Dust thou art to dust returnest, wast not spoken of the soul. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-
|This is my first ever attempt to create a weblog (blog)! Let's see what happens!|
| This will likely be a short post because I'm honestly lying in bed and typing this on my phone. I've lost way too many items to "security auto-logouts" after 15 minutes of inactivity. If typing isn't an activity, then why does my arm and hand hurt afterward?
I was thinking about one of my favourite songs by Melanie, "The People In The Front Row" and thought I'd share a thought or two. In the song, Melanie sings, "I looked around for faces I'd know and fell in love with the people in the front row."
Like Melanie, I too, fall in love with the people in the front row of my readers. I fall in love every time someone comes to hear my voice and feel my touch by reading something I've written.
Throughout much of my life, I've wished that I could write music. I've always loved the beauty of songs! Now I think I'm glad I can't write music, at least not the kind for some time of instrument or device. The music I write with rhymes and meters and clever use of language is all music for the human mind and soul. My thoughts and emotions touch other people's minds and hearts. My craft is hopefully invisible to my audience. My goal, especially with my poetry, is to touch the innermost areas of each reader's soul; not to display a page of words carved with literary devices. My readers should not see similes and metaphors, lines of rhymes, and stressed/unstressed syllables. I pray that the melodies of my poems drift to their innermost longings for beauty and for new life experiences.
I want my work to reverberate in my readers' souls the way music reverberates in their ears and bring rich new sounds into their consciousness.
The bird does not sing who does not love his fellow creatures. If I did not love the people in my front row, and those who hear from afar, never would my pen have sung a single word.
|I'm a dummy. Superman can't see through my skull.
Tonight, I finally realized that Writing.com can also be used as READING.com!! Duh. So, I discussed it with Bren, who loves to read. She never writes anything beyond shopping lists and an occasional note to let me know where she has gone. Lest anyone think "Chauvinist!", I also tell her where I'm going or leave a note. That's just common courtesy.
Bren loved the idea of having a new source of reading material! I love the idea that she might actually pop over and read some of my work. Barring that, maybe she'll heat up a popover for me in the microwave.
Sooo, we just got her signed up for a free account! She's putting in her Bio-stuff now. I plan to encourage her to write, though I honestly don't know what language she would write in. She reads constantly, and goes to our library (across the square from our apartment) almost every day they're open. That's every day except Thursdays, Sundays, and holidays. Although an avid reader, she doesn't seem able to (or perhaps just not interested) in developing her vocabulary and/or trying to write.
Bren's an intelligent woman and very clever about some things. Language just isn't her forte. We watch mystery movies and programs on telly. She finds as many clues as I do (maybe more in some things). She's good at reasoning from the clues, too. That's all within the context of the telly.
In 'real life', we challenge each other to become ever more observant. As we walk from a supermarket out to our car for example, she might comment, "I liked that checkout girl's name." (That translates to, "Did you notice the checkout girl's name tag? I did." lol) I usually reply something like, "I thought it was nice, too. Sierra is a pretty name. It's Spanish for 'silver'."
One day we were in the pharmacy department of our pharmacy. (How odd is that?!) Anyway. We were there when one of the techs came out of the locked area and walked past us. When she was out of earshot, I asked Bren where she thought the girl (or woman, whatever; at age 61, all females are 'girls' to me) was going. Bren replied, "Probably home." I was just a little surprised, because I had already come to the same conclusion. I asked Bren why she thought that, and she explained basically the same thoughts I'd had. "She was carrying her keys, purse, and a partly full soda. The time is about 4 p.m. She was probably going home or to wherever she would go upon clocking out from work." Those are, as Holmes would say, "elementary deductions", but most folk we know don't think about anything except whatever it is they are trying to accomplish. So, our little exercises in observation and deduction are not a common occupation for most people, but they serve to amuse us.
What about you, my reader? Do you notice little things and deduce from them as you go about the business of life? I consider myself fortunate to be able to see life as both art & science. It's all just second nature to me.
| My family has a tradition when one of us passes on. We don't attend funerals. Instead, we gather for a "Celebration of Life." Mortality is an open and generally comfortable topic among us. So we use the breaths of our life to plan our own celebration.
My ma loved sitting at Ft. Massac Park (w/ Kentucky Fried Chicken as oft as possible) all day whenever she could. She loved watching squirrels,feeling the breeze and listening to it in the trees. She told us many times of her wish that we celebrate her life rather than mourn her passing. She suggested that we gather at Ft. Massac w/ Kentucky Fried Chicken and reminisce about our good times together. As it was said, so was it done. We had the 'closure' that a funeral would have given but without the pain.
Our tradition probably arose from the Irish side of our heritage. Word-of-mouth tradition in our family maintains that from my generation backward, we are entirely Scots/Irish. All my 'grands' and 'great-grands' were Scottish or Irish or a mix of just two, and all married someone of the same Scots/Irish lineage.
As you might know, the Irish generally prefer wakes to funerals.
The difference between wakes and funerals is a bit like the difference between a television clown show and a presidential inauguration --- same character is at the center of both events, but the music is different.
This aftnoon, I was dwelling on memories of my sister, Amber, who passed away in August 2014 at age 37. Those memories didn't upset me at all. Quite the opposite, they kept my spirit higher than it would otherwise have been.
I wish I could share my understanding of life with others. It could bring them great peace, but I can't get others to believe what I tell them about events in this physical world. So, how could I possibly get them to believe what I would tell them about the metaphysical?
I believe the maxim from the book "Jonathon Livingston Seagull" is correct. "The gull sees farthest who flies highest."