Ten Years From Now

I recall being invited to dinner by the parents of the girl I was dating.  That awkward feeling of being interrogated without the usual tools of painful extraction.  Too pleasant to believe they were actually trying to disqualify me from getting into her panties (fat chance of that).  Ok, so some humor, but the starting point here was eventually the parent-favorite question surfaces.  "So Al, where do you see yourself ten years from now?"  I've never adequately prepared for that question, even for job interviews. To be forthright, I thought it so absurd I'd allow my smart ass to push its way to my voice controls and mutter something like "alive?" or "Not in prison" hoping they'd get the gist.  As for the job, well "In your job" seemed to push most back enough to stop the tomfoolery. Truth be known, I had difficulty thinking of life in general ten years from the moment I was sitting.

Here, a half century later, my wife and I were discussing things that needed tending and the item we were addressing ushered her response of, 

     "well we don't even know we'll be here ten years from now"  I agreed and the discussion moved on.  But her response had a hook, it got into my head, and I'm using it as a tool for discussion now.

Ten years from now we could be spending half the year in Spain tending her parents.  I still don't speak the language so perhaps by magic I'll learn it along the way.  But you know, as that ripple widens I can attest to some sentimental pulls.  Our pets most likely will have perished, the house we nurture now will be sold, friends dear now most likely will have pursued their own family gravities and now only correspond.  And that's not getting sullen with the ending of friends and families that might occur.  What was of most interest in this process was my acceptance of such a possibility of my 'forever place' not being what I had once considered a sure thing. At the moment I can feel almost like a grown up, like not having ice cream doesn't bring tears (well so often anyway).

It's the quality of the challenge I guess, less fear, and maybe less abandoned enthusiasm, but definitely no dread. Like it or not, change has become a more pleasant whisper than in the past.  Was a time it's gust would blow the curtains in and put goose flesh on my arms.  Warm and welcoming it taps on the window pane and I readily open up to see the treasure it had brought for me to witness.

This drill of writing my thoughts is of course divergent from editing my author's bio.  And that is a stepping stone to selecting which of my many story-kittens to put into a box and send off into the unknown.  I could elaborate and say I'm avoiding rejection, but to be serious, I'm more concerned with success and requests for more.  Only then am I obligated to consider manufacturing a canard to keep demand from my door. I have grown from ambivalence to personal change to a state of occasional interest.  If only to discover I've been mental unwell all this time and that the real annoyance was me trying to make sense of the world when it was impossible.

That's ok too.

If I were to ask, where do you see yourself in ten years would you resort to well cultivated positive notions about people and places remaining unmolested?  Would health be replete with gratitude that you can still chew your food and taste it?  I wonder just how graceful all of this will be.  I'd like to keep track of me being a good friend if for  no other reason than I could do something successfully that didn't have anything to do with money.

I'd hate to consider that my life was focused on just paying bills and allowed the real vaul to sift away with the years. This in no way means I endorse going to High School Reunions;  I'd rather eat dirt.

Because if I can do anything, it's the ability to milk absurdity.  We all have our talents, do we not?

Just Yesterday

 

Just yesterday,

routines commanded attention

laughter was effortless

in the familiar rhythm

of living without fear

A rudderless abandon

breathlessly we called

Fun

Our cares were superficially immediate

solutions flawlessly executed

It was easy to forget what time it was

No lack,

no whisper of a pressing need

All that changes

Sooner or later

life upsets tranquil comfort

A physical departure

by change

ending a pleasant chapter  

suddenly there is a ghost occupying our space

memories serve them up like o’hordevers 

the out of placeness

Awkward pantamonie of rituals

absent of past gusto

Oblivious to the practiced comfortable steps

missing diminishes the strongest light

purpose dissolves as dusk to the day

a punch in the stomach

floodgates from attachment

To the quirky spirit of a learned attribute

grief swells to eclipse an ordinary action

the other now absent

tears wash to cleanse

the gritty abrasion of loss

The ache of missing

my soul moans with the labor

leaching my vitality

If imbued with God like power

in the moment

I would not grant the world

peace

or even justice

I would reclaim my love lost

if only for a solitary moment

so as to look lovinging

into the eyes of my delight

just one more time

just one more

You're Never Really Lost...You're Right Here

 

I could offer excuses; reasons even.It's been too long. 

Perhaps not long enough.  I'm reminded of cleaning out my father's study after his passing. In those devastated days no one in the family 'took charge' or 'assigned tasks'. It was more a case of whoever felt up to the task was as close to volunteering as it'd come. There I sat at the desk and emptied each drawer with a mixture of dread and amazement.  He hoarded items that puzzles me to this day.  It just so happens yesterday was the anniversary of the twelfth year of his death.

The point being, I marveled at so much junk.  I'm convinced they were treasured; at some time by him. But as for us, the living, they were glimmerless. At the end of last year I became intimate with the changing around me and conjectured that all my work was floating out on the cloud. I also noticed at the end of December the tech giants were becoming more ambitious tyrants; so much so I sensed sooner than later I would be informed access to my work would come at a cost;  I just read Australia is having this wake-up call as I type.  When calculating my options I realized, I had little to none. The paper copies of my work were decades old.  I had been editing for a long time, so my treasure chest did not reflect what was real.  The documents now were left open for extortion.

I've updated my poetry, and essays, and am now standing at the fork of the road of my blog postings and my short stories along with books in various degrees of progress.  Because time is of the essence, I will attempt to generate a hard copy of them all.  During this process of active conclusion, I returned to this portal and was surprised to see how dormant I left it.  I am both aggrieved and grateful.  I'm glad the blog still exist. As I am also saddened to notice how I, along with my fellow humans, appear to default to ignoring aspects of our lives we cherish. I'll go into more depth on that later, because I choose to return and post.  I don't know who will read this. And frankly, that's besides the point of engaging on your own terms.  Independent of permission or approval. 

Isn't that what they used to call Liberty

 

Your Lucky Turn

Resolved to publish; this year by-gummy.  I revisit my folders consisting of decades of collected writing; they reside in no particular order.   No, that’s not entirely true; there remains evidence of half-hearted efforts to catalogue and categorize being taken up from time to time.  It is closer to a Swiss cheese visage compilation. Many threads defy clarity. 

Get organized, identify what am I going to tackle? Collect some into Chapbooks of poetry? 

Finish an anthology of short stories? 

Perhaps churn that anthology of loosely fitting tales into a Prose Chapbook?

Suddenly I forget what prose means? Are there, in fact, prose chapbooks even?

A moment searching Google dumps multitudinous pages of advice and links to publishers.

I am intimidated.

I am frightened by the demands of catering to the business of publishing.

The options are buzzing about my awareness like angry hornets disturbed from their nest.

Order

The pieces do not have a theme; some barely possess sense.

I’m reminded of an antiquated phrase about herding cats; a kind metaphor, because cats at least pause on occasion to groom; my work mimics closer to hornets; to ignore one is to be stung by shame for neglecting any of one’s other darlings.

Breathe, you’ve been here before.

I have this snippet of recall of Oscar being brought to the doggie day care center; Tail Wagger’s.  A chorus of barking rushes us as the car door opens.  Oscar stirs with impatient frenzy as I work to unstrap him from his doggie carrier.   I hook his leash and place him on the ground.  He pulls with the might of a farm oxen; getting to the counter is a two arm grabbed struggle; this from a ten pound dog.  The papers are signed, the pickup time noted, transferred care for a short trip to the pack; we linger to watch.

The pandemonium is elevated in earnest by the surge of breeds to the door. 

Ricocheting tails; poking snouts, all vying to get familiar.

I think of that moment with comparative dread; I cringe to consider a liken ultimate happy place

With noses up my rear

Butts in my face to kiss

What was it I really wanted after all?

A Santa Moment

I bought my wife the entire series of Downtown Abbey on DVD as a Christmas present not noticing they were Blu-ray. That only matters if your DVD is 20th Century technology. Blu-ray can play DVD's from past vintage years, but like most technology it's downward looking; meaning my technology cannot play Blu-ray because it doesn't recognize its existence;  A speaking Martian to a grape situation.
Once we realized that, I was tasked to return to our local Box store and either exchange them for an older version or get a refund. Unbeknownst to me, the current policy at most stores that carry media, once the product has been opened they cannot refund.  In the spirit of the Original Barbie Doll being worth thousands of dollars but only if she comes with her original box.  I was unprepared for this bit of resistance, but asked to speak with someone who possessed a yes vote.  I  learned over the years almost every 'associate' has a 'no' vote when it comes to questions about returning products. Few possess the elusive 'yes' that customers so urgently seek when returning products that don't meet their needs.
Brandon was gifted at listening and commiserating with me over my situation when realizing I was in the twenty-first century.  It reminded me of my Spanish teacher who painstakingly explained to us students that if we did not turn in homework we would get a zero and when computing scores they would have a negative effect on our grades.  So when students were upset with their grades they were invited to come to her office and see all those zeros and then she'd be willing to sit with them and 'be sad together'.
Recognizing I was not cutting ice with Brandon, and just about filled to the brim with "I understand, and I am sorry" I impulsively let go of my outrage and indignation and asked,
   "So how much are your Blu-ray players?"
Brandon's face lit with joy.
   "Oh they are quite reasonable, cheap actually. You can get one for under fifty bucks."
So as he took me to the Blu-ray display counter he continued to empathize with my plight, saying he really was unable to do anything about corporate policy. Now that we were best friends again (as retail clerks work so hard to convince the customer they are), He responded to some of my protest, such as why didn't they post a caution about Blu-ray DVD's not playing in older players?
   "Frankly we don't do that because its so rare that they get these kinds of problems anymore" What a subtle way of saying I was behind the learning curve. As I was checking out with my brand new Blu-ray player, I mentioned that it felt oddly like finding out there was no Santa.  The clerk at the register and Brandon smiled at me, but I could see they didn't comprehend my meaning.
   "When you were a kid and you found out there was no Santa and you paused, shocked with the news.  But you also knew you had to accept the truth of it in time.  Your world may have gotten bigger, and closer to actual, but it also became a little bit colder."
They nodded their understanding. But I realized, they were young, they haven't had enough experience with disillusion yet to recognize its a familiar part of life.  Not yet anyway.  I suspect they were just happy I didn't get violent and turn over the M&M display like the last old fart who didn't get his way.

On the Cusp of the Equinox

There was no plan, I just happened to connect the time in my head while I was waiting for my dog to finish his morning business in the snow.

Commemoration of the second milestone since mom left my world. It impacts the holidays to be sure, but I’ve been told by those who lost their parents in earlier seasons the absences is just as keen.

Here would be the place to mention those attributes I found endearing; but to be honest the memory is beginning to blur as I can’t hang my hat on anything that wouldn’t read silly. 

   “What’s for dinner mom? Wind pudding and air sauce”.  Was my mom a smart-aleck, or just tired of having to answer the same question over time?

Now I am a mature adult, shaped into the person I most likely will remain with small incremental changes internally, with major accelerated external differences coming.  The values taught; the skills to dream; continue to influence; even those that cause discord with my own child.  “No son, respect is not something earned, but always demonstrated”

Yikes, did I say that?

When my sisters and I talk of mom we mostly agree she was an enigma; a powerful unpredictable force. One who could charm and prohibit at a whim.

How can a child comprehend the calculus only parents learn at the altar of error? I know of a forgiving phrase I read by Marian Williamson, spokes person for A Course in Miracles; “They’d have done better if they knew how”

That’s a keeper to be sure. Not just when reviewing parental relationships but for all relationships.

But back to the mourning loss of an influence I had grow accustomed to. What was the most important, if not to reflect on tenderness? My middle sister would not agree, but  hers is a different point of view; that’s alright by me, we have our own personal experiences to be sure.  Whether mom, or dad for that matter, measured up to my expectations has little to do with how I keep reverent values I was taught before I could object or reason for myself.

I learned to strive to be kind; without a stern negative mark against my name  if I didn’t meet the mark.  Was that etched in stone? Spoken solemnly at the hearth fire?  No, my witness to her life was one giving me opportunity to filter out my judgment, then endear a soul who took on the burden of me without promise of reward.

That’s plenty enough to gain and keep my reverence: She didn’t have to. Loss of that kind of dedication is the fount of heartbreak. She met love’s demand….give like it’s nobody’s business How can that not result in gratitude?

Two years ago, to the day, on the eve of the longest night of the year, she relaxed her struggle with a physical exhaustion to remain.  She earned her rest from the quiet beauty of selfless sacrifice mom’s are. 

Real

As fun as the idea of being around Alpaca's is. Ah, just thinking about those limpid seductive brown eyes, Drinking me in. Those subtle butterflies of delight at being so near Nature's perfect beauty; then I am startled awake.
Reality strikes...They stink.
I'm not saying they have unwarranted surly dispositions, well actually they do have attitude, but in the effort to be magnanimous this ain't the high country of Peru so give them a break, they're captives.
Barring that, there's the issue where they are incredibly persnickety about their living conditions; which again that may be a product of subtle designed obstinacy due to being captive.
The fact remains their poop smells bad; that and they wantonly kneel in it. I had not realized how conditional their allure was. Let's face it; we don't smell photos. The aroma in personal space can make a world of difference.
Short summation: I am seriously reconsidering working around them before my affection for their existence sours to contempt.
Similar to the effect of visiting your friend's facebook page too often only to discover they are quite lame; far beyond what you had ever experienced in person....or better still Barney the Dinosaur. Only through excessive exposure could you develop a visceral dislike for a purple singing reptile.
So let me adore them from afar.....preferably upwind afar would be best.

Sniper

The Joke goes: In Heaven the cooks are French, the policemen are English, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian, and the bankers are Swiss. In Hell, the cooks are English, the policemen are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss, and the bankers are Italian.

Makes for a good chuckle, because many people see the irony when stereotyping these nationalities; their strengths, and where they are, um, not as outstanding.  Yes, I realize I am on the cusp of being pointed out as a racist or some other type of bigoted mean spirited fault finder, but bear with me because it sets up my tale.

During our recent visit to Barcelona a thought teased me as to those natural characteristics of the Catalan’s, like other nationalities, where they would really shine.  Since I plan to move there I wasn’t looking for what they didn’t do well, but what they really outshone others at.  Over their history, and it’s a long one to be sure, they’ve shown a resiliency that matches none other I know of. Not only are they resilient, but they are innovative as well as hardworking; but those qualities are shared by many other nationalities, and those qualities didn’t necessarily make them stand out so much as to be admired for their stubbornness to not surrender to authorities who considered them inferior. I myself am part Irish and I was coached since childhood that stubborness was a virtue for my ancestors. Just as I embraced that along with a healthy appreciation for alcohol, but that's another story. On this occasion the topic arose unexpectedly. It was during our walk to find a flower shop my wife’s cousin suggested we use for their St. Jordi celebration.  It’s similar to Valentine’s Day with a slight twist. The women get a rose, but men get a book from their beloved. It’s lot’s for fun, and of course if you miss the nudge to participate, you get looked at as if you’d a stick in the mud.

So we go looking for this great place.  Like any other time, looking for a location you are unfamilar with requires first off to get your bearings; meaning spot a street sign, then move out from that known location.

That was when it dawned on me the Catalonian expertise.

They were natural born snipers

They had to be.

Because the meager size of the street signs were impossible to see. Even walking on the opposite side of the street they were nearly impossible to make out, never mind if one were driving in traffic. Seeking an address while navigating by street signs was virtually impossible.  These signs are less than eighteen inched boxes framing scripted letters and numbers.  Oh, and it also appears they have not been replaced or repainted since the time before Franco, and he died in 1975. No kidding, look at these examples.

 

 

 One would have to have a hawk’s vision to spot these signs, yet alone fathom what they said in the mere seconds driving past in thick traffic.  I mean, only someone with near super-hero vision would be able to spot those little suckers and then make out what they said.

Oh sure, reason might suggest, people who live there already know where the streets are, but I’ve lived in towns for decades and couldn’t tell you where every small street was; sure the major boulevards but not the side streets.  ALL of the streets have the same size signs hooked on the corners, that happen, more often than not, obscuring vendor namesake signs in close proximity.  Now take those natural vision talents and apply them to real world work: Snipers.

 Every military in the world should employ Catalonian’s as there special unit snipers.  That’s it, that’s the end of the debate. I cannot fathom anyone with more accurate visional acuity than those people who live in the bustle of Barcelona and are able to find shops and addresses they’ve never been.  That’d be my wager anyway.

Why Does Life Leak?

It could be due to evolution;

Drawn to the loudness; to be alert, tend the perceived threat and danger.

There is plenty to feel threatened about.

I've little interest in pointing a finger towards fault; as if blaming would calm dread.

Even as I cloak chill with better recall

Distraction is environmental grappling’s for attention, the quieter voice get drown out.

Who has no experience?

with being made invisible by noise?

I'd be remiss to shrug it off muttering that is the way of it, moving along with self imposed task; an empty respite.

I am pained by abandoning treasures.

Even as I convince myself, in circumspect, life eventually and ultimately has us all abandon what we've gathered; when it comes our time to leave.

I resist surrendering to indifference; to lose the wonder and delight in what I've discovered and chosen to keep.

I protest hypnotism by the immediate, reminding my beloved of the satisfaction of being near

feeling desire to be close

since warmth of heart is so very rare

yet constantly ached for

That welcomed oasis of consideration,

to relax in

untethered, deep cherishing

so vivid and palatable I am prodded to utter

I miss your touch, even if it were just a passing moment

I felt thrill when I was present.

I am not unhappy, but dissatisfied I can't have always

delighting in laughter

humbled by tears

time once was

They were as close as my next drawn breath

  

Chap This

I was searching for substance, for direction.

A flash of thought suggested I might return to that sentence and change the word searching for others; seeking, hunting, or perhaps prowling? There are others to be sure, which is not the same as certain.

A habitual internal rebuking of how I handle my moment to moment thinking.

Until I submit to the idea we can’t control that, or so I’ve read; by extension convinced to believe.

I’m wandering off right now, I can feel it. Like at a party listening to a stranger answer a polite conversational query.

“What do you do?”

Holy shit, will this guy ever shut up about how he adores himself?

Revere or adore, does it matter? Where are the chicken wings?

But, I’m a vegetarian; not a vegan, that’s too confusing. The Hipster Vegan? PETA Vegan, Raw Vegan, or the Instagram- look-at-my-shit Vegan.

Omnivorous, I’ll eat what you give me; telling me it’s good for me doesn’t replace taste OK? That’s my criterion.

I’m drifting, I can feel it. Not just by awkward demand to endure the noise from this unwelcomed social stranger, but from what I wanted to construct these words into conveying in the first place.

Find out.

Oh, it’s back! It flittered back into my awareness like a hungry bird, (I decided on famished during my revisit) roosting near a bird feeder hanging near the back patio deck.

    “where’s the chow?”

I was reading postings about Chap books on the Internet. 

I had this notion I’d get my bearings for my own using other author’s honest professions on being.

I just got sad.

Sad that such tripe passes as prose.

That even I could do better, if I only had the needful desire.

I did, not so long ago.

Then I too wanted to convince total strangers I was important; if only in my confused mind doing so was equivalent to proof I mattered. If I didn’t matter to myself, then perhaps strangers would serve as reasonable facsimile; margarine substituting butter; unless you’re Vegan in which then it equates to zero.

That was ripped away from me along with trust in the Easter Bunny and Santa; a traditional ruse to make happy.

Mostly what I preferred was to be left alone, as in don’t mess with my choices.

I’m not even sure content is all that good for me for the rude awakening waiting its turn when I’m not.

I’m prone to revise the most fundamental things I took for granted; what does anger really mean?

And compared to hostile or violence would aggression be such a negative?

We make do with what we bring to the party, and nature never apologizes; we’re tourist.

So being patient with rude, or tolerating a bigot if they don’t affect your economic well being is any sign of sophistication, then I’m your guy.

Just don’t ask me to articulate the differences between Sunni and Shiite OK?

If you don’t know, I’m not going to take your hand and walk you through the nuances.

Crap everything depends.

I’d have a shelf of Ph.D’s to show off to visitors at my home if they’d award certificates for that kind of clarity.

It applies to everything distinctive as spice.  Nothing is remotely like Cinnamon, or Curry, or Garlic for that matter.

Yet we insist on describing characteristics using comparison; everything is this way near or that way from the taste of chicken.

Which by the way, where are those chicken wings? Separated from the function for which they had been designed; flight; modified for ease of consumption.

There’s a small folded card with neatly scripted message by the chafing dish; vegans please use recycled napkins.

Why not?

Lost Voice

   I lost my voice.  Not in the customarily Laryngitis sort of way where a virus invades my vocal cords and suddenly I can’t articulate sounds into words of conveyance.  Nor by singing favorite tunes in a higher than usual pitch.  Oddly enough, repetitive whispering puts as much strain on vocal chords as screaming does; but all of that is purely physical apparatus of voice. I’m talking about the voice of opinion had been silenced; and I was clueless to its cause.

   Perhaps clueless is not entirely accurate. If I could muster up some genuine honesty in my reflection, I might admit I saw resignation coming from years ahead. I just surmised that sooner or later I’d become weary with protesting the outrageous; then inevitably it’d arrive without a lot of fanfare. I recognized it was just a question of time before the fruitlessness of shaking my fist at the Gods for what appeared as unrelenting challenge to my happiness would become the norm; no one was listening. Or more to the point, the God fashioned by years of religious tutelage wasn’t one I could curry favor with nor intercede on my behalf purely because I obtained special status through sacrifice or suffering. I could puzzle out the merits of enlightened wisdom as hard fought products wrestled into possession by formal education; contrasting with a more realistic collection of subtle raw experiences showing that complaint was a poor substitute for effort.  As each door of the unknown was thrust opened I only found more darkness; it was up to me to screw up the courage to go into it without permission or assurance that it was safe. 

  I had learned early on, and then again in college philosophy, that all knowledge contained kernels of doubt; strip away the lazily accepted handout assumptions and what remained was a pool of questions that snared wandering minds as sure as the gravity of the largest black hole; where experience conflicted with craftily cultivated expectations there’d sure as shooting be dissonance.

  What mattered became a paradox; then an oxymoron, where a point of view defied vocabulary.  A place where words served the symbols of abstract concepts, those being mere propositions formed by conjecture; both true and false.  Words contained worlds of their own interpretation as they were coupled with other like-kind words, resulting in a train yard coupling defying the imagination as to designed intent or purpose; where any position could be interpreted to mean the opposite:  politicians had been playing that game for years, but then no one took them seriously at their word anyway, so it was forgiven and politely forgotten.  The trouble arrived when the rank and file of citizenry picked up the practice so then no one could discern what to believe; the worst of it all was, who could be trusted? Ultimately dissolving into a predictable reaction citing ‘it depends,’ and to be honest, trust always was a subjective exercise anyway. But we were lured for so long into the false belief that ours was a shared value system with agreed upon boundaries.  Only in the dire-straights of emergency was it noticeable that the thundering cacophony of the crowd was crying the same lament: Who’s in charge here anyway?

Soon enough, it became so damn painfully obvious. It was never a singular case of protest about personal situation, but rather realizing discomfort wasn’t anything that made me special anyway. Kind of like realizing the discount coupon had expired.

After that, what was there to say beyond apologizing for misconception?

My mistake.