I have this hat that my brother in law gave me more than a year ago.
It's dominant color is between yellow and gold but it has ear flaps and tassels at the end that have that tawny color and brown and white. The same fringe goes around the top from ear to ear and their are two ears--brown--that make the hat look something or other like a young lion.
I love it. If I knew how I'd send you a picture of it with my words. But I don't know how to do that. I am, still, a computer novice.
But when I wear it people are smiley and kind and engage me in conversation.
I told Bern that I've met a lot of friendly people in the past few weeks.
"It's the hat," she said since I had it on inside, just as I am wearing it as I write this.
It looks a bit like a Sherpa hat but more like the hats they wear in Peru.
It was made in Peru, wherever my brother in law found it.
The tag says so.
The tag also says that it is 'Virgin Acrylic', which seems odd to me. Does that mean it is made from an artificial fabric that has never had sex?
But it does get smiles and comments and causes people to be friendlier than ordinary.
Maybe we should all wear strange hats. Perhaps it would make for a friendlier world. Imagine President Obama in a hat like mine talking to John Baynor who is wearing a hat that makes him look like a Giant Panda. Things might be better and get done.
Who knows, something to ponder.
Find a weird, whimsical hat and wear it for a while. I think you'll be convinced that what is missing from the world is odd hats.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Truth that dares not say its name...
Let's get this out of the way.
The whole Anglican Communion mess is a conflict between the mostly European Provinces of the Anglican Communion--the Episcopal Church, the Church of Canada, the Australian Church, the Church in Europe, the New Zealand Church and the majority of the Church of England VS the Churches of the Developing World--Africa, South American, Asia.
It is, in the bottom line of it all, a dispute between mostly white, European Anglicans and those people of color who are part of that culture, and the People of Color of the rest of the Anglican Communion.
Collective, white guilt makes those of us in the Developed World feel that we can no longer be Colonial about the poor, people of color that are the majority of the Anglican Communion in numbers.
Get over it! This isn't a conflict of 'colonialism'. It is a conflict of Culture. And it is obviously and painfully True that the minority "European" Anglican churches live and move and have their being in a drastically different culture than the rest of Anglicans in the Global South.
I am sick, almost to death, of having to acknowledge and respect the realities of the cultures of the Global South without having them return the favor and 'acknowledge and respect' the realities of the European based churches.
I acknowledge and respect the cultures of the parts of the Anglican Communion that abhor and exclude GLBT folks. I think they are wrong, but since I come from a different culture and paradigm, I do not judge them.
So, I simply ask Anglicans from other cultures and world views to return the favor--STOP JUDGING US.
Am I crazy to think that is the obvious way to relate to each other and be 'in communion'--not judging each other as we gather around the table and seek to live into the Mission of God?
Am I crazy or what?
The whole Anglican Communion mess is a conflict between the mostly European Provinces of the Anglican Communion--the Episcopal Church, the Church of Canada, the Australian Church, the Church in Europe, the New Zealand Church and the majority of the Church of England VS the Churches of the Developing World--Africa, South American, Asia.
It is, in the bottom line of it all, a dispute between mostly white, European Anglicans and those people of color who are part of that culture, and the People of Color of the rest of the Anglican Communion.
Collective, white guilt makes those of us in the Developed World feel that we can no longer be Colonial about the poor, people of color that are the majority of the Anglican Communion in numbers.
Get over it! This isn't a conflict of 'colonialism'. It is a conflict of Culture. And it is obviously and painfully True that the minority "European" Anglican churches live and move and have their being in a drastically different culture than the rest of Anglicans in the Global South.
I am sick, almost to death, of having to acknowledge and respect the realities of the cultures of the Global South without having them return the favor and 'acknowledge and respect' the realities of the European based churches.
I acknowledge and respect the cultures of the parts of the Anglican Communion that abhor and exclude GLBT folks. I think they are wrong, but since I come from a different culture and paradigm, I do not judge them.
So, I simply ask Anglicans from other cultures and world views to return the favor--STOP JUDGING US.
Am I crazy to think that is the obvious way to relate to each other and be 'in communion'--not judging each other as we gather around the table and seek to live into the Mission of God?
Am I crazy or what?
the Anglican Covenant...no....Autonomy...si...
At the General Convention of the Episcopal Church in 2012 in Indianapolis, the deputies and bishops will be asked to decide whether to sign the Anglican Covenant.
The Anglican Covenant is the result of further work after the Windsor Report, which came out after Gene Robinson was elected and consecrated as Bishop of New Hampshire. Wouldn't you know it, some place as isolated and, in the scheme of things, as insignificant as the Diocese of New Hampshire, would cause a tidal wave of concerns, anger and angst within the far-flung Anglican Communion.
Gene is a gay, partnered man. Gay Bishops are a dime a dozen in the Anglican Communion. But Gene was bold, honest and authentic enough to let it be known he was a gay man in a committed relationship. Sounds like the right thing to do, right?
But no. The Windsor Report and the resultant Anglican Covenant was all in response to the fair and democratic election of a great priest to be the bishop of New Hampshire. (Tiny things, in life, cause huge responses.)
Anyway, the Episcopal Church is faced with saying yes or no to this Anglican Covenant.
Honestly, 75 percent of the stuff in the first three sections of the covenant consists simply of stuff most every Anglican in the world agrees on--the Creeds, the Trinity, the Archbishop of Canterbury being 'first among equals', the autonomy of each of the 39 churches that make up the Communion, stuff about the Eucharist and independence of the various churches to make their own decisions.
So, if we all agree about that stuff already, WHY WRITE IT DOWN?
My wife and I agree on even more of life than that--90% or more. And it has never occurred to us to 'write down' what we agree on.
The rest, the stuff we don't agree on, 7% or so, is simply worked out day by day, week by week, year by year between us. Sometimes we reach a compromise. Sometimes we don't. Be we remain 'in communion' even when we don't agree at all.
The 4th section of the Anglican Covenant--look it up, you can Google it--is so dramatically Un-Anglican and non-democratic and anti-autonomous that it would be laughable if there wasn't a lobby that wanted it to be agreed to.
That 4th section violates with violence everything that comes before and sets up a process to deal with 'disagreements' between churches. (For 'disagreements' read 'how to deal with GLBT folks'--like not making them bishops.)
Gene Robinson, a duly elected, validly consecrated bishop of the Anglican Communion was not invited to the Lambeth Conference--the every 10 year meeting of all bishops in the Communion. I guess the Archbishop of Canterbury ran out of printed invitations. Something like that. Why else on earth would he neglect to invite a valid bishop of the clan?
Oh, because large and bullish members of the Communion in Africa and other parts of the developing world are frailty scared of gay folks who are honest about being gay folks since they are Biblical fundamentalist and don't think gay folks are 'children of God'. God help them.
The 4th section of the Anglican Covenant is a way to either discipline or exclude the American and Canadian Churches from the Communion since those two churches are dealing honestly and compassionately with Gay folks. (Not compassionately or honestly in CT to allow priests to follow civil law and sign the marriage licences of same sex couples who, legally, can marry in CT.)
It's all a nightmare. Goggle noanglicancovenant.org and read people more reasonable and logical that me.
The Anglican Covenant is neither 'Anglican' nor an honest, relational 'Covenant', so far as I can see.
Anglican Covenant, NO! Autonomy for the Episcopal Church, SI!
More about all this later....
The Anglican Covenant is the result of further work after the Windsor Report, which came out after Gene Robinson was elected and consecrated as Bishop of New Hampshire. Wouldn't you know it, some place as isolated and, in the scheme of things, as insignificant as the Diocese of New Hampshire, would cause a tidal wave of concerns, anger and angst within the far-flung Anglican Communion.
Gene is a gay, partnered man. Gay Bishops are a dime a dozen in the Anglican Communion. But Gene was bold, honest and authentic enough to let it be known he was a gay man in a committed relationship. Sounds like the right thing to do, right?
But no. The Windsor Report and the resultant Anglican Covenant was all in response to the fair and democratic election of a great priest to be the bishop of New Hampshire. (Tiny things, in life, cause huge responses.)
Anyway, the Episcopal Church is faced with saying yes or no to this Anglican Covenant.
Honestly, 75 percent of the stuff in the first three sections of the covenant consists simply of stuff most every Anglican in the world agrees on--the Creeds, the Trinity, the Archbishop of Canterbury being 'first among equals', the autonomy of each of the 39 churches that make up the Communion, stuff about the Eucharist and independence of the various churches to make their own decisions.
So, if we all agree about that stuff already, WHY WRITE IT DOWN?
My wife and I agree on even more of life than that--90% or more. And it has never occurred to us to 'write down' what we agree on.
The rest, the stuff we don't agree on, 7% or so, is simply worked out day by day, week by week, year by year between us. Sometimes we reach a compromise. Sometimes we don't. Be we remain 'in communion' even when we don't agree at all.
The 4th section of the Anglican Covenant--look it up, you can Google it--is so dramatically Un-Anglican and non-democratic and anti-autonomous that it would be laughable if there wasn't a lobby that wanted it to be agreed to.
That 4th section violates with violence everything that comes before and sets up a process to deal with 'disagreements' between churches. (For 'disagreements' read 'how to deal with GLBT folks'--like not making them bishops.)
Gene Robinson, a duly elected, validly consecrated bishop of the Anglican Communion was not invited to the Lambeth Conference--the every 10 year meeting of all bishops in the Communion. I guess the Archbishop of Canterbury ran out of printed invitations. Something like that. Why else on earth would he neglect to invite a valid bishop of the clan?
Oh, because large and bullish members of the Communion in Africa and other parts of the developing world are frailty scared of gay folks who are honest about being gay folks since they are Biblical fundamentalist and don't think gay folks are 'children of God'. God help them.
The 4th section of the Anglican Covenant is a way to either discipline or exclude the American and Canadian Churches from the Communion since those two churches are dealing honestly and compassionately with Gay folks. (Not compassionately or honestly in CT to allow priests to follow civil law and sign the marriage licences of same sex couples who, legally, can marry in CT.)
It's all a nightmare. Goggle noanglicancovenant.org and read people more reasonable and logical that me.
The Anglican Covenant is neither 'Anglican' nor an honest, relational 'Covenant', so far as I can see.
Anglican Covenant, NO! Autonomy for the Episcopal Church, SI!
More about all this later....
Monday, November 8, 2010
mislabling and the Bible
I went to buy cranberry juice at the Stop and Shop. And, as I've done before, I bought a 'blend' that has apple juice, white grape juice and pomegranate juice as well as the cranberry juice I thought I was buying. It said, on the label, "100% juice" and in the small print happened to mention that the "100%" meant 'juice', not 'cranberry juice'. I'm taking it back tomorrow.
I'm a fanatic about cranberry juice since I had a urinary tract infection in September that nearly made me crazy. And it is almost impossible to distinguish between "100%" cranberry juice and lots of other kinds of juice that contains, in some amount, cranberry juice. I feel like an idiot but Bern has made the same mistake so I don't feel like an idiot since she certainly isn't.
Where the Bible comes in isn't about the cranberry juice, it's about dogs eating their own vomit.
That's somewhere in the Bible--the psalms, I think. You could google it: dogs eating vomit + the Bible.
Our dog Bela ate his breakfast and threw it up 10 minutes later in the dining room. Before I could clean it up, he ate it.
Then, an hour later, we were out on the porch having a cigarette, at least I was, Bela doesn't smoke so far as I know. He doesn't have a thumb to work a lighter or light a match or turn on the stove and the cigarettes are never where he could get to them. So, I think I'm safe in saying I was the one smoking a cigarette. Anyway, Bela was laying at my feet and jumped up and ran out into the back yard and threw up the vomit he had eaten of his breakfast. He did that crazy thing with his snout, covering up the vomit with snow and leaves. Then came back like nothing had happened.
I was worried, as I always am about this awful Puli dog, that he had stomach cancer or something. But he ate his dinner and didn't throw up. So who knows. But, just like the Bible says, he does sometimes eat his vomit.
OK, this is pretty nasty to me. I asked Bern if she lost respect for Bela for eating his vomit. She said, 'no, it just reminds me he's a dog.' I was about to tell her that it was in the Bible when Bela wanted out--Bern and I were on the back porch smoking--so I let him out.
(Some people, I know, think smoking is the human equivalent of a dog eating vomit. But what do I care about such opinions?)
Bela ran down into the back yard, I thought to pee (a neighbor of ours once told me he hated having dogs 'urinate' on his yard. Since his yard is the side of the street where the sidewalk is, I thought he didn't understand dogs very well. They don't wait until the next Mobile station on the Parkway to "Urinate"...they 'pee' when the smell is right and the spirit moves them.)
But Bern went inside to watch "House"--the first new episode--while I waited for Bela to come back so he and I could join her. (Bela actually doesn't watch House, or anything on TV, but when both of us are in the TV room, he is there.)
He didn't come back and didn't come back and none of our flashlights work so I went down in the dark to drive him back.
I think he was eating the vomit he threw up from the vomit he ate from what he threw up after breakfast. With some leaves and snow and dirt as well.
Pretty amazing to me: he ate his vomit twice--the same vomit.
The second time he ate it, it must have been a bit frozen, like a vomit Italian Ice or something. "Give me one watermelon ice, one chocolate ice and one vomit ice...." I wonder what the folks down at the Italian Ice places on Wooster Street in New Haven would think of that order?
Twice eaten vomit isn't a new concept--think of refried beans or twice-baked potatoes.
Sort of a gourmet treat for dogs.
I'm a fanatic about cranberry juice since I had a urinary tract infection in September that nearly made me crazy. And it is almost impossible to distinguish between "100%" cranberry juice and lots of other kinds of juice that contains, in some amount, cranberry juice. I feel like an idiot but Bern has made the same mistake so I don't feel like an idiot since she certainly isn't.
Where the Bible comes in isn't about the cranberry juice, it's about dogs eating their own vomit.
That's somewhere in the Bible--the psalms, I think. You could google it: dogs eating vomit + the Bible.
Our dog Bela ate his breakfast and threw it up 10 minutes later in the dining room. Before I could clean it up, he ate it.
Then, an hour later, we were out on the porch having a cigarette, at least I was, Bela doesn't smoke so far as I know. He doesn't have a thumb to work a lighter or light a match or turn on the stove and the cigarettes are never where he could get to them. So, I think I'm safe in saying I was the one smoking a cigarette. Anyway, Bela was laying at my feet and jumped up and ran out into the back yard and threw up the vomit he had eaten of his breakfast. He did that crazy thing with his snout, covering up the vomit with snow and leaves. Then came back like nothing had happened.
I was worried, as I always am about this awful Puli dog, that he had stomach cancer or something. But he ate his dinner and didn't throw up. So who knows. But, just like the Bible says, he does sometimes eat his vomit.
OK, this is pretty nasty to me. I asked Bern if she lost respect for Bela for eating his vomit. She said, 'no, it just reminds me he's a dog.' I was about to tell her that it was in the Bible when Bela wanted out--Bern and I were on the back porch smoking--so I let him out.
(Some people, I know, think smoking is the human equivalent of a dog eating vomit. But what do I care about such opinions?)
Bela ran down into the back yard, I thought to pee (a neighbor of ours once told me he hated having dogs 'urinate' on his yard. Since his yard is the side of the street where the sidewalk is, I thought he didn't understand dogs very well. They don't wait until the next Mobile station on the Parkway to "Urinate"...they 'pee' when the smell is right and the spirit moves them.)
But Bern went inside to watch "House"--the first new episode--while I waited for Bela to come back so he and I could join her. (Bela actually doesn't watch House, or anything on TV, but when both of us are in the TV room, he is there.)
He didn't come back and didn't come back and none of our flashlights work so I went down in the dark to drive him back.
I think he was eating the vomit he threw up from the vomit he ate from what he threw up after breakfast. With some leaves and snow and dirt as well.
Pretty amazing to me: he ate his vomit twice--the same vomit.
The second time he ate it, it must have been a bit frozen, like a vomit Italian Ice or something. "Give me one watermelon ice, one chocolate ice and one vomit ice...." I wonder what the folks down at the Italian Ice places on Wooster Street in New Haven would think of that order?
Twice eaten vomit isn't a new concept--think of refried beans or twice-baked potatoes.
Sort of a gourmet treat for dogs.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Memory Lane is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there
I wrote a few days ago about all the ancient writings Bern found when she was rearranging one of the guest bedrooms. I've spent a lot of time reading that stuff since then.
It is remarkable to listen to my much younger self's words and consider what it was that I, back then, thought and pondered and wondered about.
I was much more intense and existential back then. And though I think of myself as terribly 'ironic' today, back then I was 'ironic' to the point of nihilism , it seems to me.
I wrote very long paragraphs and dozens of sonnets in strict iambic pentameter. The prose is interesting to me. The poems, I fear, are just awful--sentimental, inflated and nihilistic all at once. That combination, let me assure you, makes for a terrible poem.
There were some blank verse poems. Here's one written when I was a freshman in college (18 or 19 years old). It is about an actual event. I watched out my dorm window as a man fell to his death from the fifth or sixth floor of a construction site.
The falling man
A man fell yesterday, I saw him fall...
So sure of foot and balance that he came, he came,
too near
the edge.
And (it seems to me, watching from this very spot)
he watched as well--he watched a bird
that soared lightly, without steel beams to hold
him high.
As the bird was
flashing past his face,
the man leaned out
and seemed suspended
one short second--seeming to smile--
though I was so far away,
and fell.
The bare shoulders of the men
who rushed to him
glistened in the sun.
They seemed to be talking softly
so not to be heard
by the gathering crowd.
A girl I know passed by
with long and shimmering legs,
walking her dog, Natasha.
Today there is black crepe
hanging from that floor,
gently waving to the
passing birds.
It is too easy--the allegory we should avoid--
that he is just like all...
all of us....
Only he has fallen
and we,
we are creeping edgeward.
***
Rather dark and negative, it seems to me.
But there are nuggets among the sand of what the 'me' I was over 40 years ago wrote.
I'll seek some out to share...and ponder....
It is remarkable to listen to my much younger self's words and consider what it was that I, back then, thought and pondered and wondered about.
I was much more intense and existential back then. And though I think of myself as terribly 'ironic' today, back then I was 'ironic' to the point of nihilism , it seems to me.
I wrote very long paragraphs and dozens of sonnets in strict iambic pentameter. The prose is interesting to me. The poems, I fear, are just awful--sentimental, inflated and nihilistic all at once. That combination, let me assure you, makes for a terrible poem.
There were some blank verse poems. Here's one written when I was a freshman in college (18 or 19 years old). It is about an actual event. I watched out my dorm window as a man fell to his death from the fifth or sixth floor of a construction site.
The falling man
A man fell yesterday, I saw him fall...
So sure of foot and balance that he came, he came,
too near
the edge.
And (it seems to me, watching from this very spot)
he watched as well--he watched a bird
that soared lightly, without steel beams to hold
him high.
As the bird was
flashing past his face,
the man leaned out
and seemed suspended
one short second--seeming to smile--
though I was so far away,
and fell.
The bare shoulders of the men
who rushed to him
glistened in the sun.
They seemed to be talking softly
so not to be heard
by the gathering crowd.
A girl I know passed by
with long and shimmering legs,
walking her dog, Natasha.
Today there is black crepe
hanging from that floor,
gently waving to the
passing birds.
It is too easy--the allegory we should avoid--
that he is just like all...
all of us....
Only he has fallen
and we,
we are creeping edgeward.
***
Rather dark and negative, it seems to me.
But there are nuggets among the sand of what the 'me' I was over 40 years ago wrote.
I'll seek some out to share...and ponder....
Creatures in the walls
There are some kind of creatures in some of our walls.
There used to be squirrels in the attic, but Bern got a machine whose purpose is to make a noise that apparently makes squirrels psychotic if they don't leave. So we don't hear squirrels skritching across the ceiling of our bedroom or TV room anymore.
But I hear something in the walls of the dining room. I would like to convince myself that it is a family of those Brownies (wasn't that the name?) that lived in the walls of a house in New York in books I used to read to our children. (I'm not sure, by the way, that convincing kids that little people live in the walls is a particularly good idea....)
But I know these aren't Brownies or Fairies or Elves. And I'm calling someone I found in the phone book to come next week and tell us what to do.
Someone came last year, when the squirrels were playing what sounded like soccer in our attic. He assured us there was no way for them to get in except through a window we kept open in the attic with a fan to blow out hot air in the summer. So we closed the windows and got the crazy making squirrel machine.
Mostly I hear them in the wall near the dining room fireplace that we never use. We don't use it because a chimney sweep (there are still such professionals, though they don't look like Dick Van Dyke) told us there were chinks in the bricks in that chimney. Fixing it would have been like a million dollars, or at least the equivalent of that in our budget. So we filled the grate area with about 70 candles. The chimney in the kitchen fireplace is fine, so we use that in the winter. (By the way, a fireplace in the kitchen is one of the best ideas I can think of.)
When the squirrels were holding parties in the attic, I also got one of those squirrel traps that are open at each end but close when a squirrel goes in. Not killing the squirrels was high on our list for possible solutions. Driving them crazy with noise seemed preferable somehow. The quality of life of a psychotic squirrel, though not intense, seemed better than that of a dead squirrel.
On that subject--death--I heard today that four deceased people were on ballots around the country during the mid-term elections. They died after the ballots were printed and before the election. One of them won. Imagine being defeated by a dead guy....If 'brain dead' was the same as 'dead dead' I would suggest that quite a number of dead people won in that election....Oh well, I'll have to get over it. My next door neighbor, Mark, said today what Mark Twain once said, (I don't know if Mark knew he was quoting Twain...) "If you don't like the Congress, wait two years..."
Anyway, whatever is in the walls I no longer object to killing. There's just something a little eerie about having creatures in your walls....
There used to be squirrels in the attic, but Bern got a machine whose purpose is to make a noise that apparently makes squirrels psychotic if they don't leave. So we don't hear squirrels skritching across the ceiling of our bedroom or TV room anymore.
But I hear something in the walls of the dining room. I would like to convince myself that it is a family of those Brownies (wasn't that the name?) that lived in the walls of a house in New York in books I used to read to our children. (I'm not sure, by the way, that convincing kids that little people live in the walls is a particularly good idea....)
But I know these aren't Brownies or Fairies or Elves. And I'm calling someone I found in the phone book to come next week and tell us what to do.
Someone came last year, when the squirrels were playing what sounded like soccer in our attic. He assured us there was no way for them to get in except through a window we kept open in the attic with a fan to blow out hot air in the summer. So we closed the windows and got the crazy making squirrel machine.
Mostly I hear them in the wall near the dining room fireplace that we never use. We don't use it because a chimney sweep (there are still such professionals, though they don't look like Dick Van Dyke) told us there were chinks in the bricks in that chimney. Fixing it would have been like a million dollars, or at least the equivalent of that in our budget. So we filled the grate area with about 70 candles. The chimney in the kitchen fireplace is fine, so we use that in the winter. (By the way, a fireplace in the kitchen is one of the best ideas I can think of.)
When the squirrels were holding parties in the attic, I also got one of those squirrel traps that are open at each end but close when a squirrel goes in. Not killing the squirrels was high on our list for possible solutions. Driving them crazy with noise seemed preferable somehow. The quality of life of a psychotic squirrel, though not intense, seemed better than that of a dead squirrel.
On that subject--death--I heard today that four deceased people were on ballots around the country during the mid-term elections. They died after the ballots were printed and before the election. One of them won. Imagine being defeated by a dead guy....If 'brain dead' was the same as 'dead dead' I would suggest that quite a number of dead people won in that election....Oh well, I'll have to get over it. My next door neighbor, Mark, said today what Mark Twain once said, (I don't know if Mark knew he was quoting Twain...) "If you don't like the Congress, wait two years..."
Anyway, whatever is in the walls I no longer object to killing. There's just something a little eerie about having creatures in your walls....
Friday, November 5, 2010
A Treasure Trove
Bern was working on the bed room that the new bed from (starts with "I" ends with "A" and sounds a bit like 'Idea'--the place I dare not speak its name, when she emptied out a large, two drawer storage thing and found a treasure of stuff not unlike the Dead Sea Scrolls to me.
It was stuff I'd written years ago, some of it 30 or 40 years old that I thought was gone forever!
In it was the novel I wrote as a teenager called "The Old Gods Go". It was, in my teen mind, to be a trilogy whose titles would be based on a short poem by Carl Sandburg.
Day by day
and hour by hour,
the old gods go
and the new gods come.
Today, I worship the hammer.
I read a few pages and remember it not! What an adventure it is going to be to read it from such a distance and try to figure out who I was when I wrote it and why, by the way, I thought it had to be down on paper.
There were also a bunch of short stories I had not forgotten but thought were lost forever. Some of the titles are: 'Once softly, October', 'Being a Man', 'The Pepperoni Cure-all', 'Blackberry Winter', 'Gladys Spinnet is Dying', 'The Old Folks', and several other. I studied creative writing in college and some of them go back that far. Others were pre-1989, before we moved to Cheshire. Most of this stuff was probably in the two drawer chest when the movers moved it from New Haven! There were also a lot of sonnets I wrote to Bern when we were not much more than children, trying to woo her. (I'll have to read them to see if they are any good at all, but the 'wooing' part must have worked.
I'm so excited by this home archaeological discovery. I'll probably spend the weekend reading this stuff.
Also, among the flotsam and jetsam of half or more a lifetime ago, there were 12 pieces of stiff paper (40 weight or so) that were all about 12 inches long and 3 inches wide. They have sayings on them in my writing. I have no frigging idea where they came from or what I used them for or why I saved them or how they fit into my life. I kind of like them though. So I'll share them with you. They are each worth pondering as we sit under our castor oil trees. But I have no idea whatsoever what context they belong in.
Here they are, in no particular order, since I can't imagine there would be an order to them:
HAVE YOU HAD YOUR RITUAL TODAY?
SMOKE AND MIRRORS WORK!
CULTURE, SI! FLOWCHARTS, NO!
CREATE A RANDOM METAPHOR
SYMBOL OVER SUBSTANCE
DON'T MISS THE MYTH
PUT YOUR PROBLEM INTO A STORY AND TELL IT
DECLARE IT DONE!
RECYCLE 'GARBAGE CANS'
MANAGE BY MAGIC!
SAYING SO MAKES IT SO....
IT'S ALL A GAME--PLAY HARD....
What a mystery to me among the treasures. I have no idea why I cut that paper--obviously I cut it into 3 inch pieces--or why I wrote those sayings on it or what it all means.
I know the memory and the knees are the first to go....but why don't I know what all that means? I actually like it and, in a weird way, like no knowing what it means.
It's like a message --or 12 messages--to me from a younger me. It must be a message I need to ponder. You are welcome to ponder it as well.
After all, "It's all a game--PLAY HARD...."
It was stuff I'd written years ago, some of it 30 or 40 years old that I thought was gone forever!
In it was the novel I wrote as a teenager called "The Old Gods Go". It was, in my teen mind, to be a trilogy whose titles would be based on a short poem by Carl Sandburg.
Day by day
and hour by hour,
the old gods go
and the new gods come.
Today, I worship the hammer.
I read a few pages and remember it not! What an adventure it is going to be to read it from such a distance and try to figure out who I was when I wrote it and why, by the way, I thought it had to be down on paper.
There were also a bunch of short stories I had not forgotten but thought were lost forever. Some of the titles are: 'Once softly, October', 'Being a Man', 'The Pepperoni Cure-all', 'Blackberry Winter', 'Gladys Spinnet is Dying', 'The Old Folks', and several other. I studied creative writing in college and some of them go back that far. Others were pre-1989, before we moved to Cheshire. Most of this stuff was probably in the two drawer chest when the movers moved it from New Haven! There were also a lot of sonnets I wrote to Bern when we were not much more than children, trying to woo her. (I'll have to read them to see if they are any good at all, but the 'wooing' part must have worked.
I'm so excited by this home archaeological discovery. I'll probably spend the weekend reading this stuff.
Also, among the flotsam and jetsam of half or more a lifetime ago, there were 12 pieces of stiff paper (40 weight or so) that were all about 12 inches long and 3 inches wide. They have sayings on them in my writing. I have no frigging idea where they came from or what I used them for or why I saved them or how they fit into my life. I kind of like them though. So I'll share them with you. They are each worth pondering as we sit under our castor oil trees. But I have no idea whatsoever what context they belong in.
Here they are, in no particular order, since I can't imagine there would be an order to them:
HAVE YOU HAD YOUR RITUAL TODAY?
SMOKE AND MIRRORS WORK!
CULTURE, SI! FLOWCHARTS, NO!
CREATE A RANDOM METAPHOR
SYMBOL OVER SUBSTANCE
DON'T MISS THE MYTH
PUT YOUR PROBLEM INTO A STORY AND TELL IT
DECLARE IT DONE!
RECYCLE 'GARBAGE CANS'
MANAGE BY MAGIC!
SAYING SO MAKES IT SO....
IT'S ALL A GAME--PLAY HARD....
What a mystery to me among the treasures. I have no idea why I cut that paper--obviously I cut it into 3 inch pieces--or why I wrote those sayings on it or what it all means.
I know the memory and the knees are the first to go....but why don't I know what all that means? I actually like it and, in a weird way, like no knowing what it means.
It's like a message --or 12 messages--to me from a younger me. It must be a message I need to ponder. You are welcome to ponder it as well.
After all, "It's all a game--PLAY HARD...."
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