How one says it....

Sometimes, it seems, it is not so much the message, as how one says it?


Audience participation nite. So say it silently, or shout it out loud there in the privacy of your
domicile.....or step out somewhere and shout it to the heavens....mumble it under your breath
if it pleases you, or even whisper it to the side.

Insert what's on your mind: (                                                                              ).

Or submit it as an addition to the conversation as a comment. Communication is a two way street.

Spring Tiptoes in....

This has been a slow, staggered spring. This pic is actually from a previous one. As I write this, it has been a cooler than normal day for this far along in May. But Barbara and I have both been out puttering in the yard. I've done some pruning. She's been working on our small garden with tomato and squash plants still just a few inches off the ground. One of our little dogs, Emily, has decided this is the perfect time to mouse hunt in the garden, so often we have to fill in a freshly dug hole. And that quandary comes up that's similar to other ones like why does one lose one sock in the dryer? Usually find one shoe by the side of the road not two. Why the moon always looks larger when it's nearer the horizon. That just as perplexing one: why is there always less dirt to put back in the hole than came out of it?

From human activity, spring is more obvious. Students in college and high school are holding end of the year band and chorus concerts, awards banquets and graduation events. More people are outside and shopping at the garden supply section of stores. Soon schools will be out and it will be Memorial Day weekend which everyone takes as the starting pistol of the summer race. Pools will open and we'll all be complaining about how extraordinarily hot it is with utterings about why is it taking so long to really warm up long forgotten.

Old Singer

This is an old Singer sewing machine sitting in a grassy field between Tatum and Bledsoe. Evidenced still, a finely constructed work of art. It is taking years to decompose back into nature. Non-electric. I believe, one pumped a trundle at the bottom, ground level with a foot spinning that wheel to turn with the energy to set your needle in motion through your fabric. An old iron and some other unidentified article sit atop.

This machine probably put together, with the help of its industrious housewife, clothing other than the "store bought" items the family was probably lucky enough to purchase in those days. The drawers would be filled with needles, safety pins, straight pens, buttons in various sizes and colors and of different composition, thread of various strengths, thicknesses, color: cotton, linen, wool.

I took this picture because we humans often see beauty in entropy....wasabi! Glued mortise and tendon or dovetail joints split gradually apart by cold, heat and humidity, desert sun. Paint fading, cracking, chipping. Wood grain relaxing its grip, softening, melting ground ward. I also chose black and white film (yes this was taken back when people still used actual film). Black and white seems to more quickly establish a mood that might require additional technique in color.

It might be interesting to find this old workhorse now, years later and see how far it has fallen in its journey back into the soil.

Masks

MASKS

We all wear them---

different ones for disparate

occasions to avoid feeling truly naked.

We don one to show to loved ones

maybe it's a smiling mask

but not always.

We've another for the various people

we work with; some see one mask

others another. Some feel

they see beneath our mask; others may be completely fooled

and accept the outward shield.

We protect ourselves with a certain one

when danger is perceived.

Yet, maybe we let ours slip a little

when we feel willing to open up to a particular soul. Maybe

sensing we've glimpsed, momentarily

beneath theirs.

Our mind, divided into various compartments

even shows masks to the others. The ID,

the Ego, the Superego all ensconced

behind their comfortable, individual veneer.

Though, occasionally the mask may slide to one side

allowing one member of the triad to see another.

We even attempt to wear a particular mask

from our version of an outside spirit; our particular god, as if trusting

we may even hide from omniscience

by donning a leather mask of subservience or love

while beneath lurks something far from obsequiousness.

Maybe in sleep, for a few hours

we might relax the string tie of our particular mask of the moment

and travel through our dreams behind our true face,

or maybe even there we hide behind the protection of metaphor.

Maybe that's why the word naked holds so much power,

naked, our mask dropping from our face

to reveal our true countenance.

                                                                                                         The one we guard so protectively

behind all those various masks.

  

 

Present, Past, Future...

Looking east from near the AG building at NMSU. Strolling the campus, these clouds seemed stolid guards over the alma mater that day, possibly hinting of rain. Though the only moisture that day: emotional, edging the eyes, held back tenuously as these clouds probably held back their burden. Visiting a suffering friend in a nearby hospice, a brief respite on a once familiar campus...home for over five years forty years ago. Hands in pockets, a slow, deliberate stride. The hint of newly mown grass.

Thinking of several students who were now calling it home. Eager to explore independence. Anxious to learn new things. Impatient to join this world of adulthood that occasionally leaves a lump in one's throat as one pauses further along in that journey to peer back at the traversed path.  Down a few bumpy, gravel roads, an occasional freeway, some streams and rivers with inadequate bridges spanning them. These present youth, seeing it with the fresh eyes this writer once beheld it with. Excited about their new excursion into this "adult" world that will too soon be solely theirs. For this silent walker, living this present sadness, as yet another initiation into the heavy tolls often paid along that road either more or less traveled.

Tenacity

Tenacity.....................................................................
No matter our accomplishments
-----our attempts to tame her
nature stands ready
to reclaim what is hers
and if we become too audacious
and go the way of the dinosaurs
she stands ready to tenaciously
cover over our greatest achievements....

even the pyramids may one day
crumble to dust...

Black and White Heroes

I found this picture of a scene from I know not what movie thought provoking. The actor who played Ward Cleaver (Beaver's father) conversing with the actor who played Superman and Clark Kent on what I consider the "best" of the  Superman series, probably because, as a Boomer I can relate to it better.

Two "heroes" from the black and white era.

Ward Cleaver, the wise father figure, who was firm with his two boys, but fair and willing to admit when he'd made mistakes. A father who was raising his sons differently from the "children should be seen and not heard" era of his own father's. The previous era being: take a strap to them raise them tough era. Of course, the series is a little out-dated culturally, but its heart is in the right place even now. Ward went off to work each day, played a little golf occasionally, read in his study, and dispersed advise to all in the household when appropriate.

Then there's George Reeves (Christopher) Reeves predecessor eerily bearing the same last name. George, who died under mysterious circumstances: said to have taken his own life but who some believe was murdered, who played the roll of Superman for a generation of Boomers. Superman, who disguised as Clark Kent, fought a never ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way. Which usually meant keeping tabs on his friends at the Daily Planet and aiding Inspector Gordon, The previously mentioned friends who every episode to themselves into some sticky situation trying to cover a big story for the Daily Planet. As Superman receiving the accolades of all (and the animosity of all the bad guys in fedoras). Then as Clark Kent, having to self-deprecatingly accept teasing from Lois Lane (who hero-worshiped his alter ego).

Those of us who watched, enjoyed the triumph over evil maintained by Superman in  that fictional world that didn't necessarily pan out that way in our own. We could identify with his bumbling friends who (unlike us) could always depend on a super hero to rescue them from their travails. Relate to Clark who was secretly helping people but receiving only playful teasing about his cowardice, yet at the same time belaying that suspicion in the back of their minds that he (was) Superman. Identify with the common characters of the week who had a Superhuman enter their lives for a brief period. Maybe even have empathy for the crooks who always got their come comeuppance, justifying-ly so right before the closing credits.  Shaking our heads in pity that they still had to try that final act of helpless defiance in shooting at the invulnerable Superman's impervious chest. While he stood, with hands on hips, giving them a wise, pitying smile.

These, two of our champions, in a time before today when children know so much about everyone in our TMI times to uncover true heroes.

Childhood Is

Childhood Is

 Time stretched out

like taffy.

playing cards

on bicycle spokes.

Grass stains

stronger than superman

or kryptonite.

Drippy, sticky

Popsicles

and licking the bowl.

Childhood is

being bold

jumping in puddles

and growing old.

               alan wayne greenwood

Me and Tiny.

Does One Read As Well as Write?

Robert Pinsky has said that the trouble with poetry is there are too many people writing it. That generalization is likely further extrapolated by him if one pursues his speeches and writings.  Please, be patient with me. I'm going somewhere here if I can. I would add the point: maybe there are too many people writing it that don't read anyone else's. A case of the (me) confusing speaker and audience. Writing of any form requires one to practice craft. To read others, at first modeling excellent writing---observing what does and doesn't work and learning from observed mistakes to avoid the pitfalls one sees others make. Then one develops one's own voice. And other people might read (or listen) to you. As the cliche goes: turn about's fair play.

Entropy

Today's word: Entropy. Yesterday, a spring day. Last night, a winterish storm began pushing through even fooling the indigenous plants: mesquite, pecan trees, wild flowers, which had started to bloom.

Morning comes, looking outside, I notice fence work to do first thing. The northeastern wind had torn loose several sections of fencing which needed immediate repair. The world in a constant struggle to return to its original elements the ancients believed were: earth, water, air, and fire as proposed by Empedocles frequently occur; Aristotle added a fifth element or quintessence (after "quint" meaning "fifth") called aether in Ancient Greece, and akasha in India. (Wikipedia)

The universe constantly expanding, changing, fighting for entropy. Man, so sure of his dominance, inserted it in the Biblical book of Genesis.  American Standard Version And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

Mother Nature, patiently sometimes, slyly often, straightforward others, reclaims its elements, and then flows again toward entropy, bemused at man's brashness.