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 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| In the spirit of continuity from one blog post to another, it’s still October. Whether that turns out to be a good thing or not is a matter of “time will tell”. Continuity is a good thing. In writing a story, for instance. You can’t have your character who lives on the beach, suddenly being lost in the woods. Well, not without sending him on a trip. Maybe if you’re a popular writer, you could get away with it. I guess that popularity was the deciding factor when they cast the five-foot seven-inch Tom Cruise to play Jack Reacher who is supposed to be six-foot five. The Dick Van Dyke Show is one of my favorite television shows of all time and they sucked at continuity. For one thing, they loved flashback episodes, but the past was never the same. They lived in different places, had different parents, friends, etc. and sometimes the past itself had a different plot line than before. They used the same actors as different characters in different episodes - sometimes in the same season! Doris Singleton was in at least three episodes that I can think of, as three different characters. The same for Jackie Joseph. Frank Adamo was in almost every episode. Bernard Fox made a couple of appearances. One actor was an insurance agent in one episode and a hypnotist in another. I guess we just agreed not to notice, or we noticed but we didn’t care as long as it was entertaining. Carl Reiner came from sketch TV where you use the actors who are talented and funny and continuity is not a thing. So, after all that, I guess I just argued myself out of continuity. It’s still October, though. |
| I opened the back door this morning. A cool breeze ran its fingers against my cheek. I was surprised to find a box we left on the porch had been blown up against the railing. Two newly-freed leaves skittered by, hustling and rustling across the porch planks. Then, it suddenly all made sense: It’s October. |
I went looking for my deceased sister’s Facebook page today. No real reason, just a passing thought. It's not there. I guess one of her children took it down. I don’t understand that. I wouldn’t take down my mother’s Facebook page, if she’d had one. I wouldn’t take down the Facebook page of a great-grandmother I never met. I like to revisit the past. But, the weird thing was what I found while looking for it. I searched using my sister’s name and our hometown. A profile came up for someone with that first name and our town as a surname. Think something like “Susan Plainville”. The profile pic looked a little like my sister - long blonde hair - but the weirdest thing was a photo on her page. The caption said “family time” and there were four people in the photo, three of whom are pretty good doppelgangers for members of my family. Oh, the ages were a bit off. For instance, my niece’s double looked about 12 and she's now in her 40s. But my daughter’s lookalike and her best friend/cousin were about the right age. It was weird to be staring at a photo of my family on a Facebook page belonging to someone who has the same name as my sister - almost. The world is full of so many weird coincidences. Some of them fuel some really fine conspiracy theories. Some are a little unsettling. I think this was the latter. Kind of like a glitch in the Matrix. |
I got up this morning determined to get my butt in gear. So far, I have managed Park, Neutral and Reverse. |
| It’s that time of the month when I am waiting for the end of the month so a new month will begin. I scan all the bills and the bank ledger to make sure everything got paid and nothing snuck through unexpectedly while the rent check exists in that uncertain and cloudy period of time between its issuance and its presentation. That’s how I track time today - solemnly aware of how short it is, while wishing entire days of it away. When I was a kid in school, time was measured by bells and serious black-framed clocks prominently displayed in every classroom. The hands slowed down after noon and barely moved at all as they approached dismissal time. Afternoons lasted forever. The time between dismissal and bedtime nearly danced away. It ran ahead of me and I never caught it. Later, time was measured on time cards or by watchful eyes. No forgiveness for time wasted. Living for weekends to have some time of my own. It doesn’t matter, you know. There’s never enough time and still we bid it hurry on, ever onwards. Time wasted, so much time wasted. |
| I wrote a little poem about an unusual place, over at Express It in Eight. I chose a beautiful beach made from trash. All true. "Re: EIGHT - 09. 23, 24, 25. 26 .25" It's about a real place in California that was originally a dumping ground but the ocean turned the broken glass into a beautiful beach that is now a huge tourist attraction. Of course, the tourists keep stealing the smooth, sparkly pieces of glass, thereby ruining the unique shoreline. And I got to thinking... Have you ever wondered how deep the ocean would be if it weren't full of sponges? |
I'm walking on sunshine, And my feet are getting blistered. |
| I was trying to unscrew the lid on the jar that I keep tea in and it was impossible to move. How could that be? I was the one who put the lid on in the first place. And I have noticed this problem before. How is it that I can tighten things so much that I can’t re-open them? So, I wondered about that, and why I obviously can apply greater torque in tightening the lid than I can in unscrewing it. So, I went looking for information. Seems the screw was first invented by a friend of Plato, Archytas of Tarentum, and put to good use by Archimedes. No one knows who decided that screws should tighten in a clockwise direction, but it seems that it obviously emerged as the standard because most people are right-handed and they can apply more strength going in a right-handed direction, or clockwise. Now, the problem is that I can’t decide if I should screw lids on less tightly just so I can open them more easily. The whole idea of a tight lid is to keep nasties out and food freshness in. Who wants a flat bottle of Coke? But one of life’s little mysteries suddenly made sense to me. It won’t help me open a jar or anything, but it might make me feel less weak and helpless. It's all my own fault if I can't open the jar. |
| Came across this partial poem hiding in an untitled document file. Date on it is September 2, 2012. No idea what it was written for, no idea what the prompt was, that is. It was probably written for Helium. It was in a folder entitled "Endings" but I didn't write down the prompts within that category. I am assuming it was about old age, an older couple no longer communicating, and the empty nest. This was my final attempt To reach into your attention span Which you keep behind your newspaper Rustling pages one over another Wrestling with headlines. grimacing at the arrows on the stock page This was my final attempt To escape the emptiness of rooms Where no homework is done to Top 40 hits Where the ghosts of childhood hang In faded posters and gold-starred reports being slowly buried in years of dust They say "write what you know" but that's not always possible. Sometimes you run out of what you know. And then there are prompts and you've got to make something up. For some reason, people assume all poetry to be autobiograhical. I guess that's because everyone goes through that teenage poetic angst phase. But I don't think poetry has to represent actual experiences. For instance, I don't believe Wordsworth really wandered lonely as a cloud. I dont know - he might have wandered, he might have been lonely - but I don't think he was floating across the sky. Poets work to make the common seem extraordinary, but it's all in our heads and overly excitable imaginations. |
| I saw an article entitled "Five Ways to Buy Happiness with Your Money". I rushed to see how much happiness I could afford. Unfortunately, I find I don't make enough money to afford "Happiness". If I budget well, I might be able to buy "Grumbling Disappointment" on credit at 29.99% APR. I am thinking of saving up for "Sighs of Resignation" and paying cash. |
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