Easter Egg Hunt

  I’ve conveyed to friends a lesson I learn by watching children being introduced to the practice of Easter Egg Hunts.  The purpose of the game is a subtle training into the art of observation.  Take one barely-out-of-diapers child, enter the ‘18 months to 24 month old only’ fenced in Easter Egg hunting area of a public park, and you’ll quickly see the distinction of it over the rest of the Easter Egg hunting extravaganza geography. 

  In the kiddy section colored eggs are lay around in pretty much in full view.  The eggs in plain sight would be readily scooped up by the older kids, which is why, of course, the area is quadrant off for just the one and two year old toddlers; they’ve as yet to fully embraced the object of the game.

  So then, mommy brings the little darling wearing cute little bunny print dress with its white petty coat, accompanied with little white gloves and patent leather shoes into the yard, oh so pretty! Just like a living doll.  And that cutie has her ornately decorated Easter basket, adorned with silk flowers, purple and yellow ribbons, with huge bows; just all primed and ready for the event.  Mom leads the child by the hand into the safe and sparse yard and let’s her go.  The child’s momentum is stalled as she stops and looks up at mommy confused; a “what?’ look of concern painted on her little dimpled face.  Mom and Dad hop right to it, pointing at the nearest egg laying in a clump of grass. 

   “Look, look, there…right there” as the child watches their animated gesturing. She puzzles on their behavior:

  Well, she hasn’t had this much undivided attention by both parents since potty training, this is really quite unexpectedly great; the blush of power must be intoxicating, so she looks at where they are pointing and waving and eventually focuses on a colorful, oblong something.  She reaches down and picks it up to examine it, then to show it to them; partly because she can’t speak, she’s really not quite sure if this is what they’re all excited about, so she shows them holding it out at arm length in her ‘this?’ gesture.

    When she does, the parents go orgasmic with how quickly their sweet little darling is picking up how to hunt Easter Eggs.  The volume and octave of the parent’s voices convey unbridled excitement along with even more hurried and erratic gesturing. 

   “Put it in the basket, put it in your basket” they unintentionally scream as they hurriedly alternate between pointing at the egg to the basket, back and forth in a frenzied manner.  The child of course is totally bewildered why her parents are so agitated? Also, she notes, not in an angry, reprimanding and scornful way, that has been  slowly becoming more frequent along with more and more silly tasks they are trying to teach her; like when she pulled the cats tail. No, this was a different energetic and needful way.  The child reasoned, she was not just the center of attention, she was the crucial element in this drama; and concludes, she is certain of it.  By chance, the child places the colorful item in the thing hanging from the crook of her arm.  The parent react like a high school cheerleading squad after a touchdown; doing high-five to one another and screaming in delight; followed by heaps of hugs, smiles, laughter and physical signs of approval… Ah yes, that diamond treasure of emotions…approval.

   She made the connection of finding and collecting the colorful egg with this avalanche of approval instantly.  She smiles with confidence and comfort of being the object of their adoration; as they are the God’s of her universe, what could possibly be better than that?  Having looked at the little colorful egg nestled in the basket, she considers the proposition of getting more of these little nuggets to prolong this wave of enthusiastic delight.  When the child gazes up from studying the little thing at the bottom of her basket and upon the horizon; she now sees a host of little colorful eggs lying about.  She didn’t see them when she came into the toddler park, but she can certainly spot them now; having been introduced to the subtle relationship of cause and effect, she now goes after those colored eggs like they were the magical key to every door of desire in her world... 

  For reasons unspoken, some children never grow beyond that effort to find something to show, something to achieve, in order to get the bath of acceptance and approval.  Yes my friends; welcome to the birth of deserving. 

Eddie's

Maybe my quality of discerning change has dulled; with age it happens with eyesight and hearing, so perhaps perception as well? 
I consider myself as a broad stroke sort of fellow, so it’d not be a huge surprise when I miss glaring details.

I went to an old haunt, Eddie's Attic.

Mondays, they have open microphone; years back I used to be a contestant.  I don't do that any longer, I found the judging too capricious for my needy-artist-soul-turned-cynical.  I guess the truth of it being, I never was Bohemian enough to look like an authentic ' folk-singer-songwriter' I didn't sport the wanting-waning-suffering-for-art’s-sake persona so many people have grown accustomed to in association with honest-real-this-is-my-calling musicians. 

  I'm too clean cut, and yes now, thirty years senior to most of the wanna-be's; some things just can’t be shaken off.  I resembled a seasoned banker or stock broker; an authority figure rather than a sensitive artist type.  Life had branded me as a go-to guy and I look the part, even after I've ejected myself from the hero-fixing business.

  So I stand out in the crowd of endless weeping souls who have lost love; been burned by love; or are just out of their mind in love and don't know what the heart is to do anything about it.  I'm venturing into conjecture here so let me fire my thrusters to slow down before I land on an uncharted moon in another sector of ether forgetting the point of all this space travel.

Oh yes, now I remember.

  Eddie Owens, the owner, sold the place; then three years later bought it back; some habits just won't die easy.  So he's the MC announcing each of the performers onto the stage. Two songs and you're done.  Three performers are selected at the end of the night to compete for a billet in the bi-annual $1,000 shoot out; while the second runner up gets booked a gig.  So, for work, its honey to bee's; sugar to ants; votes to politicians...I'm digressing again I can feel it.

  On the night I am addressing, Eddie mentioned that we, as the audience, could help support these troubadours by purchasing any CD's they had for sell.  I use to bring CD's of the Tick cartoons, I didn't sell many.  He mentioned that with the gas prices being what they were, purchasing the CD's just might be the difference of them getting to their next gig. 

  That struck me unaware and profound.

  My mind attacked that notion like a dog with a favorite stuffed bunny toy.  I knew for certain that most of these 'kids' were living hand to mouth.  And this unpredictable increase in operation cost could be devastating...never mind the current condition of sleeping in the car, or surviving on fast food; that's what young people are able to withstand, heck to some it had always been that way; never mind as a traveling artist.  But the fuel issue could be the preverbal show stopper. 

  I recall my master plan of 2005, before all this fuel nonsense became earnest.  I was focused on finding places to play, create a personal circuit to accommodate my desire to visit my family on the west coast.  The idea was to do a six month tour, then when the weather got really crappy I could stay home and write stories about my process of becoming aware of the delicate balance of dreaming.  I was stalled to realize that I would have been in that same boat of need that Eddie was speaking of.  Oh, a different oar to be sure, I had some back up plan besides moving back in with my parents when times got bad; I earned a retirement, so solvency was not a dire threat.  But just the same...how I could see my efforts fall apart by this change.  I easily recall when I finished recording my CD how my plans to go to NY and LA were thwarted by 911 as  I was activated back onto active duty with the Army...for the war. 

  Yes, I was a bit grumpy with that because it seemed to me as if I continued to run into insurmountable obstacles all long my musical dreaming way...it wasn't until I finally retired from the Army that the power was in my hands to choose.  Only then did I see I no longer NEEDED to do that to be 'fulfilled'.  Yeah, that truth took some getting used to.  Yup, there are times; when there is a tug of a wisp of a nudge that it'd be swell to be up there...again.  Much like a prize fighter or Rock group that calls it quits at the zenith of their career’s only to be caught sneaking back in years later from the back door.  So I didn’t feel the desire as deeply felt in the past, but discernible nonetheless.  I ran across an old music buddy from those times.  I made it a point to drive up state to see him play again, to do the support-the-artist thing; he was a genuine trooper.  He had changed, as we all do.  His music was still stellar, and I enjoyed the show.  But there was subtle sadness from the event.  Because that was the first time I didn't long to be there doing that.  I didn't want to 'be him' at all; He looked tired, and after the show he would spend the night at a strangers home, then drive on to his next destination in the morning.

   He was always on stage.  Watching what he said; being careful not to upset his host.  How many chicken dinners with over cooked string beans can a soul consume before there's an inner revolt to the endless parade of mundane, accommodating situations?  He may still love it, but I couldn’t discern it.  I noticed a worn thin quality in his movement off stage.  Maybe that addiction takes a different toll.  Who you are in the bliss of playing is not the transport to the next fix.  What I realized was that I no longer had that compelling thirst for the stage; the cost had become too high for my present condition.  Maybe that's why the young are out there beating the bushes for another gig?  They're hungry.  I hope I don't become so complacent that I stop expressing myself altogether.  I figure not, I'm too full of opinion to sit still for long being comfortable.  Still....reflection can be such a colorful event of observation when I let down the filters of what I think things should be. 

 Let that breeze of real blow my hair back, making tears run from the corner of my eyes… Learning how to love out loud...and not be noisy doing it.

Death by Ginger

Change is good, and juicing is change.  My wife, bless her heart, has really

thrown herself into finding fresh, exotically healthy, and invigorating juices for us to drink prior to our dedicated daily gym workouts.  Some are pleasant; some not so much.  One thing we’ve discovered through this trial and error method was the herb ginger smells a whole lot better than it taste.  It seems that now, before we fall asleep at night, she informs me of the next version coming down the pipe for the following day; she delineates each and every item that is going into the mix; I’ve begun to grow pensive waiting to hear ginger.

  The other night I dreamed I was on Gilligan’s Island and that I had assumed the part of Gilligan.  This is just a know-it with dream logic, it can’t be explained, it’s like scene changes without preamble; they just happen like gravity.  In this dream sequence, Ginger was pressed up against Gilligan (me); if you’re familiar with the old program, Ginger was a sexy Hollywood starlet stranded with six other unlikely castaways.  The key quality of Ginger was her very voluptuous body, along with speaking in whispery sensual invite, an obvious parody of Marilyn Monroe.  So dream Ginger had me cornered against a coconut tree almost pleading for me to drink her invention.  I was floundering in my effort to make excuses that Skipper and the Professor were waiting on me.  She was persistent and I was rapidly losing the battle of wills.  She put the straw in my mouth and closed the distance between our faces, making loud smooching noises, (some women think that’s cute or alluring; I find it disingenuous and sexually manipulative.) In the dream, it was working.  Out of nowhere my memory drudged up the association of Montse’s Ginger concoction, and immediately my throat felt like it was on fire.  I (Dream Gilligan) clawed at my throat gasping and gurgling while falling to my knees, All the while chortling

   “Ginger, ginger”

She stepped away in awe at my antics saying “I had no idea I had such an effect on you” smiling with self congratulations, adding,

    “I still got it.”

  The next morning when Montse gave me my ginger laced drink a vivid snapshot of Tina Louise (the actress that played Ginger Grant on Gilligan’s Island) popped into mind…followed by Mary Ann’s voice admonishing my poor choices with, “ Gilligan…I warned you about that woman”  

Pyroclastic Surge

  I was indirectly tempted to read about the catastrophic eruption of Mt.

Vesuvius that had occurred on 24 August 79 AD.

 At the time Vesuvius had been dormant for nearly 800 years, and no longer even recognized as a volcano. I had just finished reading Stephen Greenblatt’s book, The Swerve, and in it he mentioned the enormous historical finds from the excavation of Herculaneum, even if I had been taught mostly about Pompeii and its total destruction.
  Based on archaeological excavations along with two letters from Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, (better known as Pliny the Younger for obvious reasons), to the Roman historian Tacitus, the course of the eruption can be reconstructed.
  At around 1 pm on 24 August, Vesuvius began spewing volcanic ash and stone thousands of meters into the sky. When it reached the tropopause the boundary between the troposphere and the stratosphere) the top of the cloud flattened, prompting Pliny to describe it to Tacitus as a Stone Pine tree, (also known as Italian Stone Pine and Umbrella Pine). The prevailing winds at the time blew toward the southeast, causing the volcanic material to fall primarily on the city of Pompeii and the surrounding area. Since Herculaneum lay to the west of Vesuvius, it was only mildly affected by the first phase of the eruption. While roofs in Pompeii collapsed under the weight of falling debris, only a few centimeters of ash fell on Herculaneum, causing little damage, but nonetheless prompting many inhabitants to flee.

  Because initial excavations revealed only a few skeletons of men, women and children, it was long thought that nearly all of the inhabitants had managed to escape. It wasn't until 1981, when the excavations reached the arches (perhaps boat houses) on the beach area, that this view changed. Archaeologists discovered several hundred skeletons huddled close together on the beach and in 12 arches facing the sea. Further excavations in the 1990s confirmed that at least 300 people had taken refuge in those chambers, while the town was almost completely evacuated.
  During the night, the eruptive column which had risen into the stratosphere collapsed onto Vesuvius and its flanks. The first pyroclastic surge, which is formed by a mixture of ash and hot gases, billowed through the evacuated town of Herculaneum at around 1 am moving at anywhere up to 290 miles per hour. It reached the beach and the boat houses, where those waiting for rescue were killed instantly by the intense heat, despite being sheltered from the direct impact. The study of the victims' postures and the effects on their skeletons indicate that the first surge caused the instant death of these people as a result of fulminant, (intense and severe as an explosive character) shock due to temperatures of about 932 °F. The intense heat caused contraction of hands and feet and possibly fracture of bones and teeth.
  Even with a vivid imagination I couldn’t get my mind around such a scene. Huddled families waiting and hoping for relief in the late hour of night, then suddenly be engulfed so rapidly in such an inferno.
Was there even time to scream?

  I suppose the great lesson for me is that we, and let me correct it to “I” live our lives/my life, pretty much in the same self involved and careless fashion as those citizens of Herculaneum had. Absorbed in routines and rituals of daily life never even considering what may descend on what would be otherwise a quiet and peaceful existence. Obviously plans can be changed without permission and for the permanent.

Full Moon Rises

Tonight she is dressed

In her Alabaster best

Shy in repose,

Dancing from the West

Across the sky of night

Of jaded sightless hearts

Chasing hidden riches

seeking only gratification

The voice

Wishes,

Vivid Dreams

Hope’s treasures rise

High above the din

Reverberating within steel and concrete encampments.

Soaring atop cottony thunderheads

Among the star jewels languid in their poses

Like children on a summer's dusky eve

eager for the spectacle of night's display.

The musician, accompanying the ritual, silently enters

The stage set.

Each point of the compass represented

By burning citron candles

Delicate crystal holds vintage blood of grapes past harvest.

He tunes,

Testing, prancing measures

Then pauses

Gathers love

While looking to the West.

She Appears

Sister moon peaks out from among the pines

Like a bashful bride

Her silver Negligee

Anxious for the encounter.

He smiles then focuses his energy

His will

His passion

Unfurling himself, he begins

The voice softly enters

She slightly reveals herself

The melody canters,

Then unfolds the magic of

Flowers blooming

Solemn

Building,

An enchanter at his art

She is embolden

Steps forward

Light cascades upon the decking

In all her splendor

Behold world

the full moon rises.

The stars gasp in unexpected awe and adulation

The clouds bow to her passing

a royal princess endowed with grace.

Her visage filters light through wine

Watching the tinted crimson

cross the planks at his bare feet.

smoothly weaving her travel

Light beam ribbons creeping

Up across flittering fingers

Strings sing ancient tunes only she

And the artist’s soul recalls

He grimaces to keep the tempo

Her light a distraction

from his bosom up to his neck

Her lips press towards his attraction

Gliding noiselessly up his chin

 then lingers,

Glinting in his eyes

Vision of a red moon

Passion’s music

Her cord tightens his heart

binding him to her as she apex.

His thoughts explore miles away

A maiden dancing on a shoreline

His message burned in her Lunar Cape

As she passes

And carries, smiling smoothly

Hearts heat

Loves hope

His Best 

Humor as Living Absurdly

I stumbled onto this topic when I was pondering the validity of reality being a slave to perception.  As I often do, when I agree with a proposition, I spend days, sometimes years even, chipping away at that until I discover I’ve been deluding myself.

 

  Not the big D as in what I contrive as the purpose of life, or my role in it, but just a particular concept like Santa or the Easter Bunny.  An irony in this was brought to the forefront of my observation through Tig Notaro, a comedian.  She said, “I got pneumonia, then I contracted this life-threatening, deadly illness called C. diff (Clostridium difficile), and it’s this bacteria that just eats your intestines.  I was in the hospital for a week, lost 20 pounds and then it was my birthday a couple of days after the hospital..a few days after that, my mother passed away unexpectedly..a freak accident…I got off a relationship shortly after that, and then I was diagnosed with cancer..this was all in four months.”  I mean really, you have to see the irony of that as life perhaps joking around with you?  Is there a contest with life to see how long it takes for a comedian to admit, “hey, that’s not funny” 

Dylan

 I just can't do it.

I've heard of Dylan Thomas, even saw a movie where the hero's favorite quote was from a Dylan Thomas poem

"....and death had no dominion over them!"

The guy is NUTS! Um, well was; oddly, he died the same year I was born. Maybe he possessed my newborn body and he's living seconds? Out! Out, out, out!

  So this woman tells me she was so enamored with Dylan Thomas' work that she named her first born after him. That's significant kind of honor for someone that I guess had a dramatic effect on her view of the world now isn't it? Conversely I did not feel inclined to do the same with my own child; tagging him with an edifying gesture to salute my formidable hero-shaping-character.

  I liked Mighty Mouse and did not resort to using neither “Mighty” nor "Mouse" to name my son. I resorted to a more simplistic randomness..."Spud" I guess you have to have Irish roots to sense the deeper racial sentimentality of such a name.

  Back to Dylan...not Marshal Matt kind from the old TV show Gunsmoke, nor the mumbling ancient and never going away folk singing Bob...but Thomas. I've tried with the earnestness equal to that of a math student's effort to command calculus, to get where this guy was coming from; but to no avail. He meanders in image prose without purpose like William F. Buckley discourses on Economics. And if you've not had the privilege to listen to William F. Buckley speak, let me suggest something akin to the threshold of equivalence. Go have some drilling done at a local dentist without Novocain. Yeah...that kind of suffering.

  I've read the same page six times, Six! And even in my most passionate past Evangelical moments with the bible I've not perused the same text so many time without comprehending what the hell the author meant, (is what the hell oxymoronic when expressing the study of sacred text?) Suffice to say, I still end up scratching my head debating internally in my mind with the notion Am I stupid? Or is this nonsense?

  I wonder if that was his point. Mesmerize with colorful verbology while going through our pockets. Dang, what a clever way to support a drinking habit. You generate funds, and then drink until you come up with insane swill, that generates the money, so you can drink and write the....well you get the idea.

Perhaps, in limited numbers, this could be duplicated and we could call it something sexy.

How about that for an incentive to become a derelict? I mean really, we write our own scripts, it only becomes amusing if others agree with our assessments.

Sacred Plans

  I awoke this morning with whimsical prosaic verse spinning in my head. Eloquent and cohesive sentences sparkled and wove a beautiful tapestry of clarity and simplicity; we are shaped to believe in our sacred plans; the facet of imagination manifest itself in predicting a possible world in the making; if we have a detailed plan, and believe in them.  If we can convince ourselves of the reliability of those beliefs, all manner of delights can be delivered to our wanting desires. It is of little consequence if we’re never brought to task to prove our reasoning; what matters is our passionate commitment to our plan.  That notion got me to thinking about what would be the most profound quality of education currently absent in current school curriculum? Not math; nor geography; not even political economy, or cultural diversity. I would venture a singularity that affects every perspective ever held, or ever will be: patience.

  I think about my own processes and how impatience affected not just the outcome of my many plans, but how I felt over pursuing or even obtaining the results I felt I deserved.  What I most often notice in the conflicting world around me, is a pervasive intolerance; which is of course, the absence of patience.  Sure, there are external and internal contributors vying to convince us to be rigid and exacting; the sense of lack and the adoption of haste are indicators that allowance and acceptance have lost value so a grasping panic intercedes and interferes with ability to allow events to unfold as they should. 

The frantic need to control is born on the fear of loss.

  All of which comes from failure to cultivate patience.  Oddly we don’t have to rationalize other dispositions that consume the person, but patience seems often under suspicion of being flawed in concept or execution.   

   Nature teaches us every day the folly of anxious and impertinent behavior, but still we refuse to see the consequences of shortcuts towards our goals.

  Learning our numbers and how to tell time is of course useful in so many ways, but I’d suggest let us start at the bedrock if we are going to lay a good foundation.  Teach patience. Obviously it is not as succinct and contained as other useful life skills, but it is a valuable tool to hone and develop over the years when tackling the really complex concepts requiring diligence and confidence in personal ability in order to solve our really interesting obstacles to living well.

Just a thought

Two Birds with One Stone

I made a pledge to post something every day of the year my first year of blogging. And thus far I had kept my promise; I noticed yesterday in my processes that Thursday’s blog didn’t post. I sat happily in the Draft folder until I found it on Friday.  So Friday got two post, and I’m really aghast at being so distracted I didn’t keep focus on my task.  So today’s post is to first address my oversight and in principal I’m keeping my promise, even if de jour (in the moment), I’ve reneged.

From the Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary & Thesaurus the idiom means ‘to succeed in achieving two things in a single action.  That is the spirit of my own two birds with one stone effort; make notice of the mistake, and post an observation.  But really now, what is the origin of that Idiom?

One popular version is that it’s a Chinese saying from way back, another popular one is from the Greek Mythological tale of Daedalus and Icarus.  King Minos on Crete has the two prisoners in a high tower and Daedalus devises a plan to throw stones at the birds in hopes of fashioning artificial wings to enable the pair to fly home. (if you’re familiar with the tale it doesn’t end well for Icarus), who is so overwhelmed with flight that he flies too high towards the sun that the wax that held the feathers into the wing melts and he goes crashing to his death. 

 But in the tale Daedalus finds a clever throwing motion where he is able to strike one bird and the ricochet hitting a second, thus killing two birds with one stone.  The rest, as they say, is history.  There are other citations out there but they hover around hunting terms of the 1600’s and that’s clearly way after the first two.  I also found that this term spans cultures:

In Spanish its Matar dos pájaros de un tiro 
(Kill two birds with one shot)

In Swedish; Slå två flugor i en smäll 
(Hit two flies with one smack), I’m sure that would be useful during your touring the country; blend right in.

How about Turkish?  Bir taşla iki kuş vurmak.   Well I guess for all you Boy Scout types and that be prepared thingie, you’re set. 

Now…go away I’ve accomplished my daily commitment, and it’s raining here so I’m going to get some coffee.

Dog Park Etiguette

As the days slowly move towards Spring and Summer, so do the recollections of those activities we incorporated into our weekly schedule; washing of the cars; cutting of the lawns; and of course, visits to the local Dog Park for Oscar in order to refurbish his pack skills; ever laboring to extinguish his persistent disposition of  being in charge of the humans residing with him.  The more I go to these parks the more I’m prone to play a game with my wife. We call it guess who owns which dog before the owner calls his pet. 

   It’s amazing how quickly you can hone your skills into identifying subtle characteristics that lead to excellence in identifying who belongs with whom.  Tough, overbearing terrier belongs to paramilitary looking bald dude with dark sunglasses obscuring where he is glaring.  Excessively primped Yorkie belongs to excessively primped Prima Donna wearing, of all things, stiletto heels with accenting stiletto nails; who also happens to stand aloof in the shade from the other doggie parents; fine by us lady.  Speaking of which; Yorkies.

  Before I get side tracked, let me be clear on the term used for exceedingly small York Terriers. Comes to find out, there is no such thing as a Teacup Yorkie. It is a misleading marketing gimmick by some dog breeders who claim to sell tiny teacup Yorkshire terriers.  According to the American Kennel Club, there is no separate breed, but often what is a teacup Yorkie is a dog that weighs no less than 4 pounds and no more than 7 pounds.  All Yorkshire terriers belong to the toy group of dogs. If someone has a dog smaller than 4 pounds the animal will be extremely frail and bred using unethical practices.  I read that for my own edification of what a teacup Yorkie was/is/or seems, is not. So the dog I had been staring at was a Frankenstein manifestation of the worse type.  If I tossed the water in my Smartwater bottle on it, then maybe it would weigh a pound. Roscoe (an obvious compensation ploy) was by far the most poorly equipped creature for the Dog Park.  Now I must add that Dog Park Etiquette prohibits pointing and laughing at any pet in the compound.  It’s only decent to refrain from overt sustained laughter or judgment of dogs appearance; they may develop an inferiority complex, but more concerning, the owners of said object of ridicule may behave worse than any neurotic dog; possibly including yelling and screaming and throwing feces like a monkey in a zoo at the offender.  So what is a citizen to do but invoke the Stand Your Ground Law, (here in Georgia anyway) and brandish a nickel plated Magnum in order to get out without a lot of blood and violence.  I’m kidding of course, we don’t resort to gun play in Dog Parks…it’s forbidden.

  Back to Roscoe:  He pranced around being extremely friendly and amazing anyone who set eyes on him; mostly due to his diminutive size; he was like a doll size head attached to tiny appendages going like crazy underneath; it just didn’t look real.  Montse commented that she’d never have a dog like that.

   “Why not?” I inquired.

   “I’d end up sucking him up in with the vacuum hose when I clean.  Oh no, there goes coco….again” She chuckled.

  That kept me amused for the remainder of our time there.  Every time I set eyes on Roscoe I’d snort over what she had said, even if I was getting dagger eyes from stiletto woman. I just couldn’t bring myself to telling her about the vacuum comment and my vivid imagination.  Alas, caution was the better counsel for this visit so we left early.

A Mosaic Preservation

A rendition of personal history

Snapshots of who I use to be

When life happened to me

A mosaic of lost affections gather near me

Time distills my past love, ever adding present fascination

I forgot the flavor of my childhood favorite candy

Or at least the obsessive desire that shadowed my waking moments

Flowers from spring are harvested

On display, they dissolve into the household scenery,

Suddenly discovered withered, unceremoniously discarded

Along with the rest of worn out utility

My father worked hard, at tolerating his default profession

In order to put bread on the table, he often said

He gave up his dreams and possibilities

For the whispered promise of security

When I was naughty that bread was all I’d get to eat

Then wash down the humiliation with tears

He was my first hero, a stern mystery

His kindness always arrived like the circus in summer; unexpectedly.

He would take me on adventures all the while filling my head with fantasies

The live theater, his favorite music.

He was magical in that way

A master if not of his universe, certainly mine.

I’ve learned that the pillars of history are supported by special dates.

Ours is the task to remember them, in order to keep traditions alive

He died on February 18th

A sunny winter’s day

To commemorate the loss of my family’s light

Or celebrate my freedom to face the unknown horizon

Beyond the unadorned hills that preserved my known valley

Beyond the judgment by a man who kept the standards secret

International Day of Happiness

In 2012 The United Nations declared March 20 to be observed as the International Day of Happiness.  Aimed at recognizing that happiness is a fundamental human goal, it calls upon countries around the world to approach public policies in ways that improve the well being of all peoples.

   That’s my abbreviated take on the intent.  I’ll decline the notion of inclusive economic growth, equitable and balances that sustain development and alleviates poverty; too many contributors to be encompassed simply.

And frankly, happy is a personal emotional assessment.

  I do know current trends accept that happiness exists on two scales; that of hedonic (relating to characterized hedonism a doctrine that pleasure is the sole or chief good in life; along with avoiding pain and extending satisfaction) and the scale of what is considered global aspects of happiness, as in longer period of time, referred to as eudaimonic happiness; (distilled to mean well being).

  So yes, our happiness has short and long term directions and interest; the hot fudge Sunday of the moment, as well as the sense of a lifetime being loved by friends and family.  I’d say, with those extremes certainly everyone can find something to be happy about.  And if it doesn’t stick, it’s still worthy of being happy.

  Now I’d like to add a perspective as well. It strikes me that we could be seen separating qualities of life into two piles.  When I was a boy, I use to just toss all my toys into a box my dad had made for me.  When I wanted to play ‘Army’ I had to dig all of the little bits out of the box and separate them into what I was going to use and what wasn’t part of the play.  I’m beginning to appreciate moments of disappointment as just that; no longer where my hopes and dreams are denied, but rather just moved from the moment I want to play with ‘these’ while treasuring others present for another time.  That may be self deception and rationalizing that I don’t miss out on any of my wishes.  I’ll accept it might be a personal art form to avoid pain.  But on the other hand, and this is the one I’m prone to follow, the ideal of happiness has little to do with factuality; it encompasses my interpretation.  A perspective of lack will persist in all situations of abundance, because my attitude deems my situation unfulfilled.  

I’ve seen it in others, and was amazed to see such discontent in the presence of such obvious wealth; there’s was a pensive disdain for an imperfect present.  Perhaps then it will never be a case of obtaining, as in ‘getting’ happy, but in acceptance and thereby deflect judgment or punishment in misfortune or peril. Yes, even in adversity we can be of a happy spirit.  In the moment to moment construction of a quality life, it’s our task to identify how we value, and not so much why.

Have a really happy time; I’ll join you in a moment.

One Dove

  From the rampart it appeared as if a thin dark line had been etched upon the dusty sand colored plain.  Nothing of distinction grew out on that parched expanse.  Some scrub, a terrain hugging dark purple thistle clumped together, looking like smugglers conspiring together over the land plotting their next nocturnal exploit; sporadically suffused across the flat surface of the horizon; but that was about it. Only those, along with wadies from the dry seasonal riverbeds, interrupted the otherwise washboard expansive view from the heights of the keep anchored upon one of the three buttes in the valley.  It was a hot summer's day, yet the breeze invoked shivers to those standing at the ramparts.  With squinting eyes, it was clear to see the line was moving towards the sturdy walls of the fortress.  It was only a matter of time before there would be the report of hammered timbers, as a breach would be sought; such was the way of siege.

  Somewhere, someone was destine to befall upon one’s fortress. Then with brute force, or beguile, win passage to bring down all the breastwork protection fearfully constructed safe havens intend.  The land had its testament scars of the futility born by sequestering away and hiding from change.  The world would not tolerate any abomination to resist its will. 

   She stood silent while she watched the ever-creeping procession.  Still too far away to make accurate count of the strength, or the intent, of the approaching host.  Yet in her stomach, she felt the familiar queasiness before battle.  On the nearby earth before the scorched walls of her stronghold lay solemn witness of other invading efforts.  Spewed, torn, and rotting away the proud flags of previous vassals and their offers; discarded shields and broken swords of princes who had dared win entry. All perished, all were vanquished, by her determined force of will.  She was growing weary of this.  No matter the victory, there was yet another host approaching.  Sooner or later they always came. She had labored in her earnest effort to build a sturdy fortress; one where none could penetrate.  In this effort, she had measured success.  She was proud of her cleverness and ingenuity.  She had thrown herself into the building of the walls; thick and high.  She gave no quarter, and none was sought.  She was determined that she would perish in the defense of this keep, rather than take flight or yield to any conditions to surrender. 

   In past sieges there were many attractive offers. Spoken to seduce her, she considered, to have her let her guard down and let the interloper in.  But she was shrewd in ferreting out impostors.  She would exterminate them on the fields before her. She could survey and account for each and every attempt, then smile with satisfaction at her ability to always grasp victory. 

        Yet sorrow was her bane.  She had not deemed her life to be one of seclusion.  She had hopes and dreams like any woman;  those of a tender existence, a loving family, a man to be her comfort; her partner.  But she caught herself time and again falling into that softening.  She'd chide herself for being a silly romantic.  Then once more gird her armor, and become all the more resolute to be stronger…harder…more indifferent to her hearts mewing.  She sighed and placed a gauntlet hand upon the cold stone.  Even in the heat, the stone remained cold.  Like her heart, she told herself, it must remain so; and best to keep it thus.  For compassion is not for the warden of this keep.  It is her task to protect, and hold fast and control this world of rigid demand and appeasement.  Her goal set in the rubble of her hearts demise; she promised herself to never let that happen again as long as she drew breath.  She'd never again trust her heart, nor any other human's.  The cost was just too dear. 

        She shaded her brow, allowing her fair large eyes to open; to discern through the wavering heat waves what this army that approached was like?  He had sent messages of peace.  He had been sending them for some time, as she scoffed at the obvious ploy. 

  “Pretty words" she would sneer between clenched teeth of ridicule. 

  “Always, using pret-ty words." She would chortle at her thoughts of laying traps to ensnare his emissaries.  Each of their corpses now decorated the walls of her labyrinth within the very heart of her granite dungeons; deep in the lower catacombs where her treasures were safe and well hidden. 

  “He will come, and I will break him.  I will discourage him, just as I have all the others."

She uttered as she set her jaw in her determined stance.  Yet….this one….this one frightened her more than others from her past.  She had taken in many, and knew how to cut an exposed throat, or to maim. To cripple long before they were ever near enough to be a serious threat.  But this one; his words found passage to her heart.  Even in the success of her parries he would continue his ovation.  She had bled him too many times to count, yet he returned with renewed kind offers.  She would insult his purpose, his very existence, and still he persisted.  She was concerned, for in her resolve, he was supposed to have given up by now; as had the other less committed adversaries.  Better to find easier plunder elsewhere, they'd surmise, and give respite to her resistance.  Then, once more, she would win the day.  This one; was relentless.  That, and she felt…. destiny breathing down her slim regal neck.

  As the host drew closer she could begin to make out individuals.  She could see horses, and wagons.  His banner, flapping in the wind…. Is it? She pondered as the pall of dread  tightened around her throat like an invisible hand.  Accompanying the dread was a thrill, an excitement, as if, as if…her doubts, though they were strong, if perhaps just maybe they were wrong?  Her brow knitted in thought.  What if this offer for alliance were true?  Could there be just the possible inkling of hope?….

   "No" she'd spoke firmly. 

Her vanguard turned, startled to attention by her vehemence and determination as she spat the word.  They were preoccupied with the movement of the serpentine line, lulled to a passive watching without alarm.  Now, her fear galvanized them, as each set their jaw, and grasped their spears with determined hands, forearms flexing, leather squeaking in perspiration drenched gloves of her praetorians.

        Her hand wavered with a slight tremor, as she placed in on her chin, as she considered the intent of the approaching host.  She could see clearly now…it was the familiar light blue banner with the silver sliver moon.  Her shoulders dropped, yet in her ribcage, a slight flutter…it was him!  And he came, without invite.  Without welcome, and that arrogant fool; assured.  It was his very quiet determination that riled her most, as was the fear in her…along with the hope as well.

  " How come?" she'd ask aloud

  "Why does he persist here?" 

No matter, he was coming this time in force, and she'd take care of this once and for all.  Why was she so angry with his offer?

   She had done all the preparations she could, and would do battle, once more, to drive him off; just as she had done so many times before.  Weariness fell over her as she lowered her head.  Her chin touched her collarbone, she prayed softly, lips moving but for a whisper to any near to be heard. 

  " Let this be clear Lord, and help me see thy will"

Then she felt as if she would sob, so heavy was her heart, so tired of being afraid.  Longing to believe that somebody cared…to the degree she desired; to be sincere.

  "Look!" she heard cry

Then another further down the wall,

 "There!" and further still,

  "Yes!  There!" 

  She leaned out the battlement instinctively trying to get a closer look.  Along the defensive line a roar of voices built as it was discerned clearly for all to see that the host approaching was not bedecked in armor, nor battle leather.  No armaments at all!  No devices for breaching moats, or walls.  No ladders or battering rams. The entire host was clothed in….celebration attire; bearing gifts and colorful banners of every shape and design. There were women and men dressed in elegant garments, playing an assortment of musical instruments.  Children were carrying armloads of flowering bouquets tied with ribbons of every color in the rainbow.  The streamers caught and fluttered in the intermittent breeze that carried merry music.  A flock of white doves had been released, as was the custom of those parts to announce the approach of friend and family.  This vanguard was not an assault line, but revelers…not her fears host.  They were hearts and hands to hold her, to be joy with her.  They came, with him leading not to conquer but share in the gift of their companionship; sharing their love, their lives. 

   The music wafted on the breeze as the tune made any listening smile with ease.  The anticipation of battle dissolved as the shoulders of her guard relaxed.  Laughter of relief replaced the stern grimace of the war stance.  Her soldiers began to grin and slap one another good naturedly on their backs, in congratulations for avoiding peril.  She too was catching the good humor of the moment.  The Party fanned out along the outline of Keep’s moat, waiting for the drawbridge to be lowered to welcome them in.  At the head of the host he rode his steed.  Holding the banner he had carried in so many adventures launched for her, with her inspiration as his star; his hearts guide.  Sitting in his saddle patiently, he looked up towards the tower where she stood. Smoothly he lifted his hand to his brow, and rendered a jaunty salute in her direction, then reined his mount into a short circle, bent to gather a bouquet of spring flowers from a young girl near him, then coming around, placed the flowers to his face, then elaborately blow a kiss and toss the flowers into her moat as token gift of his admiration and affection. The collective eyes of the revelers and her own guards all silently riveted upon her.  For she alone held the command to open the drawbridge. She alone held the reins of the celebrations tempo….The music lowered, then came to staggering halt.  All were silent so that the only sound soon was the restless pawing of horse hooves and the intermittent snapping of the colored pendants banners in the breeze.  In the near distance, one of her guards coughed nervously…silent, but for the whistling wind.  The moment held its breath.

  Is she ready yet to let down the bridge….for the celebrations that awaits?

A lone dove circled the tower in a slow high arc. Seemingly as a heavenly glow amidst the azure, cloudless summer sky.  All of the other doves had departed to their own course, their own ways; save the flight of this one dove….