Celebration

The other kids will pick on me if I name my puppet "Sadness." That's a gift. Clever little fingers craft handles and strings, and he's a marionette. I name him "Cliche," out of fear. He likes simple words, simple phrases. They cause him to stand and dance. He's having a party, many gifts, many of the other kids are there, many gift their absence. 

She names her puppet "Judgement." There's a beautiful show, simple, clever. He names his puppet "Criticism." We have a simple theme, a plot. They like to call their puppets "Refinement." Silly prancing and clacking little, wooden feet. All the best people watch, from empty chairs. 

Maybe it's beside the zoo, beside a pavilion, where vendors sell cotton candy and a friendly lady teaches sculpting clay, scooping tiny bits with curved knives, like eating soup from a bowl. He likes simple words. 

There is a table where he can see gifts piling up. You give one, you give one, you give one. Nobody comes empty handed. I call him "Cliche" out of worry. Her glance catches me holding him. I see the thoughts vomit out of flaming eye sockets. It's a party now!

That More Convenient Faith

uninspired and quick

I see you in your castle

of flesh, loving hands holding

bones and false hope

of self convincing

your castle of sinew

blood wet mortar

squared off thoughts

into bricks and bracken filled

moat of syrupy stretched truth

nature calls to you

from seeping moonlight

through myriad cracks

letting in

whispering winds

your smile

is the saddest picture

(unrelated frog)

Dad's Mail

 

Dad died in late January of 2019. It was about three weeks after his birthday. He slipped on a sheet of ice while taking his garbage out to the road, hit his head on the ground, suffering a brain hernia, bleeding on the brain. 

I don't remember what i was doing. I only remember Paula's voice on the other end of the phone. "Lee, it's your dad. He slipped and fell and hit his head. They're flying him to UAB. It's not looking good." The next thing I remember is trying to get into the emergency room door, pulling out the small knife in my pocket, being told I couldn't bring it past the guard station. It was a small, silver lock blade, pocket knife. I remember explaining to the guards that I understood, but needed them to be very careful with it, that it was a knife given to me by my father, who was somewhere inside the building "Not looking good." The guards, used to this sort of thing I imagine, were very nice, reassuring me the knife would be there when I came out. Looking back, I knew then. After all, "Not looking good" is "Not looking good." Dad was either dying, or already dead. 

The waiting room is a jumble of memories, Dad's brother coming in, a few family members, cousins, Meg and the kids. I remember we needed to get in touch with Jeff.  I had to tell him what Paula had told me... "It's not looking good." 

The waiting part wasn't long. Or was it? Time was on holiday. Everything was upside down and moving in unconventional directions. My head was spinning even as my body sat dead still in the chair. There was noise and clamoring of an emergency room waiting area. But there was also dead silence. People kept trying to say the right thing. The words of that are impossible. But the saying of them helps.

I've tried to relay this experience several times. But the further I get from it, the more it exists in harshly punctuated moments. It hides in his contact files that I have yet to delete from my phone, jumping out to startle me when his profile picture pops up. It floods into my brain, randomly, when out of nowhere I remember having to "Make the call." He wasn't going to make it. His brain had split. It was on me to say "Let him go." 

I suppose I also used the planning, the dealing, the work part of it to distract the real part. Yes, we had to "Let him go." As much as it happened during the excruciating, guilt ridden, heart wrenching moments when we removed the breathing machine, it happened after, in the dull, oscillating emergence of the new reality. We had to let him go. We still have all the thoughts, the regrets, the memories, the assets, the explaining, the tears, the stress of dividing pennies, papers, pictures, guns and money. 

I hold on, though, in some tiny room in the back of my mind. Maybe I'm waiting for the Dad he was, the Dad he never was, The Dad he wanted to be and didn't want to be. I'm not sure. But I know it's hard to understand how I've not yet cancelled his mail delivery. It comes to me now. All his Fox news inspired nonsense, the solicitations for an old, sometimes gullible guy to send "Just ten cents," to help him heal his soul's heart, I guess. There were no records of his donations. I fear he sent more money to right wing political groups than he did to "Just ten cents a day can feed a child for a year!" But who knows...

I guess I'll save some trees soon, and "Let him go." I'm just not quite ready yet.      

 

The Project

The Project, for project's sake, is long. I've been pondering this morning's post, what to write, like a reverse, anticipatory dream journal. I think of the people to whom I've sent invitations to author, while I wait for someone to show up to my party, or I sit as some aged monk keeping watch over long forgotten texts, or maybe some hunter stalking prey, intellectually. It's a story, no doubt. I like the idea of writing my own story, the story of me. I like the idea of the story of us. I like the idea of a small fire on the border of the settlement, or the watchmen at the edge of the encampment. I like the ideas. 

I respect the simplicity.  I've made some decisions about the structure of sharing. I like the smaller text, the necessary gaze and focus to engage. I like the honesty of foibles, the humor of our lives in punch lines of mistakes and flaws. There's a cosmic mist in the air, Aurora Borealis down to surround human heads, illuminating the crown. Here, away from the Regent's tent, on the periphery of The Horde, there is energy in peace. 

I hate the false choices always proffered as if facts of nature. Be the influenced, or the influencer. Be the wolf or the sheep. Be the lover or the fighter. The worst kind of false choices are those imposed, by others, by entities with agendas, by PR campaigns still selling the same. I hate false choices. The world is full of choices, myriad choices, or a myriad of choices. They're everywhere. 

I am saddened by the current, social limited breadth of attention. The world is consuming mental bonbons and intellectual petit fours. For now, for hope, let's consider it appetizers.  Or maybe small, sliced chum bait for lost souls.  

 

The Party

I am in part using this blog as therapy. It seems like I have developed a habit with Facebook. Each person who uses social media has their own social media vice, I imagine. Some of that is due to demographics, maybe patterns of behavior developed over years. I truly enjoyed the connection Facebook once brought. But now it's as if the party has gotten out of hand, the neighbors showed up, bringing their guns to wave around and hoot, people pissing in the potted plants. But I miss some people when I can't see them. And I'm certainly always interested in meeting new people. That's the Facebook party I showed up for. 

So, this little room here, this blog, represents a corner where the cool kids can come. Rather than some narcissistic drive to hear myself, and capture the attention of others to see only me, I'm hoping some of you will share also. I don't care what. I enjoy the randomness of a good conversation. But I also like the notion that there is an ever so slight effort involved. Facebook, Twitter, et al, they're designed to ease you into over sharing, into plopping out opinions, ideas, the self entertainment sphere. I actually don't have an issue with that concept. What I do take issue with is the obvious strategy of the pusher-man to guide us and trap us into the ding ding bells and react emojis on a one way street to advertisers. 

Social media has its obvious issues. Rather than spending half an hour on a deep dive into any given thought or situation, it feeds "users" into the stream of momentary bits. Outrage, anger, cuteness, doggies, kitties, smileys, bubbles, you name it. Social media turns most communication into those tiny elements, one way or another. Of course I'm not telling anyone anything new. But what are some possible solutions? Again, I don't really have an issue with the monster being the monster. It is the thing it always was. I have always thought dragons serve a purpose. As self actualized human beings, so do we. 

Blogger offers the ability for many authors on this blog. If I am not mistaken, we can add up to 100 authors. As an author, in this context, that is just a more engaged user. The blog is open, can be viewed by anyone, so we're still at the party, in other words. Anyone, from Bangladesh to Birmingham, can take a look, comment, and even request author permission. I doubt many will. But to the cool kids who want to sit in this corner with me and fire up the proverbial J, put on the cool music, and talk philosophy until the sun comes up, here we are. Welcome. 

As for me, I'm currently sitting in my "old man chair." This, as Joe from Smokerise would say, is my "whittling chair." I'm watching the snow come down outside, dropping a few more inches onto the 2 or 3 feet of snow already covering the ground. Connecticut weather is interesting for a boy from Alabama, whose main experience with snow was always about how disappointing it was, never enough, never staying long. My experiences were always the mystical connections of "Do you remember 1993," or "That time we went to so and so and saw snow, on vacation." Now I have to plan when to push the driveway so the cars can get out. And I have to admit, though I once had a unilateral desire for more snow, I look forward to the melting. I like the fact that I have traveled far enough north to experience seasons that aren't just punctuated summers.   

Snow on the frozen creek
 under the  Arch Bridge

        

Now I am become blog, the destroyer of words

 Thanks for the invite!

POOF! I made you a blogger!

 So, you say you want to be a blogger? No? You never said that? Well, that's what I heard anyway. 

I know some people don't have any experience with the interface, don't know how to use Blogger. Ask me if you have a question. My goal is to have many authors, sharing here, instead of throwing your pearls at the feet of SWINE! I mean, we're all probably going to throw some pearls at the swine anyway. But I want some pearls thrown at me too. 

If you have any questions about this little project of mine, just ask. If you need help using Blogger, just ask. I don't expect everyone to know how to insert pictures and such. But it's really quite easy when you give it a go. 

I would love some videos, some day to day stuff, special occasions, cats playing piano. I am definitely going to keep posting here. It may be stories about why nobody is engaging with me. But long ago I realized I needed to play with words, and people. I hate the idea that social media has hijacked that. So... I want an alternative. 

Poop is a funny word

 Poop is a funny word 

The Idea

It's a simple concept. I want to keep up with certain people, without the ads, without the bullshit of Facebook or other social media outlets. This is a semi public way to share with each other. I love to see your content, pictures, poems, shared articles. You can share out of or into this blog. Write a post. Post a picture. Picture the possibilities! 

If I invited you to be an author, it's because i want you to share in this experience. I'm not making this blog private. I don't want to be cut off from the rest of social media. But I want the authors to have control over more of their experiences. You can share posts from here to other social media. No problem. You can share from other social media to here. 

You may choose to pass this opportunity by. That's OK too. I just want to create and not be dictated to or guided by the whims of social media. And I would love for you to join me. 

We can invite other authors too. That's all good. 

Consider this a slant version of other social media outlets, where you can make a post, have people comment on it, and control the content.