A Picture of Fear

I took the dogs for a walk today as I do every day. I wanted to get a picture of them on the dog trail but it was so difficult. Trying to keep the camera warm enough but not too warm so it wouldn’t steam up the lenses. Trying to get all three dogs in the same frame at the same time. Meanwhile knees vibrating and trying to take a picture and at the same time look over my shoulder to see if I was being stalked.

Neighbors, bless their souls, they mean well, but some things I’d rather not know. Last fall they told me there was a bear in these woods. I was a little disappointed to hear that but a bear should be okay. He’s probably just out for a walk ‘cause his porridge is too hot or he’s on his way to a teddy bear picnic so why would he dally around here where the only fare is one aged, tough, sinewy old woman.

But now, just this weekend, the neighbors told me there is a wolf in these woods. They know because they saw him. A wolf? Now that is scary. They blow down houses, gobble up little girls with red hoodies, and even disguise themselves as grandmothers. They probably even chase little helpless road-runners as ruthlessly as coyotes.












So, there you are, that’s why I didn’t get a better picture.

Want to Make a Zillion Dollars?

It's too simple. Just create an electronic eye to put in classroom doorways that will disengage cell phones on the way in and re-engage them on the way out.

The Righteous Virgin

A needy soul, without notice, without prize
Without descendants or indiscretions
Gray temples, dim eyes, and wasted loins
The offset for honor that was hoarded
‘Til out-distanced by decline.

Night, repressed and unaccented
Daylight, a separate liberation
From urgency, but weighted
By attitudes external to her world
Of shallow indifference, even scorn
No applause for the spinster whose
Aching longing was purified
By a righteous fire lapping
At her withered loins

Senses thicken, memory fades
Dispassionate and hollow
Long ago, like a volcanic eruption
Passion heated, melted, and erupted
From the core of her being

It is nothing more than fiddling
In the transparency of day
The bleached desert a wasteland
Where she still battles with chaste intentions
Empty and alone she vaguely recalls
A battle neither lost nor won.
The long struggle and the ultimate
Exodus of the courage she
Needed to weakly surrender.

NOTES: I have a creative personality. So I sometimes have to square off with a kind of ‘weirdness’ that attaches itself to creativity that leaves me red faced and a bit squirm-ish. If you knew me personally, my real-life persona, you would find this work quite shocking, considering I’m stone sober, I only pop calcium pills, and I take life seriously. So I am a bit uncomfortable about this post and you might be too. But still, the question is, is this any different than painting nudes? I don’t know. Can this be called a creative work? Or is it just so much rubbish that reveals far too much of my foolish nature?

So do others write poetry like this? How would I know? I'm too straight-laced to read them.

Silent Rabble

The ice leaps, and the day
Withers to the lesser
The silence is formless,
Simplified, quietude. I long
For clamor and complexity
Tumult and loquacity,
For words and voices
To absorb me.

The ice compresses
Air, liquid, matter
Into unrelenting
Hoary auspices of the
Migration of glaciation
And perceived permanence
Of the polar ice,
The accordance
Of that significance
One and the same.

While the ice leaps, and the day
Withers to the lesser, the cold
Matrix of silence and ice
Bonds together
Without change but yet an opening
Drives me
To without myself
To where I stand apart
The only exchange
The silent rabble of the day
Withering to the lesser
And steaming breath.


NOTES: After Christmas, I drank the dregs of the leftover wine and let the silence, the ice, and my own aloneness overwhelm me.

The Talisman

Every small town has one. That rather eccentric soul that walks the streets in a repetitive pattern, that haunts the coffee shop twice a day, and guards the square in between. And this he has done for so long that he has become an icon or town mascot – a talisman of sorts. And the longevity of his appointment, the years and years this has been so, has the rest of us thinking that he leads a charmed life with magic powers of invincibility.

In our small town, our mascot is a thoughtful philosopher of politics and religion. With totally fresh, and never before contemplated thoughts for every day. Oracles from the gods that he is anxious to expound. And for this reason, I’m ashamed to say, so many of us avoid him.

But he might have written the book on public relations. We skirt him because he has the special talent of seducing and solidly magnetizing total strangers into conversing with him. And if you don’t keep a greater than twenty foot distance, before you know it, you are floundering in the middle of a conversation that sinks to the core of your being. I swear the talisman is capable of altering DNA linkages within and the only suspicious telling of that alteration might be a goose bump or two. So knowing this, if you have neither the time, or the inclination, or the fear as I have, you concentrate on a game of out-maneuvering.

And yet, although we avoid him in a physical way, we think of him in an endearing way. As representative of our town, of our people, of what we were before the now…when hope was compact and living was simple.

But only last week, our physically rejected, yet emotionally beloved, mascot passed on. How could such a thing happen to an invincible talisman with more spirit than body form? With a reliability and longevity that suggested permanence? But it happened. And if we were remiss in his life, we were not remiss in his death. The ‘obit’ in the paper did him proud justice.

This is what it said.

“We laughed at him because he was different. He laughed at us cause we were the same.”

When I read that I felt such overwhelming pride in our talisman and such an unexpected sense of loss. He did, for certain, go amongst us altering our DNA in ways that will forever defy understanding.

The Evil Eye

Now you know I’m uneasy about my upcoming eye surgery and so I appreciate the kind people who have given support. My neighbor is one of those kind people. To the extent, that last week, when her Mother came for a visit, she called me up and put her Mother on the phone to give me her cataract surgery testimonial.

Truth is, I really didn’t want to discuss it, but what could I say? ‘Cause you see I was doing pretty well up to this point. With only a few weeks to go, I found that circumventing thoughts into other channels was the best way to escape my fear. So I kept my mind firmly planted in the crease of refusing-to-think-about-it. With pre-opt conditions (dental and physical health check behind me), thankfully there is no reason to return to thinking about it, until the scheduled day of surgery.

I know the neighbor had the best of intentions when she put her Mother on the phone. And her Mother, though she doesn’t know me from Adam, was more than a little flattered to tell me the ‘really important stuff’ that she was quite certain I didn’t know. Things I would never think of (which as I said previously, is okay with me).

So she told me what was ‘really, really important’. That for six weeks or more after surgery I must not sew, knit, crochet, read, watch TV, or use the computer. That’s when the darkness began closing in and my present life of watching CNN while playing computer games, reading blogs, and writing blog posts flashed before me.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Just wait a minute here. This is a lot to digest. This goes way beyond my fear and anxious foreboding. Now I am really upset. Isn’t that what I do each day? Is there anything she missed? Seems like not. And that rapidly scrolling thought of all those things in my current life? That’s not a good thing either.

So I was close to tears when I got off the phone and turned to Hub.
“Oh my God, Hub, do you know what I have to do for six weeks or more after surgery?”

“What?” he said, with bewilderment, no doubt thinking it must be some undignified, ghastly, painful routine. And if that’s what he was thinking, he was right.

“For six weeks or more all I can do is sweep or mop floors, vacuum, iron, do laundry, shovel snow, re-organize cupboards or closets, bath the dog, clean the basement. How depressing is THAT???”

And you know what Hub did? That man who I thought would always be there for me?

He said, “Good! Very Good! And when are they going to do your other eye?”

Writing Diagnostics

I sit down and write words of random prose, and when I get to the end and look back, I see a skewed and unexpected image of what others might see.







But when I write poetry,
And get to the end, and look back
All I see, is a mirror image,







Of the emotion within my soul
That compelled me to write it in the first place.

Passion or Obligation

I have two approaches to writing. I write either out of conviction or obligation. When I write with conviction, writing is such fun. I would like to always write like that. But it’s doesn’t always happen. Some days, I end up writing because I have a Blog, and because of that Blog I feel obliged to write.

Now although writing isn’t categorized into ‘passionate’ or ‘obligatory’, readers know. Which leads me to a whim I’ve always had. I wish bookstores categorized their books that way. It seems to me, the only books worth reading are those written by a passionate author. Fact or fiction is of little matter. Truly the greater appeal is not so much plot or complexity, but the spirit with which the thing was written.

And that leads me to wonder if “The DaVinci Code” was written out of a calculated obligation to strike at a sensitive nerve that has forever overwhelmed society? Society’s need for implicit understanding of all mysteries. Was the story written as a political project or passionate project? I tend to think of the story as a passionless work because writers of passion never display dogged and deliberate attempts to weld theories into fact. The passion of their convictions spontaneously does that for them.

But, from my own perspective, I have to tell you, that in reading “The DaVinci Code”, despite the shock value, despite the expert analysis at work, and despite complexities that are stunning, unexpected, and wisely sorted, I find passion lacking. The characters are not bathed in blood, sweat, and tears. I just find them way too reckless considering their frail cardboard construction. In fact the author gives more life-giving breadth and breath to the characters in DaVinci’s paintings, then he gives to the characters integral to the plot.

I haven’t the right to suggest this was part of Dan Brown’s endeavor. But still it is a final reflection about writing that I want to share with you.

In writing, obligation wearies content. Passion is so easily marred and chaffed by more practical considerations. The need to make a work marketable. It is like anything else in life. Passion wanes when one is obligated to pursue their craft according to price indices, consumption and demand – with obligatory modifications to widen the appeal. So obligatory writing always has that stilted bit, that surgical bit, that is there to appease journalistic, editorial, investigative, or skeptical minds. And though these implants are carefully integrated, these are the parts most damaging to the wondrous appeal of a passionate work.

So now, I confess. Because I have a blog, I must write something, and so this is my ‘obligatory’ rant for today.

The Look of Destiny

NOTES: I learned something about birds this winter. They have an uncanny sense of smell. I was amazed at how quickly ravens zeroed in on meat scraps in the snow that I tossed to my dogs. Bewildered, I said to Hub, “Can something with a cardboard face and a rigid nose have such a sense of smell?”

“Certainly,” Hub said. “That’s what tells them which bags to rip open in the back of a truck. Bread bags, grocery bags, stuff like that.”

All quite amazing to me but I have something to tell you that might be equally amazing. You probably think that with a rigid template encompassing their mouths and noses, birds cannot smile. But, oh yes they can. They smile with body language. With a cocky strut, like fashion models proceeding down a runway. They smile with bright little eyes, and stretched necks, and perky heads. I’ve seen them smile. I know they can.

The following poem takes this into account. I’m not a polished poet but these are special feelings about situations that I wanted to put in a “poem treasure box,” an idea recently inspired by one of my favorite poets, Pauline.


The Look of Destiny

I pull him from his hiding place so timid and withdrawn
And peer into the little face hiding in the lawn.
He shivers as he looks at me, I see a cloud of fear
And I begin to tremble at the image in that mirror.
He is the Ugly Puppling, with crooked legs and black
He has no sporting nature to make up for that lack
I study in those little eyes the look that he sends back
And in that exchange I promise him that we will make a pact.
This puppy, he will never go; He will stay with me

Those pleading eyes
Have yielded him
A happy destiny.

I head toward the hen-house, pail swinging from my arm
Ax safely in the wood block, nothing threatens harm.
I hear the hens all cheering, “Yea, Yea, the time has come!
For us to share a morning meal and loiter in the sun.”
Some hitch a ride upon my pail and stretch their necks with glee
They cluck with sweet contentment, with peepers fixed on me
And in that bartered vision, that opaque and ‘fowl’ blink
A transitionary message, uncanny and distinct

“Today the world is well with we,
A safe and happy destiny”

A sparkle flashes in a truck
Among the cattle, fumes, and muck
And there, behind a narrow board
A diamond tear in a great brown orb.
A giant orb that stares at me
Begging redemption, “please set me free.”
The cattle truck can no longer be seen
The light has changed from red to green
But now a flood of hopeless rage
Like the hapless beast in that mobile cage


That pitiful eye welded on me
Told me so plainly what was to be…
And it, my friends, was a sad destiny.

My Timepiece

My timepiece is a simple strand
Of upward trees and traverse land.
And shadow pointers wrapped in rhyme
Translate for me the march of time.

Ejected

I don’t know how much free license one has to say what they think on a Blog. But my understanding of freedom of speech is as long as it is true there’s no great risk. I hope that is the case. Because I am feeling so low I need to tell someone.

Now this may not sound like a serious question, but it is a serious question, and don’t even read the rest of this until you give it some thought.

How would you feel if you shut down your blog for a few days to put up a new template, and when that new template was ready, you found someone else living on your site? Decorating it their way with their color values and their words? Remodeling what was once yours to suit them? How would you feel?

Well, that’s more or less what has happened to me. Starting in March of 2003, I had a quaint little place called “Abbreviated Abstractions”. This was my fledgling blog. But I was forced to build another spot because it was a blog that allowed a maximum of 300 posts and I had 311, which caused the indexing page to scramble and overlap. And made it impossible for me to continue posting there. So I moved. But still I spent a lot of time at the old place and so did my visitors.

Then just before Christmas, Hub said to me, “You’re not posting on ‘Abbreviated Abstractions’ anymore. So why don’t you clean up that site? You are a rather unorthodox thinker and if nothing else, a lot of the stuff you write is original. Original thoughts are at a premium these days and if you leave those ramblings too long, they could be plagiarized by others.”

Now I probably would have stood my ground and let the site stand as it was, but this remark was the closest Hub has ever come to complementing my blogging efforts. In an oblique way it seemed to me he was saying that I occasionally write worthy stuff. So although I wavered for the rest of that day, the next day I backed up my rants and took down the site.

And then busy with Christmas and New Year’s. So it was January 6th before I set about to resurrect that familiar old place, where I had always felt such magical inspiration, and move back in. But it could not be resurrected. URL - No longer available.

So now, my heart is breaking, as I tell you this. In the space of less than two weeks, someone else moved in. I guess to be fair, I have to admit it, the title and URL were up for grabs for a few days. That is, if we ignore the rules of plagiarism. But it still showed up when Goggled. Even though on Blogger it was now available. But Gees, I made up that title with no one’s help. So can’t others do the same? But no, we have a new resident in my old place. And guess who it is?

None other than Martha Stewart. My Title was “Abbreviated Abstractions” and my URL was “abbreviatedabstractions.blogspot.com” and her title and URL is now exactly that. Words cannot express how heartbroken I am. I know I’m partly to blame but couldn’t I have had a longer period of grace?

I moved out on the 23rd of Dec and as far as I can tell, she took up residence January 5th. I am so sad. My only comfort in this fiasco is that the place is haunted. When I was there, there was Spam lurking everywhere.

By the way, just so you know, I noticed when I googled what once was my place, that some of my older blog friends still have links to my old calling card, so don’t be surprised if Martha greets you, instead of me.

And now, by writing this, I’ve probably offended Blogger, and they’ll kick me out as well. But that would be too unfair. They have a shared responsibility in this matter. They have been telling me, and telling me, for probably two months or more that my old blog was unstable and that it MUST be moved.

Narrative About Creation

An amazing new discovery. A new source for a generous supply of stem cells for medical purposes without death to embryos. The article is here.

Stem cells extracted from amniotic specimens that are normally discarded. Such good news, but what was more fascinating to me is that researchers put the cells into a print cartridge, installed that cartridge in a printer, and than the cells were “literally printed out onto sheets and grown into functioning tissue.” (CTB.ca. News Staff). Seeded onto sheets with the spray of an ink-jet printer.

A page with an encrypted message of the true story of creation, that when translated, developed, and fleshed out, forms sheets of new liver tissue, bone tissue, and skin tissue.

For those of us who love to write, and know the awesome power of the printed page, were we surprised?

A little, but (as Glenn Beck of CNN would say)...'Not so much.'

Check-Ups or Check-Ins

This week I phoned my family doctor for a Physical before my scheduled eye surgery. Before surgery I needed a physical examination by my local family doctor, who then would sign forms that the Eye Specialist required. So I asked the receptionist in my doctor's office if she could make an appointment for me so I could get the forms signed that I needed.

The receptionist replied, “We can’t do that, Roberta. Dr. East cannot fill out the forms. They need to be filled out by your regular doctor”.

”Dr. East is my regular doctor.”

Silence as if waiting for an explanation and perhaps I owe her that much. She probably can't remember ever seeing me in the doctor's office before. So I continued.

"I haven't been there for a long time. I just happen to be healthy. I only go to the Doctor when I am sick and I have not been sick for five or six years.”

Silence for a long moment on the other end. “Oh, hmm. Well…Okay. I’ll put you down for 9:00 a.m. on Monday.

I sighed with relief. Guess it’s true. What you don’t use, you lose. So are people like me a liability rather than an asset to his practice? I thought it was good to be healthy. Approved of by government, medical providers, and society in general.

Well I may be a liability to my doctor but I’m certainly not a liability to private Health Insurance with gratuities of more than $1500 per year. So if I am to fix this, what can I use a Doctor for besides medical attention? Should I pop into his office occasionally for a coffee and a casual visit?

We, The Ordinary People

We, the ordinary people, have done it all – the crying, sobbing, and weeping. But you know, and I know, what we most hate about melt-downs.

There is the contorted countenance, the runny nose, and the unstoppable sniffles – always when one hasn’t got a Kleenex. There is the soppy pillow or shirt, the shiny nose, the red eyes, the tear-streaked face. And for woman, even worse, is the sooty rivers of mascara or muddy rivers of matte make-up descending down the nose and cheeks. There is the need to awkwardly wipe the face on one’s sleeve until one is bathed from the waist up in an awkward bath of phlegm and salt water. And when one looks to find a Kleenex to mop up the mess, there is none. A friend may eventually hand over, from the bottom of a dusty purse, a tightly wadded tissue or napkin that although dry is still highly suspect of being used. And always when we just get ourselves pulled back together, there the contagion factor. The need to weep on seeing the face of another, even a stranger, with tears in their eyes. That is the face of sad, but ordinary people.

But we, the ordinary people, are doing it all wrong. I see politicians and starlets and other of the rich and famous on TV every day, particularly on News briefs and talk shows, not ‘weeping’ (which means to shed liquid), not ‘crying’ (which means to shed tears of grief, sorrow, or pain), but ‘sobbing’ which means ‘convulsive gasping’. But for simplicity sake, we’ll just call it ‘crying’.

They don’t cry the way we, the ordinary people, do. Yes, they speak in the husky choked voice of the melt-down, but there are no tears. No sniffles. No slimy drops of nose phlegm or rivers of tears with all their converging tributaries. No soggy sleeves. No smeared make-up. No frantic searches for tissues.

So if you haven’t been paying close attention, this is how it’s done. You cover your face with your hands, or bury your knuckles into your eyeballs. You talk in a choked voice. You shake your head and droop it to your chest or look away. You wring your hands. You contort your face and say, “Excuse me” in the middle of a sentence and refuse to go on for a time. You stutter and sputter fractured speech. You run a finger tip gently along the underside perimeter of each eye frequently, but not too frequently. And without tears, the grandest part is you won’t need a tissue to blow your nose or mop up the mess.

You see it’s not so hard to do. And like coughing into the crook of your arm, this approach is so much neater, dryer, and hygienic. Give it a go.

Oh for cryin’ out loud. That performance was terrible. Guess I forgot to mention that you also need to ignore empathy, sympathy, and sincerity. Don’t let the situation touch your heart. You’ll end up drowning in another slimy phlegm and salt-water bath and crying like we, the ordinary people, do.

My Holy Grail

(with apologies to Dan Brown, author of “The DaVinci Code”)

When I retired suddenly and unexpectedly from work after a long career, I was sent a parting gift a few weeks later. It wasn’t a gold watch, or a pin. Instead it was a rather heavy, ornately carved, velvet-lined redwood box with inlaid filigree around the lid. It was in truth, a beautiful thing. And in the center of the lid was a raised ornate frame with a photo of the facility I worked at mounted under glass. And that photo was the only clue as to what the box should contain. And since ‘retirement’ is right up there with the other milestones of life – birth, graduation, marriage, and death, I could only surmise that this miniature casket should contain a keystone of articles related to the turning point and distance of my career.

So what should I put in it? My application letter and a copy of the working covenant I signed my name to so many years ago? My stapler, my pen, that bloody alarm clock that whined and wailed all those years and roused me from sweet slumber? None of that seemed worthy of such a fine treasure house. Or should I put a copy of my unorthodox resignation letter? Written with such unexpected suddenness that I was as surprised at what I wrote as the recipients of that letter.

The letter I sent to the President (with a cc to my Supervisor), after spending a morning at the office covertly stashing all my personal stuff in a box hidden under my desk, read as follows:

“This e-mail is just to let you know that at lunch time I am leaving and I won’t be back. I am sick to death of the acts of political corruption, rather than a mandate to clients, that rule this establishment. I will no longer be a part of it. I know the rules but I don’t care about the consequences of leaving without notice. I don’t know how I’ll feel once I walk out those doors. But I am fairly certain I will feel a whole lot better than I am feeling right now.”

Or maybe I should stash the response that came directly from the President.

“Roberta, this is so not like you. I am well aware how valuable and reliable worker you are. Why don’t you take a couple days at home to think about this? Contact Human Resources and then go and see your doctor. You may just need to take some stress leave. I know arrangements can be made for you to take as long as you need.”

My response, sent from my at-home computer, “If I am sick in the head, I am too sick to recognize my sickness. You have enough abusers of sick days, stress leaves, and long-term disability that you don’t need any more. I will not even consider stress leave. I am done. If you require a formal letter of resignation, this is it. Print off this exchange and put it in the file.”

I guess I sure had a pickle up my a-- that day. It’s that pickle I should put in the box, but I guess it got flushed. Oh well. Probably the best thing to put in the box is an ecclesiastical manifest of the dramatic disclosure of facts, not known or realized, until the day I walked out. And so this is my manifest.

This is Book of REVELATION of Roberta Smith, to show all things sent and signified by her retirement.

Chapter I, Verse 1.
“And the vision that came to me were the things I had forgotten. I forgot I would not be alone if I quit work. I forgot I had a Hub with a sense of humor that delighted in my presence. I forgot that the world doesn’t have to spin like an out-of-control merry-go-round every hour of every day. I forgot that I have creative hands and a severely damaged imagination that perhaps can be resurrected. I forgot there are other challenges in life to give me worthy purpose, sensibility, and accomplishment. I forgot that contentment comes from liking the person I am. And most of all I forgot that life is for living.”

That is what I will put in the box. It’s no Ark of the Covenant, but for me…it’s my Holy Grail.

What Words?

Every mechanism has a dependency. Even a light bulb. The dependency is a source of power. People are no different. We have dependencies. And if we ignore those dependencies, we might as well attempt to vacuum stars from the sky with the shop vac. That’s how ridiculous it would be to attempt to have a happy heart and contented mind without being mindful of our own unique dependencies.

But throughout our lives, dependencies evolve and change. A simple example might be that an infant’s dependency is food and the comforting smell of his mother. Adolescent dependencies are friends and fashion. Teenage dependencies are love and romance. Family dependencies are good health and financial success. So you see as we travel through life, our dependencies change. Weaving, overlapping, sometimes being dismissed and supplanted by another. And when the dependencies of any one season are met we are happy and well satisfied.

And so that brings me to my current dependency. It is words. The unshakable confidence that I can create, settle, explore, resolve anything, with words. Words are the oil for the efficient function and satisfaction of my soul and body and mind. But as the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, a ghastly realization hit me. That 2006 dependency on words suddenly rotated in to some other dependency.

I discovered at that particular moment when others were setting off fireworks that I had thoughts I couldn’t express in words. Profound thoughts. Thoughts with purpose, and mandate, and meaning that could not be expressed. I guess as we flipped to a New Year, at that very moment I graduated to another stage of dependency. A place where I felt emotions that were not in the dictionary. A collection in the mind of light-weight teasers and, at the same time, consequential ponderings. Thoughts of pleasure and pain. Love and friends. Mortality and immortality. But all of those thoughts suddenly outside any context that could be accomplished with words. And furthermore, they were thoughts that could not be mimed with interpretive dance (though God knows, I tried). Thoughts that could not be mimed through music (tried that too). Thoughts that couldn’t be expressed in rhyme, unsteady rhythm, or rap (I went there as well). Thoughts that couldn’t be painted (at least not inside the lines). I could no more wrap a solid in liquid than wrap those thoughts in words.

But I have just finished reading “DaVinci’s Code” and perhaps that is what has uncovered this ghastly truth. But I am undaunted. I’ll tell you my thoughts but circumstances force me to tell you in the secret cipher of cryptography.

This is what I was thinking on New Year’s Eve.
“




....“. (hic)

Good thing we understand the DNA that links us all together isn’t it?
Causeyouwerethinkingthesamething – Right?