain.

Flaccid with my stuffing gone,
darkness now defies the dawn,
time stands still, then marches on,
a pointless trackless train.

Into earth my substance crumbles,
while the time train clacks and rumbles,
all I was is lost to mumbles,
neither sharp nor sane.

Now as if I wasn’t there,
self is shadow, breath is air,
nothing left to be aware,
a terminal moraine.

NOTES:

So, you see, it is about the death of a glacier. But the weird part is, I didn’t know that until after I wrote it.

All through the creative process I thought I was describing a despondent burned-out person, though I, myself, am in quite a positive mood of late.

It felt strange writing this – different than usual. Each stanza came together organically, and though each was about the same issue of loss of self, each was also centered around a completely different kind of imagery.

The stanzas really didn’t seem connected by a central spine or theme, just that sense of loss of self. In fact, taken together, I felt they were just chaotic glimpses into the storyteller’s psyche.

In terms of the creative process, all went smoothly until I arrived at the very last line. After every previous rhyme falling easily into place, I couldn’t (for the life of me) figure out how I wanted it to end.

So, for the first time on this project, I opened the rhyming dictionary and scanned through hundreds of multi-syllable words that rhymed with “pain.”

Nothing jumped out at me until I stumbled across “terminal moraine.” That was it! Perfect ending – terminal having the double meaning of mortality, which seemed to fit with this poor narrators description of his life experiences.

So, I plopped in that last line, re-read it a few times and published it on my blog under the title “A Way Out,” still believing it to be about this person.

Didn’t like the title though. Seemed mamby pamby. I decided to re-read the poem a few more times and after perhaps half a dozen readings, going from the end back to the beginning, I read “terminal moraine” immediately followed by “daily grind.” And that’s when it hit me – those two phrases sound like they are describing a glacier!

“No….” I thought. “It can’t be….” So I read it once more with “death of a glacier” in mind and holy crap! Every stanza – every WORD rang true to that theme, as if it had been intentionally written all along to describe the last days of a glacier’s life.

Now that has never happened to me before, and I’m kind of blown away by it. The poem is good and the imagery works with any title, but “Glacier” is that missing thread that elevates the poem from a collection of images to a single topic, explored.

I’d say at least half of the artistic impact of the poem derives from seeing it as the end of a glacier. And so, I really don’t feel right taking credit for that since that didn’t happen until the poem was already completed. Hence, this “apology” for the quality of the work.

Still, this brings up an interesting aspect of the writing craft. I’ pretty sure my subconscious knew full well what it was writing about from the get-go. It just didn’t fill me in on it until the end.

I’e read many accounts where readers find so much meaning in a poem, a story, or a song that was never intended by the author, who denies that meaning intently.

And yet, as creators, we all know we have over-active imaginations, and a lot of what goes on with that comes from the subconscious. That’s where inspirations come from and it is the source of those moment of epiphany that pop up in Eureka moments.

It is my belief that the truly great writers are those whose subconscious works to instill far more meaning in their stories than that of which the author is ever consciously aware. THAT is the quality that infuses depth and complexity into the piece and draws the readers into a multi-level multi-faceted experience.

This latest effort has driven that home to me yet again – that the best way to construct a story is to let your mind set the destination and your heart chart the course.

For what it’s worth…

The Last Taste

If you were a mobster and got “hit” in a restaurant while having spaghetti and meatballs and had a meatball in your mouth and knew you were dying, would you try to taste the meatball as long as you could?

The Myopic Eye of Infinity

You ever find yourself thinking about some detail you are working on when suddenly you pull up a level to see the project in which that detail resides? And then you pop up one more level and see the goal that the project is just part of, and then the lifestyle improvement the goal will enable, and then the lifestyle choice, then the life plan and all of a sudden you pop up all the levels until you are looking back at that detail as if through the wrong end of a telescope. And slowly, you look up from that telescope and look around, and see this moment, and realize it might be your last or the very first of many more. And the sun shines and the breeze blows and you feel the love you have for those you hold most dear… And then you realize you have to eat, keep a roof over your head and take care of the kids and/or prepare for the day when you can’t take care of yourself any longer. And so, facing these stark realities and against your heart’s desire, you grab the wrong end of the telescope with both hands and claw your way back down the rabbit hole toward that horrid little detail and embrace it as if it was a long lost friend. Because you have to. Yeah, it’s Monday.

The American Ideal

The American ideal is not a thing or even a state of things but an idea – a belief we are all created with equal worth, and equally entitled to pursue our best course as we see it, as long as we don’t interfere with someone else’s right to do the same.

We’ve never fully lived up to that ideal – never can. It is an unattainable beacon to guide our path, not a destination at which we can ever arrive.

Sometimes we’ve set a mark straight for it and other times we’ve drifted far afield. But the light is bright, the direction true, and it is easiest to see in the darkest night – showing us the way out of the wilderness toward a greater good.

Covid Conscience

In the Civil War rich people could hire others to go to war in their place and legally avoid the draft. I often think of this when I order groceries delivered. But, being 67, I realize my risk is far greater than the twenty-somethings delivering, so I uncomfortably accept their shopping in my place and soothe my Karmic wounds with the notions that I am helping to keep them employed and then I seal the rationalization deal with myself by tipping well.