...just tired.
 

Finished off two poems today and posted. Not a huge response yet. I've been trying harder to get my work reviewed by visiting various message boards and the other gimmicks. But it's getting to be a lot of work and I'm not giving as much attention to my writing as I would like.

I log on like five or more times a day whenever I get a reprieve from the children. Cannot wait for Tuesday when Alex is off to kindergarten. I will miss him terribly but I will have much more time to devote to Maddie who hasn't got the benefit of the early education Alex had.

Since Alex is already reading at a first grade level and solving Math problems, I can let the educational system pick up from there. I like reading to them and using animated voices and different interpretations and recitations to keep them interested. Alex was a huge auditory learner from the beginning and I hope the same will be for Maddie.

With her taking two to three hour naps midday, I know when to put the focus on writing and my webpage. Eventually, I'll have to stop producing poems and get back to the fiction or autobiographical work. It's going to take a lot of organization and effort just to get the work underway. With my limited vision it is becoming harder to read the fine print, and things are slow going. I have to give myself more time to let stuff sink in for some reason. I don't want to believe it's the senility, but the lack of a visual presence to help me with recall.

My notebook is filling with a torrent of scrawled musings and ideas that I can build on. I can't shut my mind off sometimes. To cope with this, I have decided to commit a certain amount of time to work off the cuff and if it keeps coming to stop committing it to paper and trust that the mind is going through an ideation process to lay the groundwork for future work. Besides, Jen doesn't like the sound of a pencil scratching on paper in the middle of the night. So I either have to stay out of bed, or find another place to lay and write.

There are so many people that have responded to my work so far and I hope I am not neglecting them in return for their kindness. It is difficult to balance with the writing, but at this early stage it is key to develop some relationships along the way that will benefit both sides. I am quick to promise replies to emails even if I know I haven't the time. Right now, I am cramming to write this before Jen comes back down from reading to Alex. We have Blockbuster movies piling up that have come in the mail. Got 'Derailed' and 'Producers' to watch tonight. Jen watched 'Hoodwinked' with the kids while I was out grocery shopping and trying to get some digital photos developed at a local grocery store.

I'm chomping at the bit to get myself a huge block of time alone once I am ready to let the graphite rip. My one draw back is my hands cramp up much more easily now from writing. Plus I have a home and garden and kids to manage. The elusive laptop is waiting in the wings. Thought I would get one in the near future, but I got my head up a Mac and Windows programs are daunting to someone with limited vision. But if I want to get published, I need to use MSword.

So, one day, the cabin in the woods. Perhaps, at deer camp with my three blind brothers. Hopefully there will be fewer of them, since they will be shooting weapons. No accidents to report as yet. I'm be called upon to be the camp cook, since giving up hunting as a teenager. I could not see myself killing game. I can see the benefits of hunting your own meat, but after you add in the cost of a rifle, bullets (with target practice", maintenance of property and blind, license, travel expenses and more; you're better off getting some sliced turkey at the deli. Of course, there is the process of skinning, cutting and storing the meat, too. And if you don't have the resources to do that, then you pay someone. Yeah, I'm good with just cutting up some of my juicy tomatoes and slapping them on split top wheat slathered with Miracle Whip Light (plug) and packed with my favorite luncheon meat (with a dash of salt).

Ah, yes. The two poems I posted today. I wanted to touch on that. Jet (abbreviated from Jet Plane and pilot) was written for a girl I had daily encounters with in college some 15 years ago. Hi Ruth, wherever you are. She was a receptionist at the Public Radio station where I worked. I would loiter about the front desk area some days, whenever I felt the welcome mat was out. She was pleasant but a bit distant. I was generally known as a serious person; but I did know how to make small talk, as did Ruth. But there is only so much you can say about the weather before heavy topics tend to land at your feet, and I'm sure that closed down the window on our sessions.

I happened to see her quite frequently in the coffee shop on the main floor and said hello a time or two. One day, I was in one of those melancholy moods. I wanted a deeper connection with her. But, I didn't have the heart to 'pilot it for fear I would provoke another deathly disaster.' I lacked the confidence to get in there and try a little harder to get inside her head. So, I had to write about how someone with such affected beauty could have a profound impact on me. I could imagine that she had some difficulty with 'fighter pilots gunning for her eyes' as a younger girl and probably got into some predicaments that were then making her uneasy.

The poem was clunkier and rough than the restructered piece that landed today. (Metaphor alert!) I had the misfortune of seeing her in that coffee shop again and got up the nerve to talk to her. I pulled that piece right out of my notebook and got her to read it for her response. Right after she was done, I told her that I wrote it with her in mind. I think she was spinning inside her head, and I remember the distinct feeling of being cut off right then with an excuse to be somewhere. The pleasantries after that were seldom, and I regretted that moment ever since. I had hoped that someday she would see the innocence of the poem. She might have thought it was about sex, but it was simply the fear of trying to reach someone on a deeper level but couldn't get up the nerve. I saw something in her that shielded me from getting within arm's length.

College in the early 90's was a difficult time for me. I had my first surgery for glaucoma after being in school six months. The stress of taking a full slate of courses, working two radio jobs and losing my only means of transportation in a rollover accident that I walked away from took its toll. My local doctor should have been sued for malpractice, but I did not have the energy. I sought out the best doctors I could find at the Mayo clinic in Minnesota. I missed a week of school and had my Dad come with me. Talk about drama. 100 percent Italian with the passion to boot. He had us in the cheapest hotel he could find and ended up sleeping in a bed together at a boarding house one night. He stunk and snored. I know he meant well, but it was the roughest experience of my life. I was faced with total devastation of the sight in my right eye and was given a fifty-fifty chance of losing it altogether.

I had to take as much blame for the loss of vision. I drank more and more. I failed to consistently take my prescribed medicine, three different types of drop. (which should have been a big sign that I needed surgery sooner) I didn't fully comprehend how my vision was failing me until I saw the halos. I knew about the strange aura about lights and what it meant for someone with glaucoma. I had since I was 24 and it was a hereditary gene handed down from generations on my mother's side. I even wrote term papers on it in high school. I was in denial. It was a huge wake-up call. And yet, after the surgery I become further depressed, drank more and went into a spin when 1992 rolled around and that second 'treb' (trebeculectomy) was required. I could kick myself now. Again, the chances of losing vision was great. And this was my good eye. If it had become damaged beyond control, I would have been on the trail to braille.

There were complications after the surgery. My doctor did not want to alarm me. He took me into an area of the office with three white robed men who propped me in front of a laser. Zap, zap. Didn't feel a thing. Put the bandages on and I went home with a salve to put directly on my eye and a steroid drop. Came back the next day and I was dubbed a 'miracle.' Don't remember how that was qualified, but I felt God had spared me in that moment. My salvation. And still, I did not fully comprehend or appreciate it. But I managed to live on and preserve as much of my eyesight as I could, but declared legally blind six years ago. This year has been my worse. My eyes are constantly cloudy. I don't use artificial tears enough. I don't give my eyes the attention they deserve. I just don't want to think about it, but here I am.

Okay, poem number two. Blunt the transition!

Scripted was supposed to be about another girl who I met at the Public Radio station who was coming on board to be an announcer. She was fresh out of high school and I was approaching (ahem) 30. I tried my family charm on her and realized what yokel I was. She was a bit more sophisticated than I had imagine and my advances, though tame, were rebuffed. I had the misfortune of having her in my Romantic Lit class. I found it hard to interact in discussions, in part because of my inferiority complex (a much longer story) and my fear of being exposed any further in front of her.

Since we still crossed paths at the station, she happened to mention the course we were in from time to time. Some subtle reminders of my lack of participation and how it should relate to what merit I should receive from our instructor. On an aside, one day she was complaining about the grading for a test we had on a particular poet. I did not want to engage another discussion, fore I could see it coming. What grade did you get, Brian? She already told me she got a 'B.' I one upped her with a B+. Oh, the injustice. I was waiting for her to ask me for the graded document, but none was forthcoming. I would have been ready to produce after some alteration to my B-.

'Scripted' was to be titled 'If I Could Speak' with a Keats-like ode. However, that experience with Nicole washed away from the recesses of my mind over the years. The only thing I could think of was repression as I saw the jumbled words sprawl out on my yellow notepad. And the parallels were building. Our government and conspiracy to commit our riches to war so that the powerful can sate their lust, while our leaders put a spin on everything and use the tainted media to deliver an array of messages that addles the minds into apathy. Those who choose to speak are extremists because the masses have been oppressed. it is easier to laugh off hard times than to meet them head on a wrestle them to the ground, especially when we have been divided by various forms of media and conquered.

So, I go on to say in the third stanza, that if I had a voice I would speak for those who are waiting for the apacolypse and judgment day when the pain of the oppression (cited in the first two stanzas) will give way to the divine, the sweet release from the wicked world and into the kingdom of heaven for those who believe.

There are days when it feels so near. I worry for my children that there may be no future. No clean air, or drinking water. Poverty and the oppression of a government that slyly rewrites the rules on Animal Farm walls. 1984 has been here the whole time. Because it was predicted by Orwell, we were not allowed to see the existance of Big Brother. It comes in various forms. Most commonly, global employers (who can shape the minds of the workers) and the rich (who can buy what they want and deceive us into turning our paychecks back over to them). And there's internet and television, so that we can be sated in a virtual fantasy instead of living in the real world. Sorry all you gamers out there, but you need to let go of your joy sticks and various forms of controls and support another form of our infrastructure that will give back to us much longer than the devils who rule. And that is Mother Earth. If we can override what seems like an insurmountable effort to stave off the spoils of greed.

You could be burning down churches one by one. The masses are thinning. The devout are drying up. I want to turn back time and get rid of all these useful nuisances that suck the matter from our ears and spit it on the ground. I'm just as plugged in to the formula as anyone. I avert what I can, but the $50 a month modem cable is my lifeline into another world where so much information is stored. How to weed out the lies from the truth will depend on what my life experiences have taught me. And I fear I'll be fooled again.

and so on and so forth. boy is my brain drained. notice the lack of capitals?

Okay, I'll sign off here. If I squint, I can reread this and see if there are any loose ends to tie up. And sorry Aamie, if you're reading this. I still want to get back to our emails. It has been pleasurable sharing thought with you.

goodnight and goodluck! do i have to pay a royalty if i use that with every close? ah, well.




 

I’m going to update my journal by pasting a few emails I sent out today in response to reviews and to get my name out there to get others to visit my port.

Hi Aamie,

I'm glad I was able to be of some help. Winter Crossing is perfect. Short poems like
these can say so much and this definitely reaches me as a reader.

I grew up in Upper Michigan and spent quite some time on the bays of Lake Michigan and
Lake Superior. Bodies of water can be so awe inspiring and tranquil and give peace of
mind to those who write.
 
Thanks for sharing your poems and continued success.
Brian

P.S. -- strike 'moray eel.' I meant to say sea lamprey.

To Sherri
Hi again,

I poked about your website the other day, but I have a lousy Mac and everything was jumbled. Congrats on your book! Your first? Been thinking about self-publishing. Did you go that route? Debating whether I want to put together a chapbook or whatever of my works and seek out some bookstores to do consignments and whatnot. Any insights into seeking out printers and getting shops to carry your book? With Christmas coming, I'm wondering if time is against me already.

Thanks again. You continue to inspire.
Always,
Brian

Won't be surprised if pic doesn't load. Did I mention I have a Mac?

Email In ChronoReverse
Thanks Sherri,

As my son would say when we reach the end of one upping one another, I hug you "to infinity and beyond!"

Brian

On 08/28/2006 at 20:15:26:

Thank you for emailing me so that I was given the opportunity to read this sensational poem, Brian. As for the virtual hugs, here's another one, my sweet friend.........HUG...HUG...HUG!!! You deserve each and every one of them!

Best wishes always,
sherri

Hi Sherri,

I'm the proud papa of a new baby poem!

Thanks for all the virtual hugs!
Brian

Thank you Mrs. H,

You make the yummiest gift points! Are those blueberry pies cooling in your window?

the kid from up the block,
Brian

AND THEN CAME AAMIE:

How sweet!

You are truly generous and your touching response also gives me pause.
Thank you so much.

Have a wonderful day,
Brian

On 08/29/2006 at 16:12:01, aamie wrote:

Size Of The Gift:    1,000 Gift Points

Comment Attached To Gift Points With A Review For "Clutching Leaves":

When I read a poem that touches me, I feel as if my soul have been lifted for a short time from the plight of living.  Your poem had opened such a door:

You open my soul, delicate as a leaf falling from a tree,  
To float on the breath of your words, those gentle gust of joy and pain
Whose phrases ripple through my thoughts and pluck at reverie
And send me to this brittle page to say: you have not lived in vain.

Thank you and please, keep writing!

Hi Aamie,

Sometimes the memory of the thing is better than the real thing. I liked both versions of the poem. I'm going to keep it handy. Any idea who penned it?

Isolation. A teenager trapped alone in my room, misunderstand by my family and peers. I turned on the radio, strapped on my headphones and tuned out everything else. I was such a loving, truthful and connected young child. But I was spurned by friends and a father who didn't get my motivation to escape the cage I was trapped in.  I wanted to be different, break clichés and social rules over my knee, and show people there is more to life than just the black and white.

The more they drove my face into the gritty earth, the more I truly experienced the separation from the cruel world and entry into the romantic paradise of imagination. My love for poetry was eventually realized through high school writing assignments. Listening to music, I put my words into rhythm--brought life to a stale existence. Tempting elusive dreams and fantasies flowed out of me onto the page.

My mother may have greatly influenced my psyche as a young child, reciting poems by Emily Dickinson and Ezra Pound among others. She read me her favorite stories like the allegory 'Wizard of Oz,' her favorite, and the works of Robert Louis Stevenson. A sort of displaced teacher, she managed to inspire despite a difficult marriage to a second generation Italian immigrant with an eighth grade education.

Another medium I sought out was painting. I remember my proud Mom displaying my work before Dad and he promptly huffed, "What's that supposed to be? Art?" He wore me down over time and I strayed. I wrote a little here and there, skipped the college tour and labored as a furnaceman at an abrasives factory for $5 an hour.

It took an newspaper ad to shift the mental gears and put me back on the road. Sent away $25 for a pamphlet of false hope, thinking I could get a writing gig. Then, discovered a seminar how to earn college credit while working. Got my taste of journalism at an outfit that housed a weekly advertiser and a local newspaper. Began writing feature stories, editing and learned photography. The next year, I moved into the dorms and eventually became the college newspaper and literary magazine editor. I wound up doing radio news during and after college. By 1993, I had enough. I got a retail job, became manager of a music/movie/book store, and then clanked around from job to job before my last employer booted me back out onto the street three weeks ago. And here I am. Isolation.

Not really, I've got a wife and two kids. It's really a sweet life. I can slow things down now and really enjoy what I have. So, that would be the long answer to your question. Bet you wish it was the short one now.  ; )

Volley back. Where did your literary pursuit pick up and where has it taken you?

Brian

On 08/29/2006 at 21:34:23, aamie wrote:

Hey Brian

"light vision" is one of my little poems, pieces of inspiration visited on me when I was too distracted to write anything more.  You mentioned your desire go beyond “scratching the surface”; before life became so complex I did quite a bit of poetic excavation of my psyche and found it very dark and piercingly lonely in that cavern of the heart. It is only recently that a publisher had selected two of these rock-bottom poems for publication.  I was so excited I resubmitted four others, hoping that this market was deep enough to want more … time will tell.

When I finally clawed myself out of the abyss the incurable romantic emerged; I took solace in the profound loveliness of nature, and was challenged to equate those attributes to the acts of living and loving. There are reams and reams of revisions to attempts to simply paint a tempting word picture, something which might inspire someone to actually go outside and look at the sky; alas, only romantics care for these poems, but when someone takes my words to heart I no longer feel like I am in the company of strangers. I appreciate your response to my notes and hope we can continue a dialogue about the work of poetry and perhaps, the ways of the world, the cosmos and other mysteries.  

In spite of a broad education and a life-long love of poetry, I discovered quite by accident that I could write.  How did the poet emerged in you?


On 08/29/2006 at 19:52:23, bkcompton wrote:

Hi Aamie,

Sometimes the memory of the thing is better than the real thing. I liked both versions of the poem. I'm going to keep it handy. Any idea who penned it?

Thanks again,
Brian

On 08/29/2006 at 19:00:31, aamie wrote:

Hi There, After posting my note to you I went to the office and decided that I had better look up dichotomy to see if I used it correctly.  There I found that “dichotomous thoughts” would have been a better choice.  Also, I found the little poem on the pc here at the office, and to my shame, I misquoted it, so here ‘tis, correctly presented and named:

light vision

sunlight spilling
through miles of drifting dust
a descending vision of air

Thanks for hearing me out.

AB




Blessed are those who can give without remembering and take without forgetting.          
Elizabeth Bibesco

Email ciphering is not my strong point with less than five degrees of vision in each eye. But, at least the words are here...somewhere.
 

I confess, I'm not a blogger. Eventually, I will learn how to thank those who support me in my reinvigorated writing endeavor (psst, I'm not using spell check). But I have many people to thank for all sorts of input on two new poems I posted over the last few days.

"Invalid Item" 

"The Evergreen" 

The feedback for Evergreen makes me believe this is my best work since Garden Waste which is an oldie but a goodie at 18 days old.

"Hidden Flower" 

That poem caught the attention of someone because an unexpected gift to upgrade my membership landed at my doorstep. Thank you, whoever you are!

It has been a rollercoaster ride since losing my job about three weeks ago. I held on as long as I could, knowing my days were numbered. In the process my bond with God strengthened.

Just two days after writing a poem and praying God share with me my purpose in life, I was thrown out onto the street. I didn't have to brush myself off. I was lifted up and lead right back to where I left off 15 years ago. Writing.

Now this ride has had some hills and valleys, twists and turns, and the occasional nausea these past few weeks. There's the matter of finances, how to manage my spare time and troubling over whether I should seek other employment. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a loving wife and two adorable and intelligent children.

So, I'm trying to reintegrate myself to daily chores of the stay-at-home Dad, which I was pretty much anyway. My wife works full-time. I get to cook more, spend more time with my garden, read and play with Alex and Maddie all day long, and slow down life and really contemplate the important things.

Now that I have stopped to smell the roses, I write about them.

I'll conclude here, sparing any possible metaphors I will start sewing into the fabric of some elaborate tale (or just another rag off the K-mart clearance rack).

And one special shout out to (the late) Sherri Gibson. You've kept me on my feet and remind me that there's no place for doubting myself, especially now. I have the means and the opportunity. Time to do something with the 20 plus years of writing and life experiences collecting cobwebs in masked tape boxes in the rafters of my garage.

Taking a drag on my virtual cigarette, "Good night, and good luck."