Are My Tears Wasted?

Today I am feeling sad and the reasons for this could land me in hot water depending upon the company I am with, so I need to be careful how I express this, although stating it bluntly is really the only thing to do. Here goes...

I am feeling sad because Saddam Hussein is going to be executed for doing what so many despots and dictators have done in the past, will do in the future, and are in the process of doing as I write. It is not a question in my mind of whether he deserves his fate or not and it is not even a case of questioning the decisions of the Iraqi courts or of the families of the victims having a right to the closure such a punishment will bring; the question racing through my mind is, "When will the killing stop?" With Iran rushing to harness the power of nuclear weaponry, most likely so they have the power of Jihad in their hands, and with atrocities being committed afresh every day throughout the world, when will the killing stop?

If we all, as a world and a species, decided to stop killing one another we would have to do so while acknowledging that, yes, some people who deserve to be killed will not be killed, but many more who do not deserve death as a punishment will live at least a while longer. So, it is not a question of just deserts or judgement, but a question of decision and heart - When will the killing stop?

When will we stop slaughtering one another, even wanting to slaughter one another, because we believe different things, want different things? Can we ever stop the hatred without making every human being a duplicate clone of each other? Every group seems to envision Heaven as being a place where everybody believes the same things and worships the same God, but everyones' ideas and beliefs along those lines are different and there is no one definition that suffices for everyone. Perhaps we need to embrace the differences and acknowledge that we really do not know what Heaven is like, we can only guess. It is just as likely that Heaven will be a place of total peace despite vast and varied differences in thought and belief rather than the cloned paradise so many seem to long for and want. There are as many possiblities as there are people to embrace and believe in them. But perhaps that is too frightening or challenging a thought for this humble blog to explore. Asking people if their God is too small can be hazardous to the health of the one doing the asking.

Religion and power are the primary motives for this mass desire to slaughter, tear, rend and amend everyone else's ideas and beliefs. They are powerful emotive factors in personal as well as world circles. By acknowledging this to one another and ourselves are we a step closer to ending the killing or are we merely offering an explanation, a platitude, upon the world stage that we feel justifies our own stand regarding the subject? When will the killing stop?

I do not weep for Saddam Hussein, himself, nor do I approve of the choices he made from his personal store of paranoia and weakness while he was in power in Iraq. I do not question whether his fate is deserved or not. I weep because he will be, in the end, merely one more dead human being, killed for his faults and weaknesses, his beliefs and his wrong actions, and not one of his victims will ever be brought back, not one of his crimes will ever be fully absolved. The families of those he killed will still grieve - that cannot be escaped - and his own family, many of whom may harbor no measure of genuine guilt for the actions of their father, brother, uncle, cousin, son, or even friend, will also grieve. The pain will not end because the world got to see Saddam Hussein face death, it will still be there and will still be as bad.

There is obviously some degree of satisfaction in bloody revenge and his death will pamper that small and pitiful need in those who are determined to follow it through to its grisley end. "Death to Saddam Hussein!" will be seen as a rallying cry for all of those too determined to kill to be dissuaded from their goal and it will also be the impetus and reason for more killings, more grisley crimes people perpetrate against one another, by those who oppose such a fate for him. There will be retributions and more revenge; more slaughter, more death, although Saddam is asking his followers not to seek reprisal at least against the "invaders." Perhaps the diginity he lacked as a world figure will enable him to face his death bravely, if not, hopefully, he will be allowed a few drugs to calm him and get him to the noose without more trauma. I will not be watching, but I will be crying...When will the killing stop? If not with Hussein, then where and with whom?

When will the killing stop?

Nothing Is Set In Cement

It seems to take me such a long time lately to get back to my blog from "life." I have also been going through a brief fit of "writer's block" and have been a little apprehensive about trying to write for the last several days - a result of having written an academic paper (for which I received an "A" I'll have you know) and not being in the more creative mindset I prefer when writing here in my blog. So much has happened and I am not sure where I left off last time, so I will just go ahead and "discuss" things and hope there is not too much repitition.

We found out the week before Thanksgiving that yet another aunt has breast cancer, this time inflammatory breast cancer, which I had never heard of and in which there are no little lumps to clue you in to the problem. She has been quite sick and in a lot of pain from what I am told and we are all hoping she responds well to her treatments - chemo and radiation. If she responds well her doctors believe they can give her another five years, which only seems too short if you have never been threatened in the way our family has, by a genetic factor you can do little about. Because of all of our prior experiences with various forms of cancer, breast and otherwise, we were able to send my aunt a "get well" package of useful things, hand sanitizer and aloe vera gel, as well as various cards meant to make her laugh and keep her mind on living and not dying. We learned all of this following my Dad's bout with breast cancer (yes, men get it too!) and my younger sister's battles with leukemia. Both Dad and my sister are doing well for the moment (fingers crossed, knocking on wood and prayers being sent heavenward as we speak!) as are my other two aunts who have had breast cancer and my cousin who had it and had a massive amount of surgery in order not to get it again. It is that cousin's mother who has the inflammatory breast cancer right now. At least we seem to be taking turns rather than all developing it at the same time, which is really something to be thankful for but also hard to understand until you have been through some of what our family is experiencing right now and anticipating experiencing in the future. I have an appointment soon to discuss surgical alternatives with one of the many physicians I see regularly. I am hoping to take care of things a little at a time without developing any of the potential cancers in the mean time. Joy, joy, joy. :-(!!!

I am not sure what any of my other cousins are doing, at least the ones who know they have the gene, but think I heard that at least one or two others are getting, or looking into, surgery as well. In the interim, life goes on and there is homework to do and Christmas to prepare for along with visiting my grandmother and checking on relatives once in a while. I think we will not be having a too prosperous Christmas celebration this year, but a happy one. We still have my sister, my aunt is hopefully getting a little better, my grandmother is doing well, and I (hopefully) have finished my shopping for the season except for pre-Christmas returns of items not being used for gifts afterall. And I think I mentioned homework somewhere a few lines back.

The weather is grey, grey, grey today and there is no sound from our backyard, most likely due to the falcon in the neighborhood (or maybe a hawk - I get them mixed up) who seems to consider our yard his personal smorgasbord for "bluejay suprise." I hope the raptor in our midst moves on soon as I really miss the bright eyes and loud, raucous squawkings of the local blue jay population. They are such clowns and also one of my favorite birds. All of the foliage - what's left of it - is dulled down for the winter although there is the stark, grey beauty of tree branches against winter skies to look forward to soon - if it snows. There are so many chores we need to tend to before that, and I am still hoping to get some Christmas lights up before things are too frozen to deal with and we are not able to drape the lights without thawing them first. Life in New England is interesting and I do not feel any inclination to seek warmer climes in my advancing middle age - I would miss the variety too much!

Reading and homework beckon so I must sign off. If I do not get back here before then, I hope all who read this have fewer troubles than our clan and also have a very Merry Christmas and Happy Holiday Season, what ever days they may choose to celebrate.

One of Those Days

It's amazing to me that a happy holiday spent with loved ones can still produce moments so low you wish you'd never been born. I felt like that this morning despite having said a congenial "good-bye" to relatives last night. Everyone got back home safely, so there was cause for thanks, but this morning the memories of things painful and past brought tears and the wish, again, that I had never even been a dream. How can such a seemingly "good" day do this to someone? I was not thinking of past hurts or grudges; slights or arguments, yet this morning there were tears and pain associated with yesterday's good time and pleasant visit. Perhaps, someday, this will cease to occur but, until then, it is something I will have to deal with and continue to try to analyze. I know that once I fully understand its origins and why it keeps recurring I will own it and can make it go away forever. No one should have to feel like they wish they had never been born and no one should ever deliberately do anything to make someone they are supposed to love feel that way. Perhaps it should be spelled "haulidays" instead, just to describe all of the baggage that goes with you when you have one.

A Few Free Minutes! Now, What Should I Do With Them?

It seems almost incomprehensible, but I actually have a little "extra" time (sort of like the budget "surplus" our national leaders declare periodically) and thought immediately that I would like to use it here, posting some more of my poems.
As I have mentioned before, my poems dwell in a state of constant transition and revision. Helpful comments or criticism are most welcome, but please be willing to take part in a discussion if I heed your words and comment back - discussing things is a very important part of the transition within my poems for me and, though I may seem to be arguing, I am just trying to "figure things out" and really do appreciate the input of others :-)!

The Poems:

(*note - Jack Kerouac used to live in Lowell, MA. I live almost next door and graduated from UMassLowell, so I find him an interesting character and, sometimes, inspirational - although I do have some doubts as to whether he would like what he is blamed for inspiring in my writing. I hope, however, that all of you enjoy reading it. I.)

I Wonder

I wonder if he would have liked me?
Probably not,
because I never dared
to live, I never dared
to bare my soul
(or myself, for that matter)
to anyone before I was thirty-five.
It was only then I became fully alive
and aware.
I was always a late bloomer,
but Jack
made daring to be bare fun.
Perhaps, somewhere in his poetry,
he would understand
that I grew old first,
before my time.
Maybe he would forgive me then
and like me a little,
although being born
when you're thirty-five
is an awful waste of time.
Jack did not waste time
but now
he has no more time.
I am still alive.


Channeling Kerouac
(*note - within this poem the asterisk (*) is meant to indicate a finger snap :-)! Also, this poem is loosely based upon Kerouac's work "On the Road.")

Ja-, *, Ja-, Jack
Kerouac*, -ac, -ac.
Tormented, wander-lusting soul
Hiking trails into
Inebriate burgundy depths
Of dark thoughts and days.

Father of a million
Bastard children
Playing
Beat, beat, beat
With critical syntaxioms of
Unframed, wanton words
To a writing-souled
Literary Evolution Revolution.

Hot, brooding genius
And drug-tethered brains
Jailed in addictions
But salient with
Life-pulsing
Relentless pursuits of
Swing, hip, jazz.
Beatific angel flights
Through new-sky time.


South Song
(*note - As a child I saw and heard many things that younger people today are unable to understand, these experiences having come from an era now, thankfully, long past. But I can still remember the sights, sounds, smells of a time when the Civil War still had living participants and I met many of the children and grandchildren (mostly grandchildren) of former slaves. It is to that time I still see when I close my eyes and wander back into my childhood that this next poem is dedicated.)

I heard the sad, slow sound
Of broken backs and tattered hearts.
Those spirits, caught between
The Song and The Freedom,
Still living in the fallow fields.
I felt their sighs, like a heartache,
Wafting to me through the windows,
An old Rambler chariot,
Mixing with the red dust, sullen heat,
And misty-bright, dusty light.
There was red dust on the kudzu,
The wooden shacks on stilts, and
Clinging to the car,
The grass, the sky.
Enveloping my heart,
Their tune, a slow constriction
Of tears and grief,
Exited the windows and rested,
Hovering,
Over the still fields.


My Mother's Heart

You were the tigress, always fighting
To make sure your cubs got
Their chance, their justice.
Ever watchful, you gazed into my days
Keeping me safe when I wanted to run
Headlong into the Tree of Life.
You never let me tangle in the branches or roots.
You taught me the blossoms
And the newly budding leaves,
The beautiful skies above
And the soft grasses beneath,
The songbirds and the small, irridescent insects.
You showed me the view of life
From a high, safe place,
Certain the sight could carry me through.
You knew that, one day, you might not be there to watch me soar
While you stood beneath me
"Just in case."
I hope you finally knew you succeeded;
Fledging a tigress with
Pegasus wings, a true heart and
Wildcat dreams.


To H.R.H. Prince Simon Monyo Mihailescu-Nasturel Herescu

The ringing stopped
and the voice with the heavy
accents of Romania and advancing age
said, "Hello."
"Might this be Prince Monyo?"
The response, "This is he."
"The artist, himself," I said.

We chatted briefly about
the reasons I had called
and he was very charming
and spoke with a twinkle in his eye
that was betrayed as he said,
"I have beautiful, blue eyes."

"You have beautiful, blue eyes?"
He said, "Yes. And a ponytail!"
"A child of the sixties," I laughed.
"Yes," he said.

He knew he was hungry before he
realized he was royal
and the artist is more the man.
He was humorous and kind
to this old New England bird
and will be remembered fondly
for a very long time.


(untitled)

Awakened by a dream
I cannot return to sleep,
such was the subject
of my dream,
a night time watch
I keep.
It feels odd,
this time of night,
as darkness rapidly
becomes the new day.
It's almost as if
I'm standing guard
for all humanity.
A prayer sleepily
recited, born
on wings of
desperate hope,
that the nightmare
waking me from slumber
never becomes
reality.
It was the kind of dream
calculated to make
all children scream.
It was devoid
of every hope
for this world's ability
to cope with its own
perfidy and lust.
So, I awoke to
pray and fuss
at whatever God might hear
because I hold
those dwelling on
this world as
very dear.
I have hope for better times
and better things to come.
We need to work and live
together;
this is our only home.


First Child

I was the dolly,
The one that was not quite real,
Until those nights
When, in the early morning hours that
Screamed their silent reproach
From the bedside alarm clock,
Dad would come into the room
And walk with me
So you could sleep
And I would not cry and cry.

I was the experiment,
The test tube, for you
So you could see
If all of the sad things that
Had been so wrong
With your poor sister
Would reveal themselves in me.
It must have been sort of a let down
to have a healthy child after all of the fears,
Although I know that's
What you really wanted;
A healthy child.

It was always first, first, first
With me, and I hated it.
The times I had to wait
For your fears to quiet
So I could finally do something.
Sometimes it took years,
And that is hard when
You are not too many years old,
But then you would say, "Yes,"
And I could fly to my wish.
But then, I had to watch
As the others got to fly,
Much earlier than me,
To their dreams
And I thought they should have
Had to wait, too.

I was the big disappointment,
The one you never really
Understood,
Although you tried so hard
And asked me for help but,
I didn't understand myself
And could not help you.
You were angry then
And slapped me with your words.
I was a teenager
And fell off the edge of
The family, dwelling as
A stranger in our home
For many years.

Then, the time came when I
Could not understand you.
I was angry and thought
You only meant to hurt me
But you were dying.
By the time I saw that,
There was nothing I could do
Except love you and decide that,
If I was needed,
I could get up in the night,
Come into your room,
And sit with you
So Dad could sleep
And you would not have to
Cry alone in the dark.

What Does "Calm" Mean?

After seeing, once again, how long it has been since I have posted anything on my blog, I thought I had better get something in here just so anyone reading this will know that it IS a long term, ongoing project and I WILL be back. I'm just snowed under with school work at the moment and trying frantically to remember everything else I also have to tend to as well. It will probably be another week to ten days before I get back here as I have a twenty-five page paper to get written and turned in by the end of next week! (SCREAM!!!)

It will be worth all of the effort and craziness once I am through the master's course, but in the midst of it all is a swirling craze of due dates and research pressures, outlines and writer's block - although that is not usually a problem for me.

It is also one of the grayest, drizzliest days in the world and I long for the encouragement of just a little sunshine and warmth before winter sets in and such things become mere dreams of glories past. Even the bluejays are depressed by the weather and the yard is silent. The cats are even restless, which makes me wonder just what sort of a weather front may be heading in our direction here in New England.

I think I will let my mind's eye wander to a beautiful summer day, standing on a pristine beach off of the Atlantic Ocean somewhere. I close my eyes and breathe in the salt air and listen to the waves crashing on the beach although they are not as big as they get during storms. I feel the warm sand on my feet and hear the cry of gulls in the distance as the sea wind chills the skin on my face, arms and legs. The sun is glinting off of my hair, keeping the chill breezes from becoming too effective. I think I will turn to my left and walk down the beach toward that little spot at the curve of the shore there, along the horizon. Along the way I will collect a spectacular array of seashells not normally found along the New England coast because this is my daydream and I can find tropical shells in New England waters if I want to. I will hold each of them to my ear to hear my heartbeat and the flow of my blood calling to me as if from the ocean itself, a cry for a return of a daughter to the mother sea that gave her and her species its birth.

The only draw back to my "little vacation" here is that a quick rub from a pussycat on my legs brings me rather sharply back into the gray and the rain again. Although, it is really very nice to be loved by a furry warm little being so special in her own right, and I do not mind the interruption so much under these circumstances. Fur persons' wishes for positive attention should be heeded with alacrity at all possible moments.

Well, it's back to the books and articles so I may give myself every possible chance of producing a successful paper for my class. I will assume that you all wish me luck and success in my endeavors rather than otherwise, as that would really make the day gray!

If It's Not One Thing It's Everything Else

Since my return from the Cape and my high school class 30th reunion my time has been occupied with first, a sinus infection that made me physically dizzy for many days; secondly, my Grandmother landing in the hospital - she is now in rehab for 2-3 weeks and is doing well; thirdly, a muscle spasm in my upper back that has had me occupied with trying to get the pain under control and the spot healed up so I can get out of the house (I've been indoors for the past four days)and into the sunshine that is just pouring out of the sky this afternoon, but I am still a bit woozy from the muscle relaxant and will have to forgo any driving for the afternoon which means I have to call my sister and help my nephew with his paper via the telephone and email. (SIGH!!) But then, so my life seems to progress during times of stress or when I am taking classes, which is just a more interesting sort of stress.

Taking drugs for muscle pain does have its advantages. Last night my boyfriend and I got into a minor "pun off," which we enjoy doing now and again. It started when I told him that the amount of catnip he had put onto the local scratchy box had turned the area into a den of in'nip'uity, and ended with my telling him that our (very sweet) old (former) Tom kitty, Bootsie, goes a little wild whenever he gets his paws on too much of the "green stuff" and it usually ends up in his trying to tempt our youngest kitty, Mottle, into his den of innipuity to look at his retchings (stealth barfs). We called it a draw, agreeing our thinking was a little too fuzzy when we introduced the "one good gag after another" aspect. Anyone with multiple cats will know exactly what we are talking about and the uninitiated will just have to figure it out on their own.

It did not seem like a full two weeks since I had last posted on my blog, but then, I have been busy. The paper I have due this weekend should be a very interesting one to read for and to write, I only hope it is legible and coherant enough to pass muster.

I have several more poems I am hoping to post here within the next few days so, if you have enjoyed reading any of my stuff, there is now a little something to look forward to over the weekend.

I hope all is going well for any reading these words.

Autumnal Rhapsodies

The sky was so blue and clear this morning, the trees so bright in their Autumn robes, that I had to write something about it, if only for commemorative purposes. The jungle of our backyard seems to stay the same from day to day yet, if you take the time to study things a little, the vitality of the place becomes rapidly evident. Unfortunately, some of that vitality sometimes finds its way into the house and the spider that looked like it was thinking of hitching a ride on my nightgown could not have realized the mortal peril it was in had it made such an attempt.

At least it did not try to climb into my bowl of hot cereal. I try not to squash the spiders I encounter in the house as it is my constant hope that they will somehow help alleviate the book-eating beetle and clothes-eating moth problem we cannot seem to get ahead of right now. The only time anything of an insect nature gets mashed is when it crawls upon my person and tickles me enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. At that point actions become instinctual and the squashing that results is reflexive in nature, as is the shudder and loud squeals of dread and chagrin that issue forth from my normally quiet, self-contained self. I am fine with most insect life as long as it does not come into direct contact with any part of me.

As I glance out the window, which is presently almost wholly obscured by my boyfriend's monstrous mosquito plants, I can see the bright light of the sun glancing off of the reds and yellows of the Autumn day. It is a day with a distinct sparkle in the air. It is as if all of Nature is getting ready to dance in celebration of the Harvest and the coming of the beauty of Winter; the blight and discomfort of that impending season having been forgotten over the Spring and Summer months.

It is difficult to express adequately the depth of joy I feel in my heart at experiencing such days as this. The light, the beauty, the color, the breath-taking joy that can be Autumn in New England is unmatched by any other place or climate, latitude or longitude, temperate, equatorial, or whatever the case may be. New England's Autumn is sparkle and joy; laughter in the breezes and incredible, frightening, awe-inspiring beauty in the stronger winds that roar through the thinning tree tops causing even the mighty oaks and chestnuts to bow before the might, majesty and strength that is Nature in this small corner of creation.

I wonder if the wind has any memory of having roared freely over the oceans, unhindered as it chose whichever path it desired, before it made landfall and was suddenly impeded by trees and hills, buildings and roadways. I wonder if the roaring through the tops of the trees reminds it of its flight over the crests of enormous, breaking waves and through the chill of open waters, always moving toward the inexorably approaching horizon of coastline that defines humanity's limits yet expresses its limitless possibilities, much as the wind itself is limitless and free.

Standing in the wind along the Atlantic shoreline there is the tangy taste of salt on the fingertips of the wind that blows inland, but here, far from the beaches that line the eastern edge of the country, the salt is only a memory by the time the winds reach our backyard, yet in them I can still smell, still taste the salt of the ocean where these winds that blow find their naissance. It is not quite all gone until the moment of the winds demise across some flat, grey place of pavement with no vestige of nature from which the wind may renew its life and move on. That final swirl of sand and dirt, half-hearted and weak, signals the death of the wind, unable to find its way back to Nature, back to the seas, back to its cradle of birth.

The wind is the original Phoenix, though. Despite all of our attempts to subdue it, to destroy its heart, the wind always rises again, out of its own ashes and laughing, soars the skies once more carrying leaves and color and joy to the very ends of the earth before it dives off of the beaches and back into its glory across the waters of oceans and time. Such is Autumn in New England.

To have been born of those who chose to initially inhabit these areas is, I think, to have within the heart and soul a place where the spirit of the wind dwells; where the voice of the wind is recognized and responded to always in the affirmative. It is to know always that some part of you is standing on a bluff by the open waters of the ocean watching the wind and waves dance together. It is knowing the feel of the dance, the smell of salt and seaweed carried on the winds swirling hemline, the indefinable excitement and joy of standing in the path of that wind, defying its might and strength. It is knowing that you have New England and all of its beauties deeply entrenched in your very being and that even the power and will of the wind cannot rip it from you. Autumn is a wonderful time of year.

Writing: A Love/Hate Relationship

It is difficult to admit, especially after all of the words and poems I have produced, but there are times writing isn't too much fun; like right now, for instance. It is almost 3AM, I am still recovering from my one day jaunt to the Cape so muscles are still stiff and sore, and I would like nothing better than to be in the middle of a REM cycle right now, but I am writing instead. It does not happen too often and is really quite a random occurrence, so I suppose we will all survive it, but it can be a too well disguised blessing when it does come down to this - sleep or write? Why can't it ever be eat or write? At least then losing weight might be a little simpler.

Since I mentioned my one day trip to Cape Cod I may as well tell you that it was for one of the events planned as a part of my high school class's thirtieth reunion - that's "30," by the way - and, while it was fun and I would do it again in a heartbeat, there is now a price to be paid in hours of recovery from having braved the wrath of the gods and traipsing around the Cape as if I was still a girl of only forty, or so. It has been many, many years since that I have walked down the main street of Chatham or visited my grandmother's grave. I would also have enjoyed the effort put into the walk on Main Street if the store I wanted to go to had taken the sole credit card I now carry with me but, all is still well.

It really struck me with a force I had never felt before just how different the Cape is from other parts of Massachusetts. It was as I was approaching the head of the Cape - I crested a hill and suddenly I was surrounded by sky. I could still see the pine trees but suddenly I was looking over the tops of them and there was limitless blue with little white clouds in it all around me. The far side of the hill, which I now consider the actual "beginning" of Cape Cod, was almost like sliding down a sand dune into another, more isolated world.

It was not until I was on the Cape Proper that I felt the suctioning of my thoughts and writing ideas, in fact not until I reached Eastham, but that is not unusual and I suspect is the result of all of the desperate wanna-be-a-writer types who have flocked there over the years. They are written-out and have created a sponge-like atmosphere that only delays a person in their writing rather than depriving them of their abilities to write, but the sense of loss was strong enough that I almost wanted to turn around and head home that very moment. If I had, though, I would not have more stories to tell later on about seeing friends after thirty years and talking to them for hours over good food and the relaxed camaraderie that is one of the true blessings of being almost fifty years old.

(untitled)
(- dedicated to Pam S. who has a sense of humor)

Hello again,
Is it really you?
We've changed so much
It's a different view.
But you look so good
Through my bifocaled eyes
I did not guess
It was not you
But someone else
Wearing a "you" disguise.

Ah, the blessings of the onset of potential senility! Now maybe I can get back to sleep.

Memories and Other Tricks Your Mind Plays On You

My mind has always had a propensity for abbreviating distances. I will recall one landmark and, in my mind, place it almost directly next to another landmark on the path I am taking but often they are several miles apart. I realized I had done this when I first wrote about the old cemetary on the Cape where my grandmother, aunt, great-grandfather, and several cousins are buried. My mind had placed the cemetary and my elderly cousin's former house almost next door to one another when there is quite a fair space between the two. Although the old cemetary is within the narrowest part of the Cape you cannot see the marsh that used to be an inlet from the cemetary. However, if you continue down the Cape to the aforementioned house, the inlet now salt marsh is almost directly across the street. Because the two are so closely related to one another in my thoughts my mind decided to give them an apparent physical proximity as well. This tendency has, on occasion, made for some interesting road trips and/or directions given to other people (to whom I apologize profusely!). This is only one of a vast repetoire of tricks and misdirections my mind has played repeatedly on me. You will notice, I am sure, that I have endowed my mind with a life and conscience seperate and distinct from the "real me" and that is quite deliberate. I find it preferable to having to face the fact that I am becoming a dottier old so and so with each passing decade (I just couldn't write the word "year" in there) despite my best efforts to prevent the encroachment of my becoming a "character" as I age.

Another little thing my mind does, although much milder than the first trick, is to waft a memory into my consciousness in such a way it is as if I am remembering a dream or ghost of some kind. It feels as if what I am recalling can not possibly exist in corporeal reality even though I am certain it does. It may be because the last time I drove past a particular place was at night or in odd weather or, perhaps, because I was so busy paying attention to something else, I only received a brief glimpse, a fleeting impression, of whatever it was that seems like some sort of mind ghost now, as I passed the place. This happened to me today as I arrived on the lower part of the Cape, just below Orleans. A vague memory resurfaced of a house I used to drive past whenever I went from Wellfleet toward Provincetown. I am sure if I had gone further down the mid-Cape highway today, I would have seen that very same house, perched by the side of the highway, standing where it has been for perhaps the past hundred years, or so. But my mind breathed the memory of it back to me cloaked in the veil of a distant, misty dream and that left me shaking my head in order to clear the overly vigorous growth of cobwebs that occur at such times.

Today was also the day of my high school 30th reunion party. It was wonderful seeing so many of my former classmates again. For me the reality of the party was very much as I had hoped it would be, so I have no disappointments to report. It seems that a full heart can be just full enough to make for a very good sort of evening without too much maudlin reminiscence or overt sentimentality. So much was right about tonight for me I cannot think of one critical comment to make just to give a patina of reality to the event. I hope our 40th reunion is even better.

Tell Satan I said He Could Go To Hell

To Emily

Sweet, blonde and blue-eyed,
She was the apple
Of her parents’ eyes.
She was also
The vague and sickening
Dream
Of a murderer,
A molester
Of violent mean.
When will the pain
Of that terrible day
Dissipate finally;
Go permanently away?
“Never,” is the cry of the winds
Through time.
Emily’s face,
Her beauty, her grace,
Must never die,
Her heart shall survive
In the kindness
Her family has asked
To be done in her name.
Though this was a moment
Of unsought fame,
Emily’s face and Emily’s name
Burn forever,
A flame of pain
And suffering.
The loss of a laugh,
A hug, a tear,
A daughter’s life torn
From her parents’ arms
And hearts.
A living fear engrosses
All of those who remain,
But Emily’s heart cries out
For a triumph through this pain
And suffering, she would have it unbind
Our hearts in acts
Generous and
Randomly kind.



Ten Little Girls All In a Row

Ten small girls
In a quivering line
At the head of the class
But this was not
What the madman wanted
So he shot them
One by one
Then killed himself
Blood and death
All over the place
Five little girls died
Have gone before
While five more stand
Waiting hand in hand with Death
Who will win this struggle?
Five are still alive
But will they survive; live to smile again?
The other five are with God today
Placed in the lap of
Mother Earth
They will spend Eternity
Snuggled together in the
Heart of God
Forever safe
From blood and madmen
Forever safe from fear

Another family mourns
And does not understand
What took hold of their father
He was not “that sort” of man
Forgiveness has been given
Although mothers will be looking
For children home from school for years to come
He took those girls from their loving homes
And left his own children none


There is grief in the United States these past two weeks. Though not enough to completely distract us from war and duplicitous politics and politicians. Is it any wonder there is still a death penalty anywhere on this planet? Is it any wonder people are learning to live in fear and that it is exactly what politicians and big business moguls want for us? Fear makes large crowds easier to control and allows corruption on a national level to flourish just as violently as the insanity of three vicious madmen (I include the fifteen-year-old here, too) who targeted little girls, young women, and non-violent unarmed men. They took the cowards way out of life and left devastation and heartbreak in their wake. In my book they have no names. The Amish community has set an example that should really make all of us think about what we believe and how we choose to practice those beliefs. If the New Testament scriptures are correct about "the meek shall inherit the earth" I think the Amish are by far in the lead in any race of that sort. Their example of forgiveness in the face of the unforgiveable is more of a blessing to this world than any of us may now realize. With violence and hatred proliferating at every turn and daddies going crazy and shooting little girls the Amish have given us hope through their grief and the intensely painful loss of several of their young, beautiful daughters. My heart is with all of the parents and families who were deprived of their loved ones so horribly these past two weeks. My tears are not only for all of them, but also for myself, this world, and the heart of God, which surely must be breaking.

Busy, Busy, Busy

I finally decided to take some time and return to my blog. Between trying to help my nephew with a paper, reading all of the articles for my masters course, keeping up with friends and other people, news, writing, my boyfriend and our cats, etc., I have let this slide for several days. Back to work!

There is so much to write about it feels as if my mind is backed up with all sorts of stuff. There is all of the terrible violence that has been happening in schools and the death of that poor 16-year-old girl, Emily Keyes. There has been all of the bombings and deaths in Iraq and the trial of that pathetic clown, Saddam Hussein. Also, the political maneuverings of Bush and company tend to keep me in a fairly constant state of righteous indignation. There are the more personal concerns about finances, deadlines for classwork, getting together with friends, housekeeping that desperately needs tending to, cats with medical problems and treatment schedules, more articles to read for class, and the list could go on and on but I am stopping it here. At least that has helped a little with the brain clog.

It is difficult to check the news and to be confronted with a photograph of a very sweet girl who is dead at the hands of someone who's sole aim in life was, apparently, to make himself as absolutely worthless as possible. It was not an accident that took her life, nor was it a person one might reasonably defend as "disturbed." The person who shot and killed Emily was a worthless creep, a pervert by his own choice, too lazy to give a damn about anyone except himself and his desire to screw young girls who, sensibly, would never have willingly wanted to have anything to do with him. The true tragedy is the loss of a younger person who was on her way to making a positive mark upon this world that seems so pathetically lacking right now. We all needed Emily to grow up and become a part of adult society but, instead, she is dead and we must all deal with the immediate and future consequences of that tragic loss. I cannot even imagine what her family is going through right now.

Another real tragedy is that all of the shootings stateside and bombings in the Middle East serve to distract attention from what Bush and his minions are up to politically. They rejoice when stuff like this occurs because they can move their plans to trash the United States up another notch. It gives them a screen behind which they can hide as they "reinterpret" (read that as "manipulate") the meaning of the Constitution to suit their ends rather than to allow the greatness it truly stands for to permiate their souls. They are the most reprehensible bunch of users and hypocrites to have ever come along in U.S. politics to date. I cannot begin to express the true depth of my contempt and loathing for such behavior or for such attitudes. I can only hope and pray that there will be a next election and that they will be, somehow, firmly and soundly rousted from their positions of control. It is the great tragedy of American politics that individuals such as these are able to gain that much power in the first place. I will always vote against them but what is actually needed is a revolution of thought; a major change in the way "we the people" carry out our political processes and definitely a new interpretation of the Constitution that keeps the true spirit of that document and its words alive while turning politics back into the "of the people, by the people, and for the people" process it was meant to be in the first place. It is not a battle that can be won with guns and violence any longer. It is a battle for hearts and minds that needs to be waged by every thinking, feeling person of conscience. The present crew do not have consciences, they have agendas and connections, blind trusts that are far from legally blind and the power to keep a lot of what they do under the hood and out of sight of the people they are supposed to serve but who are left out of all of their considerations and machinations except to be thought of in terms of being pests or necessary baggage, at best. Their arrogance and determination to trash every possible thing that could prevent their actions and choices of direction is only increasing and they are becoming fatter with their own sense of power each day. America is their piggybank and they are gouging out every penny and dime they possibly can before they throw the rest of us away. They are a curse to our country and a stain upon the documents and precepts they are supposed to be holding in trust for the American people. I wish there were a milder way to phrase these things, but there is not.

At least there is a little "comic" relief in reading about the trial of Saddam Hussein. He is the most pathetic soul upon this earth at the moment. I also feel strongly he is the primary reason we are in Iraq right now. I really wonder what kinds of wheelings and dealings went on between Bush and his family's compatriots in the oil business in order to oust Hussein from his degraded and perverted throne and I wonder how many others besides the Bin Ladens, the Bushes, and the Saudis were in on the deal. That must have been one very interesting meeting. Saddam is either dead or on his way to being declared irretrievably insane, I am not sure which yet, although I suppose they could let him go provided they all are convinced he has been properly castrated and subdued. We'll have to wait and see. Ah, the joys of world and local politics!

I wish my more personal list could be made nearly as interesting as the rest of what I have tried to discuss, but it is not, so I will not say anymore about it here.

May any and all who stop by this humble blog have a truly good day filled with the more normal sort of things like families and satisfaction from jobs, children, beloved pets, chores accomplished, etc.

Opportunities Missed but Knowledge Gained

Between not feeling well and trying to coordinate studies and errands I have missed five full days of blogging. However, it gave me time for gathering a little more information on someone I have been reading about and, subsequently, wanting to write about, as well.

Earlier this month a man named Naguib Mahfouz died at the age of 94. Although the magazines that I saw these articles in typically profile several prominant persons for a variety of reasons, the obituaries for this man I had not heard of before he passed away really caught my eye; he was a prolific and reknowned writer. I think it is the connection made by my love of writing and his obvious love of writing, made abundantly clear by the authors of his eulogies, that truly peaked my interest and curiosity. I do not usually wade through obituaries, but I made a definite exception in this case.

It is not that I knew who he was prior to his death or that I had read and truly loved the works he penned, but the tribute, the undisguised admiration bordering on veneration, of the people writing about this man and his life drew me in and made me want to know more about his life and his work. In short Mahfouz was a literary phenomenon, one of an ever decreasing number of exceptional people and writers this world has been blessed to have; he was a classic, a treasure, a king among a dying breed of artists.

What came through most strongly, however, was the respect Mahfouz inspired in those familiar with his works, the admiration almost equivelant to love these same writers managed to convey. It is clear that the name Mahfouz should roll off the tongue in a list with other venerated writers such as Ernest Hemingway, T. S. Elliot, Plath, Lewis, Tolkien, Naguib Mahfouz, yet that does not seem to quite fit. It seems that Mahfouz did not aspire to that sort of fame. He wrote about his land of Egypt and his love for her. He wrote of the people and places, sights and sounds, of his life. It was in his record of these people and this land that his success is measured and not in whose name his follows or precedes. He wrote for love; he wrote because he saw things no one else could describe in quite the same way; he wrote what he carried in his heart and mind; he shared himself and his world with all of us.

I know I will not ever be equal to the ideals of such a writer as Mahfouz, yet I know I will try, hoping to have earned, by the time of my own demise (hopefully at least at the age of 94), a little of the same type of love and admiration that have made me aware of this talented man's life and art. I cannot think of any better or loftier goal for this writer than to manage, somehow, a pale imitation of the contributions of another writer and an honest man; Naguib Mahfouz.

Surreality

When my brother is off of his meds conversations take on a unique and mind-boggling quality that is difficult to communicate to anyone who has not been party to the actual conversation. This, I suspect in large part, is due to having known him his entire life and remembering many of the very rational and intelligent conversations of the past. It is the saddest thing to realize that in the past his greatest asset, his genius-level intelligence, has now evolved into one of his greatest detriments during the times he attempts to live life free from the aid of various anti-psychotic medications. Despite this sobering and grief-causing fact of his life, my brother's very active imagination can still, at times, bring a smile although, now, tempered with sadness. His latest spate has produced some fantasies that, when he is discussing them, obviously amuse him to the point of delight. I do not think I will be able to fully convey all of the texture of his tale, told to me a few minutes ago, but I will try.

According to Mike, there is a group of rather rabid feminists out to get him for an article he wrote for a magazine of dubious reputation when he was about seven years old, or so. The article was on PMS, before it had been officially discovered - he has gotten there first on so many things I have lost count - and the feminists are blaming him for inventing PMS, although he claims that he was only reporting on it and is not responsible for these rabid females' monthly woes. I jokingly told him if he did invent PMS, I just might want to get him, too. He paused for a minute, while I realized I had better let him know I was just joking, before launching into an explanation of PMS that would certainly raise eyebrows in scientific circles, among other things. Think "puerile fantasy" coupled with "male wish fulfillment" and then throw in your best, and most erotic, Greek mythology and you will have some idea of what I ended up listening to before I could excuse myself from the telephone conversation. No wonder the feminists are out to get him! (Just joking)

The records, which have not been very diligently kept, of his various daydreams and delusions, read like a crazy drive through the mind of a sex-crazed demon. Either that or the world's greatest philathropic hero - it waivers depending on his mood and how long he has been medication "free."

When he said the feminists wanted to kill him over the article, I asked him if he was sure they didn't just want to castrate him. He decided, in the blink of an eye, that no, he didn't really think they did want to either kill or castrate him but merely to string him up by the.... let your mind do the rest here.

If he remains relatively stable (as in calm enough), I will see him for lunch sometime in the next few days and, while he is not eating, I am certain to hear more about his rather unique predicaments or scientific ideas - all completely original to him, of course, although I cannot imagine too many people ever vigorously contesting his intellectual ownership of these theories and discoveries nor finding his claims of being in mortal danger very newsworthy.

I must admit, though, that there is something about the thought of roving bands of rabid feminists looking for my brother so they can do *that* to him, that does rather grab the imagination in a rather horrifying way, sort of like diarrhea's hold upon the intestinal tract, threatening yet full of anticipation. What if there really are....

Never mind.

A New Product On the Market

..."Drain Opener for the Mind!" Imagine, if all it took to open a mind was a little foaming liquid of some sort..."tilt head and pour into ear; results should become visible within one to six hours." I realize there are many more palatable images for the opening of a mind, but this one seems to me to be the most apt. We have all of this stuff in our heads that seems to bog us down, that keeps us from accomplishing the many necessary things that would help all of us most. It is so much like clots of tangled hair, saliva, and other nameless goo that a drain cleaner seems to be what is called for..."sneeze to flush. If initial application does not clear the clog then reapply after waiting twenty-four hours. Applying cleaner too frequently may damage brain cells! Use extreme caution around children and pets. Do not mix with alcohol or any other mind altering substance. Best if left overnight, if possible. If any of the product should get into the eyes, blink rapidly several times to acclimate to your new and unclogged vision. Although this product is intended for use on minds, its judicious use elsewhere may prove effective for short term unclogging of attitudes, conversations, and occasional cases of the milder sort of writers' block. Not to be used to unblock minds prior to tests, particularly at the college level, or to facilitate study. Ineffective when used for unintended purposes. WILL NOT aid in increasing intelligence or mental dexterity for driving tests, civil service exams, bar exams, etc. as these tests require serious study and hard work, which this product cannot effect. If there are any problems with unexpected toxicity, or in case of accidental overdose, please contact the manufacturer at once. In case of overuse or abuse by teenagers trying to get out of doing their homework, parents should be notified immediately."

Hey, it works for me!

Reflections On What I've Learned from Oprah

A few weeks ago I posted about some of the things I had learned from Oprah, primarily in the realm of what I call "Oprah therapy." The truth is, I've learned a lot more than just that from her show, although I do not find everything else nearly as comforting and helpful. She had one show with two doctors (one with the last name of "Oz") that covered some very intimate details of the inner workings of our human anatomy that even grossed out Oprah a little. I think I understand, to an extent, what she may have been feeling. It really does not comfort me too much to know I pass gas just as much as anybody else or that my stools should be of a particular consistancy and shape, although I now find myself double checking - just to make sure I am within the "healthy" range. These are just not things about myself I ever thought I would end up studying.

Many of her shows deal with tragedies too grim to imagine which, I suppose, means I have really been very fortunate in many ways. This is an important perspective for someone like me who has had to deal with a number of difficulties and family health problems and traumas over the last several years - not to mention what the rest of my family has gone through, too.

I also admit I find very little of interest when Oprah "gabs with the girls" type of thing about "bling," or makeup, or clothes - although hers are quite lovely, or any other subject I consider frivolous. This is not quite a fair attitude when coupled with the fact of her many, many projects that directly aid people in dire need of as much assistance as possible, such as some of the survivors of Hurricane Katrina. Her heart is huge when it comes to lending help to those who seem to have been abandoned or forgotten by the rest of the world. Perhaps a little "girl talk" is to be permitted now and then in light of all the other hard work she accomplishes for the less fortunate members of the human race. She has even taken the part of helping to keep certain types of wildlife gainfully employed as evidenced by her show on coffee. Perhaps, though, they should have mentioned the animal's part in the processing of that hideously expensive brew before they got on the air and had her drinking it without a clue.

Also, to be fair, Oprah is not the only place I have learned unpleasant facts of life. Sometimes your own body is the most informative teacher, as we all have had to deal with Frankenboogers now and then, or what we are sure is an extraordinary amount of gaseous emmission and report, or any one of a number of other "fun" moments that come from living in one of these imperfect machines. There are other sources for this information, too. Belching and farting contests usually take place amongst a select group of friends and participants, but I have stumbled onto them, having had a brother and other male relatives so inclined, and the decibles possible stagger the mind. Skunks also seem a lot more companionable after witnessing one of these events.

There is a lot to be learned from children, too, as they ask their questions as part of their learning processes. The number of euphemisms for various body parts is rather impressive when issuing forth from the lips of an otherwise innocent child. They also take particular joy in sounding out many of these synonyms in very public places - to the joy and amusement of their parents (well, maybe not always). Besides, where else, except from a child, can you learn that your knees look like pigs or that it is NOT alright to poop on the doctor? It is so important to realize that this is not misbehavior, only a child's innate sense of joy at learning about life and themselves, although one might take exception to the aiming practice in the bathroom if there is a small boy in the family.

Come on, Izzlebug! You can do this!

Taking a master's level course, even on line, can be quite challenging. I finally managed to bridge the mind fog and do some thinking, a task not to be sneered at, and to get, and keep, caught up for the second week of class. I now have two very lengthy articles to read and one short critique to write before tomorrow at midnight. I will also be helping my nephew with his paper which has suddenly become a more intense situation as the due date has been moved up! I know from past experience that we will get all of this done but in the midst of it, everything feels too hectic, too pressured. We have survived worse.

The computer desk sits in a small patch of sunlight which, at least today, is not too hot. I look out the window at our forest/back yard and think of all the life and activity that must be happening out there, but see little evidence of it save for the still very green foliage of the most determined of our bushes, grasses, and young trees. It's lovely to gaze upon but hell on the septic system. Tit for tat, I guess.

Last night I saw some of our bats eating the last of this seasons bugs and mosquitoes and wondered where bats go in the winter time. I really don't know, so I will try to find out. It seems like my brain wants to explode sometimes because of all of the stuff I keep cramming into it but then I discover some seemingly trivial little something I cannot recall ever having known anything about and it makes the burden, although not insignificant, seem so small somehow. It may not be too important to world history to know where bats spend their winters, but it is important to the bats and, now, I would like to know, too.

My dream yard, if I ever realize it, will include bat houses and butterfly houses, as well as squirrel feeding stations so they will (hopefully) not munch the baby birds. I will also have fodder for hummingbirds and insect eaters, as well as all of the native species that seem to thrive on seeds, suet, and air. There will also be bathing stations for the more hygenically minded avian friends, and glass viewing balls just for the fun of it. Roses, roses, roses, all fragrant varieties, lilacs, lilacs, lilacs in every possible hue of white, pink and lavender, spring bulbs -every imaginable kind and color - and a cutting garden. Perhaps even a bee hive or two, but that will depend on how well able to care for them I am at the time.

My favorite birds are the ones most likely to winter over in this area as long as we can provide them with food and water; juncos and chickadees and cardinals, sparrows and bluejays and starlings. Spring will bring the return of the bright golden finches, orioles, and robins with their polished red breasts. These are the more usual residents of our yard during the course of a year, along with the feisty little red squirrel that has occupied the white pines out in front for several years now. He controls the grey squirrel incursions into the yard, but does not seem to have a lot to say about chipmunks, which tend to stay on the ground, in their burrows, and up our drain pipes. I strongly suspect we house most, if not all, of these creatures for the winter in our attic unless we just have extremely loud and heavy mice who do invite themselves in during the inclement weather. I think I may have even seen a very small rat at one time, but am hoping it is not a species that has decided to join our little social circle here.

There have been times when the "wildlife" indoors has competed for our attention with that in the yard. We have had incursions of book-eating beetles, clothes-munching moths, very fat, comfortable mice in places mice should not even know about, various molds and mildews, and Heaven only knows what we have yet to discover! I suppose I should consider it merely being a part of the food chain, etc. but, this year, if those mice eat anything else of mine I am calling in a rodent hit person and taking the little buggers out! (Or, at least, the hit person will.)

Such is the current cycle of life at mouse/moth/mold/bug/rodent/bird/etc. central.

As Summer passes into Autumn I still find myself longing for a vegetable garden and a kitchen and storage area sufficient for dealing with all of the wonderful and fresh produce I long to have at my fingertips. My Grandmother once let me keep a small garden at her house and it was so rewarding to have pie pumpkins, golden acorn squashes, pickling cucumbers and big, blue Hubbard squashes to keep and to share. No other vegetables ever tasted quite so satisfyingly good and I am convinced the efforts put into the growing and preparing of them boosted the nutritional value, too. She also taught me to can vegetables, make pickles and jams and jellies and so much more. My Grandmother and a vegetable garden will always remain juxtaposed in my mind for the rest of my life. She also shared her banana bread recipe with me and taught me how to knit and crochet, all of which seemed very important at the time and that still bring a great deal of satisfaction to me today.

If anything should happen to still the machines that now make our clothing and pre-prepare all of our food, I know I will at least have the knowledge to survive and to pass on to anyone else who may be interested in learning how it all was handled before the industrial age landed upon humanity. I only hope I get to learn to spin and weave before I am too old to really enjoy learning those two skills. There is something extremely satisfying in knowing how to get a thing done even when there is no need or opportunity to use such skills. Knowledge is power, so maybe I feel powerful knowing these things, I really cannot say for certain, but the satisfaction of knowing is certainly tangible to me in the present tense.

Perhaps it is just the onset of harvest weather that has directed all of these thoughts, just as it has created within me a certain mild melancholy. I will probably go looking for an apple orchard with short trees that is proximal to a pumpkin field so I can indulge in my "Autumnal Mania" for a day. That seems to be the likely "cure" for this particular ailment and it will also be delicious for the next week or so, as we consume the fruits of my very mild labors.

Familiar Friends

It is so good to be back in touch with people I used to know when I was younger. It is like having the best of two different worlds, familiarity and new possibilities all wrapped into one great bundle. It seems like too many of us become ensnared in our middle-ages by the cares and burdens we were so blissfully unaware of during our youths, and to be able to enjoy an interlude of renewed acquaintances and revisiting memories common amongst a particular group is part of what makes it so wonderful. I am looking forward to seeing people and hearing about their lives as well as sharing parts of my own, and I can't help feeling it will be a really good thing for all of us - all of the good and just enough of the trials to keep things from seeming too unreal.

Also, perhaps because I have not given it that much thought until recently, I find myself more and more impressed with my former high school classmates. We have lawyers and activists, artists and "the rest of us," and it is, for the most part, a very good thing. We are a great group of motivated and concerned individuals who are in touch with the world around us and connected to other people in very positive and wonderful ways. I just hope all of the offspring of our group ends up on the same, or an even higher, plain when they are our ages.

I feel I have changed so much from the teenager I was to the woman I am now. Then I was severely depressed and too introverted for really being able to successfully form solid and lasting relationships but, somehow despite this, certain very positive aspects of many of those relationships still remain. It is a very unique thing to realize that a friend is still a friend even though time, experience, and circumstance have altered the ground rules a bit.

In less than a month I am hoping to be at my high school reunion for at least one of the events planned for that weekend. I am hoping the sight of the older versions of my former classmates (and theirs of the older version of me) will, in the future, excite just as much nostalgia and fond memories as much of what is in our senior year book does now for those years when we were so young, so naive, yet so ready to take and make our places in the world.

I am hoping for new good memories to take home with me to help sustain me until our next class reunion in ten years. I am hoping that I will be able to keep more in touch this time as email and voice mail make that much more possible, and I am hoping that by dragging my sweetie-pie along (if possible) it will help him understand me and where I come from a little better.

I also hope that, whatever the "class prank" may turn out to be, if we instigate one at all, that it is very well planned, totally within the bounds of the law, and good humored more than so outrageous no one else enjoys it. That, however, will take a great deal of some very serious thought and pre-planning.

High School Reunion

It's really good to see you
After all our years apart.
Who new when we were younger
We'd get to be such "old farts?"
But here we are together
Though it's been thirty-something years,
A short but special time
To share hearts and lives and tears
And joys and sorrows overcome
And tragedies averted.
(I think some of the boys from class
May still be definitely perverted!)
We will look out of older, wiser eyes
But know we're only those same teenagers
In a slightly wrinkled guise.

Lives have changed and hearts have grown
Many have children almost ready
To go off on their own.
Some we've lost, but others regained,
Some are too remote,
While the rest remain.
We will laugh and, maybe, cry.
We will gloat (hopefully privately!).
We will all compare our notes
Almost as if for a test - and, gee! -
Maybe we could take a test
And discuss the results at dinner.
The highest score would not decide
Who gets to be the winner.
Perhaps what should determine
Results is mutual affection
That way we'd all come in "first"
Or with, at least, an "honorable mention!"

Netting Herring In the Run

As a preface to the following poem I think there are some things the readers need to keep in mind. For one, netting herring in the fish run makes the herring very easy to catch in vast quantity, but it is very illegal and interferes with the natural spawning cycle of an entire species. This poem is also very much in its transitional phase and has areas I am aware need explaining and work. I will get to the task as I am able to manage it but feel free to comment or ask questions if you're so inclined.

Also, this poem was written as a protest to "fixed" poetry contests that pre-pick the winners and are "judged" by the professors of those same winners. There are also many university sponsored poetry "contests" that cost a bundle of money to enter, in addition to the contests being fixed. This poem is the result of my research into such contests and the types of people who run them or endorse them. It is not intended as a general comment about any of the schools I have or will attend and is specific only to those institutions that make money off of aspiring, and naive, poets and writers by lying to them about their chances of winning while divesting them of their hard won earnings.

Netting Herring In the Run

There are too many poets,
Too many geniuses of verse,
No one stands out anymore.
It is the "same old, same old"
Of college life and English classes,
All held on the first day of the month
When there are bills to pay,
And no one wants to say anything
Very pleasant because someone might
Rip off the verses of their next poem.
Who will win the day and,
Forty years after they are dead,
Come back to haunt college students everywhere
Who are presently wondering how they will
Ever get ahead when all the professors they know
Publish their own poetry in
Dusty, care-worn journals,
Pages brittle with innuendo and subterfuge and, therefore,
Do not know where to send their students,
With pats on the back, to see their poems in print,
Because the students are not familiar
With the contest judges
And cannot send secret messages
That will make them the favorite student;
The next Lowell or Whitman?
They shy away from Sexton and Plath because
They killed themselves,
And the students sigh
And wonder, "How?"
Not understanding that you die before, when you
Incise your soul and drain all of
Its fluids away, down the stained morgue sink spotted with
Bits and pieces of human poems and hair
That clog the disposal and make someone
Have to insert a mind into dark recesses
Of grit and gore that horrify their thoughts.
Knowing the autopsy is in the latest book,
You can see the organs as they fail
And finally understand that ending
Was always going to be easier than
Staying around for the coroner's report.
Poetry, that never
Sees light of day, never
Breathes outside air, existing only in a
Rarified oxygen-miasma sublimating from academia's
Sullied crypt;
Unchaste desire and aspirations
Are interred in cold, moldy sepulchers.
Fame-lust gone awry, souring even more
With the approach of impending
Graduation doom.
College journals make apropos shrouds
For hopeful poets waiting in
Wings of static-time platform stages
Suspended in space outside of normalcy.
Walking woodenly, they
Approach gods ponderously deciding the fate
Of tethered verses and saddled instincts,
Bridling at the suggestion they
Are less than human, when all they
Have done is too human for
Morality plays to vaunt.
They sip sour milk and lemon juice cocktails with pickled onions
And spit vitriole onto the floor waiting
Until the new James Joyce pens another
"Ulysses" for tired minds to caress listlessly.
Yellow, age-worn teeth, still sharp enough
To tear out a heart or two, grind,
Masticating porridge souls into oblivion.
Wrinkled, weathered lusts, leathery and ugly,
Compromise in the dust under haunted library tables,
In plain sight of stagnant, emotionally skeletal students
Attending their schools of worldliness
Accredited by those who wallow there.
Pits of vipers too tired to hiss
Life into cleaning the place up,
Too comfortable in the
Warm cesspools allocated to them
For the manufacturing of soporific tomes
Into sleeping pills for tired minds;
A delirium of self-interest, boredom and tedious content,
Too thick to wade out of, pasty with dollars and cents,
Frying in a supernova of gazes from
Public people there to watch the
Animals in cages,
Hoping the bears will come out
Of hibernation soon so children can see,
Before the zoo locks its
Iron-clad attitudes and
Buries itself in dust, that all of its animals are extinct.

Dishonesty is an excellent preservative,
But it smells like rotting fish.

This I Believe

After much soul searching and thought, I have decided to write about something that occurred in my life many years ago. This "thing" that happened influenced or effected every facet of my life, how I have chosen to live it now, my attitudes and perspectives on God, basically everything.

I was still quite young when I moved out of my parents' home and in with my grandmother, who was helping me make the transition from perpetual teenager to adult. I lived with her for three months before moving into temporary housing provided for single women by my employer, as I found full-time work within that amount of time. It was after moving out that I began to seek the fellowship of other Christians, although it had been sometime since I had attended any church on a regular basis. I was very young, frightened of life in general, very naive and vulnerable. Initially things went well and, although I had some difficulties due to issues I had not dealt with from my past, I found a room mate and moved into the apartment she had been living in for some time prior to our meeting one another through another young woman from the church I attended. We each attended different churches, but things seemed to be on a fairly even keel. She was older than I was and worked odd hours at the local hospital as a nurse.

To say I was ill prepared to be out on my own would be an understatement. My Dad had tried to teach me some useful skills he thought I might need living on my own so I knew how to use a hammer and screwdriver, unstop a toilet, plus a few other basics that have become lost in my memory somewhere. (Changing tires and putting oil in the car would come after I actually had a car.) It was not in the manual skills area then, for which I was so ill prepared, it was in the taking care of my mental health, the knowing how to make friends, to form and pursue new interests, to develop hobbies, all of the things my parents had helped me with my entire life until that point and, for whatever reason, I was paralyzed when it came to getting out and having fun.

My room mate, God bless her, realized that for a young person in a college town I spent an awful lot of time alone at home. Yes, I read and watched TV, kept up with the news for the most part, called relatives and former friends and tried to keep in touch. I also joined a small bible study group from the church I was trying so hard to fit into that met regularly each week and I would, with my room mate's consent, even host that group every so often on the night during the week that we usually met.

I was hardly a hermit but I lived like a little old lady, afraid to take too many steps into a large and threatening world. My room mate decided to take action and, as a result of her caring and concern, we spent many very enjoyable hours going to interesting restaurants, museums, on hikes, out canoeing, and spending one lovely weekend at her parents' house on Jenny Lake in upstate New York. I hold her responsible for helping a very depressed young woman see enough value in living life that it helped keep her from attempting suicide many years later during a nervous breakdown.

Probably due to problems resulting from depression, things did not stay pleasant very long in the church I was attending. Relationships I had hoped would last tattered and dissolved into the storm of every day life, which merely added to the burden of my mental state. No matter how hard I tried, I felt I was not "getting it right" and so fell into a deeper and deeper pit so firmly entrenched in my own mind I thought it was "normal." I will always remember what it was like to be in a roomful of other people, all feeling extremely close to one another at some special moment, and feeling almost completely isolated; seperate and strange, like I did not belong there or anywhere else. In retrospect I find it odd that I should have been so severely depressed in that my parents did not kick me out of the house, I moved out because I wanted to and, with my grandmother's help, was able to do just that in a reasonable amount of time. I had not been beaten or neglected as a child, I was not physically ill, there was little, I thought during that time, to have contributed to the depth and intensity of depression I felt all the time. What was so wrong in my life that I was almost drowning in a misery I was very hard pressed to even begin communicating to anyone else with any degree of success?

Again, in retrospect, I can now understand many of the issues that directly contributed to the state I was in as well as not being an individual who was well suited to living in the "real" world when I had spent the better part of my teenage years peopling my mind with heroes and kind strangers who were always welcoming and loving. Perhaps, when thinking about the mental illness of my brother, and then my own, it was the difference in our fantasies that made such a difference in the outcome of our lives as we matured into adults.

For Mike, the world was a place of monsters and enemies and he spent much of his time dodging snow plows in the winter or wandering down almost deserted roads as it was starting to snow. If it were not for the vigilance of several police officers I am convinced Mike would have died of exposure at a very young age. Knowing all of this about my brother added fuel to the deadness in my soul and mind, of course, but also illustrates to me that, because I was continually seeking hope or even a reason for hope, and poor Mike was always on the defensive against the forces he felt were trying to kill him - primarily generated by the types of fantasies/delusions he experienced - I have been able to come to this place where, though not perfect, I survive and even thrive once in a while while Mike is still trapped by his own mind - forever a prisoner of those ferocious and frightening fantasies.

I have a boyfriend and our cats, my father and step-mother, my grandmother and two sisters, and my niece and nephew to appreciate. I have good and thoughtful friends and I am better able to be a friend now than I was all those years ago when I first moved out on my own. Most of these things, however, were not at the forefront of my thoughts at that time, and many were buried so deeply, locked where I could not access or understand them or confide them in anyone, as they made their painful contributions to my life. I do not believe that I would have had a nervous breakdown of the intensity and trauma of the one I experienced had it not been due to the combined effect of pressures and trials from all three areas that then made up my entire life; family, church, and work.

Although there were some very fickle "Christians" in the mix I had been cared for by too many genuinely concerned friends and that helped negate the effects of the "bad" acquaintances.

Loving someone, whether you are able to persist through the emotionally draining and frustrating experiences of being a friend to a mentally ill person or not, really does make a significant difference in the life of such an individual, provided they are able to overcome their difficulties and survive the many attempts their own hearts and minds continuously make upon their lives. Depression is a self-destruction that persists within someone's mind and heart often despite, and always at odds with, every effort to the contrary from friends and family. It is only when an individual is able to say to themselves, "Enough!" that the true rewards for all of the love and heartaches so willingly given as long as possible, by the many people willing to do so, that the true results of such efforts can be seen.

I wish I could let the many people who loved me and tried so hard to believe in me know, today, how very grateful I am that God brought them into my life - even the ones who do not believe in God - and that I know with every fiber of my being that I would not be here today if it were not for each of them and the love and attention they gave me, although they probably ended up so burnt out, so disillusioned, so weary, that they could not imagine the day would come when I was able to be a friend who was capable of truly giving and not just continue being a basket case who seemed unable to return any of the love given to me. Well, guess what? Your love and efforts worked, here I am, and I hope you somehow find my blog and get to read this, so you will know. (P.S. I love you - still.)

Despite the pseudo-Chrisians that were living in the midst of the true believers in the church I attended, despite the indifference and spite of many others of those same believers, despite the gossip and unrealistic, unreasonable demands made by certain people I was supposed to be able to trust utterly, despite my family's trials and despairs over our own problems and losses, despite my own personal faults and failures, I have survived and continue to do so, with a great deal of satisfaction, thank you.

I am going to include a list from that time ("naughty" and "nice") of peoples' first names in the hopes they may someday happen across this rather humble little spot and finally know how very grateful I am to them and how very much I miss them and still care for them, or to the contrary :-)

"Nice"
Monie
Bob and Sharon (despite everything)
Debbie and Eric (because you dared and cared)
Robin (my former room mate)
Debby (who saved me from the skunk)
Erika (who went canoeing with us)
Nancy and Shannon and the two boys
Lee and Greg
Carol (who collected stamps)
Teri
Bob (who talked to me about sushi) and Lynn
- all the others whose names and faces have faded over the ensuing years, but whose souls still shine brightly and continue to light my way

"Naughty"
John (who should have known better than to ask someone to do the things you expected of me - Shame on you!)
Marie and Betsy (who were never really my friends)
Marina (who was a troubled soul in her own right)
Laura (who was also troubled but drew me a beautiful Christmas card one year)
Karen (who had a very hard time, too)
- and all of the creeps who said one thing and then did another to me despite what they continued to profess afterwards - Shame!)

I really hope everybody on both of my lists is well and happy - well, maybe not that happy for the "naughty" list - and I certainly do not wish any of them any evil or pain in their lives although life, being what it is, provides those things despite best wishes and efforts.

There is still so much to tell about those years but it has to wait for the resurfacing of old memories and my ability to find some way to express it all appropriately before it can be told. Until then, the tales are silent and the pen paralyzed in a haze of forgetfulness and the desire to, finally, leave all of this permanently behind.

Some Of My Everyday Heroes

It is late and very quiet outside, which is a good thing I suppose, and I am winding down the day here at the computer. Earlier today I had lunch with Mike and our Dad (our step-mother was home sick from some flu bug) and it has been, all told, a very good day.

Lunch was relatively calm. Mike was not quite as manic as he has been over the past few days, although still very "off-the-wall" as a result of not taking his meds. So, while Mike went to have a smoke (and a chat with his rather ethereal companions) Dad and I had a chance to talk a little. It was really an interesting conversation in that, since I am now taking a military history master's level course, many of Dad's tales of life and work in the Air Force have taken on a new signifigance for me. We were discussing the difference between genuine heroes and those individuals who merely want to be heroes that usually end up costing others more than it is worth in order to build themselves up. Dad referred to it as the "Audie Murphy " complex and said that it was the difference between heroes and "damned-heroes," a phrase employed to describe the self-interested so-and-so's whose primary interest was/is in being seen as being what they, intrinsically, are not, which are the types of people who are the real heroes. Anyway, I found the conversation and the concepts, personality-types, etc. very interesting.

Schmoo (aka "Mottle") is sitting to one side of me lashing her tail around just enough to let me know she is displeased with me for not protecting her from medicine time and Bootsie. I know she will forgive me soon enough, but it is going to be rough because Bootsie is presently incarcerated in the room she considers her own private sanctuary and this is adding to her ire. She will feel better after we get to have a major snuggle and purr session later on. It is really very special and relaxing to fall asleep to the sounds of happy purring coming from a cat who just loves to be loved. When we adopted Mottle she had just finished raising a litter of kittens and, according to the head of the shelter we got her from, had not had a very happy life up until then. I wish I could show you pictures of her the first night we had her home. She was so thrilled at being with us she actually did an ecstatic little somersault as I let her on the bed and petted her. She has been a joy and a trial - in the way of all pets and children - from that day forth and we could not possibly think of life without our youngest "baby." It really bothers me that so many people want kittens and will not even consider adopting an older kitty. We have had both and the love and gratitude from the older adoptees is just as special and precious as the love from a pussy cat raised from kitten-hood in the same home. There are a lot of wonderful cats out there who would be so grateful for a good home and even a little love; they have so much love to give in return, too!

My nephew has just emailed me a paper he wrote for proof reading. He is a really great kid and I am so proud of him I could just about pop. He has had a lot of difficulties in his relatively short life and he is overcoming them one by one and I am proud that he is doing this, and doing it to the best of his ability. I just hope everyone he meets is able to come to this same realization, too. In fact, I am tempted to not correct anything in his paper, as it reflects his true nature more accurately untouched, than I could possibly convey by "cleaning" it up for him. I'll have to think about how to do this and then proceed delicately. And to think, he is asking his fat old auntie for help!

I have to email his mother now, and let her know how very proud I am of her son; my nephew. I am looking forward to helping him get this paper whipped into shape and finished in time to hand in. (Happy auntie tears are also about to happen, so I need to sign off.)

I hope everyone reading this has gotten to feel, or will feel at some point, this way about someone they love, too.

Long Days and Short Nights

Today seemed unusually long, although in retrospect, and I think that is because it was a transition day. Transition from grief and worry to taking care of errands and tending to homework. I am still concerned about my brother and his health, but I and my dad and step-mother will be seeing him tomorrow for lunch and he says he is feeling a lot better. So I will hope the symptoms were not of anything too serious and relegate my worries to the quiet, internal struggle they usually exist as once again. It will be nice to see Mike and to be able to talk to him in person, although the conversation will have to be kept rather light in consideration of his current state of mind. And, as I mentioned, there are always plenty of things to distract me from such worries if I choose to let them.

We have been experiencing some very jealous behavior toward one another on the part of our cats. Mottle chases Tiger out of the living room if I am in it and Bootsie chases her out of the room if "Daddy-cat" is anywhere around. Callie mostly stays out of it except to blindside one or the other of the three other kitties, which is her joy in life - she likes to watch them jump out of their skins when she ambushes them, mostly with lots of noise. We are extra worried about Tiger, who has not been eating very well, because of the approaching kidney failure. He still seems fairly hale and hearty, so perhaps it is just the weather or the time of year rather than any trouble elsewhere. He is a very sweet kitty and I love it when he squeeks at me and then purrs in my ear from the back of my chair. He gets such a look of pleasure whenever I scratch his chin it makes me wish I could somehow get the moment on film but as soon as I head for the camera Tiger disappears into another room and so the moment is lost. :-(

It's as though I can feel winter approaching and something inside of me is objecting and I don't know why. Perhaps it is just the residue of worry and upset from the past few days, or maybe it is the onset of an upset tummy, rather than any serious mood being brought on by weather again.

Kitty snores are issuing from Bootsie as he sleeps on the loveseat near the desk. Fortunately it is fairly quiet because it is so steady it would absolutely send me screaming in distraction if it were any louder. As it is, it is "cute." Louder it would become "a silence devoutly to be wished."

The class discussion page has been silent for sometime now and I think people have probably been out getting in the last few remnants of summer living the weather today has afforded all of us. It is such a great way to keep in touch and to let each other know what is happening in our lives, a chance to be back in touch without any major commitment of time or effort, and I hope people will keep up with it between now and our next reunion.

I better head for bed now, as I need to be up in only a few hours. I will be having a "usual" Sunday, breakfast out with a friend - a regular practice we have indulged in for years - and it should be a lot of fun as she informed me this evening that she has a lot to talk about. Then it will be off to lunch with Mike, Dad, and Mary Ellen at Mike's favorite pizza place. Hopefully, if Mike is a little more with it than the past several days, it will be a relaxed time where we can all catch up with what's been happening in our lives lately. We're really a pretty "in touch" family, but even then you can end up missing some news or other, so it will be nice to see them.

The only thing I truly regret about worrying is that it drains me to the point of having to struggle to find any poetry within myself. I guess I will wait until I am better rested before I try to compose anything new for the general amusement of myself or any others who may enjoy reading whatever I write.

I hope everyone else has a good night and a good day tomorrow as well.

So Much Happens In So Short A Time

As I emailed a former classmate from high school to thank her for keeping my brother in her prayers, I explained to her briefly what the very real dangers of the situation are and ended up feeling like I had punched myself in the stomach. My brother could actually die because he is too delusional to accept help from those of us who love him. My God, we could actually lose Mike. As an older sister I have always had this quirky sense that all of the really "bad" stuff was supposed to happen to me first; that I was not supposed to have to watch my younger brother and sisters go through all of these horrible things. Reality has trumped that and I really feel that it is still supposed to have been my way instead, but cannot seem to rearrange fate to fall in line with my opinions.

For anyone reading my blog today, please keep my poor brother in your thoughts and prayers (and my sister, too). I am hoping he will be around for a few more good family moments yet to come.

Finding Michael

My brother is off the wall today. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic many, many years ago when we were all still quite young. The years have wrought many changes in Mike but no cure yet for the demons that plague his mind. It is difficult to express the time warp I always feel as though I exist in whenever it comes to my brother. It's as if, while the rest of the world grew older, Mike just sort of stayed the same, somehow stuck back at the moment the mental illness took over his mind. It is not that Mike appears not to have aged, and he has matured in certain ways and is very much a troubled middle-aged man and no longer a boy; it is just his imagination that has persistently refused to mature and is what reminds me strongly of my brother while we were in our teens. It is hard to convince people who did not know Mike before what a really great and intelligent guy he is because little of that still shows through the rotting teeth, the tobacco stained fingers and nails, the clothes used liberally as napkin or handkerchief, the sinking eyes, the fetid breath, the stubbled chin and skin infections, the discussions with unseen people who Mike is conversant with, and so on. Sometimes, when I take him out to lunch and he has one of these conversations, he will laugh as if at some terribly witty and erudite joke. I have taken to interrupting "them" and asking Mike what the joke is because I could really use a good laugh right then.

When he is not too out of it, Mike will repeat the joke, prefaced with the phrase, "I was just thinking about..." which says to me that he is at least aware on some level that these conversations are taking place only in his head and not in "real time." When he is very out of it he may choose to ignore my inquiry or become volatile and hostile and tell me to mind my own business. At these times it can be very difficult to placate Mike and get him back into some semblence of reality, but all of this does not concern me as much as the times he describes what could be the physical precursors or symptoms of a serious medical problem, like a heart attack or stroke. That is where we are today. Mike just told me about some pain he experienced in his chest area and then went on to say how crummy he's been feeling for days; how unusually exhausted. When I asked him when was the last time he had an EKG, he flipped. Time for me to call in the back up team and retire to the sidelines. Hopefully Dad or some of the other people on Mike's support team will be able to get him into the appropriate doctors, etc., because it's a sure bet he will not let me get him there. Such is life with schizophrenia - it eats the soul and destroys the mind trapping its victims in another dimension where the alternate reality is more frightening than this one, just better disguised.

I feel like crying right now. No matter how old and crabby we get, he will always be my younger brother and I will always love him. It is amazing how much heartbreak one human cardiac muscle can contend with during a lifetime, and a little frightening, too.

For Mike -

Dear "Little" Brother,

Your older sister is worried about you today.
You have mentioned such things that
Her heart is on fire with concern and pain,
But doing a rather slow burn.
We have been down this road before.
Almost every turn and rut,
Each stone in place along the way,
Is familiar to me.
I know where I tripped the last thousand times
We walked this path.
I have learned when to slow down to stay a curve
And, sometimes, when to get off of the road altogether.

Do you remember the games we played
When we were little
And it rained after school?
We would make an entire world out of an
Enormous can of blue Playdough;
Houses and cars, trees and flowers,
And people them with characters that had their
Naissance in our fingers; little men and women
(we even gave the little women "breasts"!),
Cats and dogs, horses and birds.
We gave them all names
And played and played for hours!
There were so many rainy days
And so many worlds!
But, it never occurred to me
You might get lost in one of those worlds
And would not be able to get out,
Even when the sun decided to shine again.

The sun is shining in my window right now.
I am hoping Dad has convinced you to
Take care of yourself; to see a doctor.

The sun is out, Mikey, and the rain is gone.
It is time to put the Playdough world away.

Love, Liz.

Tears For a Clown?

There are two things I have been thinking about over the last couple of days, one funny and one very sad. They have absolutely nothing to do with one another yet they are juxtaposed in my mind and the thought of one seems to lead to the thought of the other whether they are related or not. I will deal with the sad one first:

On Monday the news came through about the untimely death of Steve Irwin, Australia's "Crocodile Hunter." Although I lost interest in his show after he took his infant son into the enclosure with him WHILE HE FED THE UGLY BUGGERS, I felt a real grief when I learned the news of his death. I have always found it curious that we feel so strongly about our celebrities because most of us have never even been in the same room with any of these people much less intimately acquainted enough with any of them to have been able to claim any sort of relationship at all. Yet, we grieve and rejoice along with them and for them. I will leave the whys and why nots to the psychologists and sociologists and just say that I , too, do that very thing. So what was it about Steve Irwin that brought about the tears that suprised my face the other morning? After taking a few days, reading some of the tributes, and the single criticism (from Germaine Greer who apparently, feeling the waning of her own star, feels the need for attention so greatly as to take any opportunity to command some), and getting my head around my own emotional reaction, I have decided it was because he was in the category of extra or ultra-human.

Steve Irwin was larger than life. He was passionate about Australia and her wildlife, passionate about the world and its wildlife, and passionate and proud of his family. I cried because he was a member of my world family and I will miss his being there whether I had any cravings to watch him saddle another crocodile or not. My heart goes out to his wife and children. I hope their last words to one another were ones of love and I hope his wife will always cherish her memories of his liveliness, his passion for animals and environmental issues, and his love and pride in his family - especially his two children. I will also hope that, given the nature of what they both had chosen to pursue in life, that they had acknowledged the possibility of something like this occurring at the very beginning and had prepared for it as well as one can. His children will have some very large shoes to fill as they get older and it is difficult to imagine they will not also be as passionate and alive as their father was during his lifetime.

His life was too short, his death tragic and odd beyond words, but Steve Irwin truly touched the world and all of its inhabitants in a very special and powerful way and no one can take that away from either Steve or his family. My thoughts and prayers are with all of his family this week as they gather and mourn their loss and try to pick up the shattered memories of a man they all knew well and loved dearly. I hope God is very kind to them today and in the days to come.

On to the strange companion my mind created for the tribute above:

Sometimes, when he hasn't taken the time to think or ask, my nephew will still come out with little words and phrases that really grab the imagination. This is something he has done since he was first learning to talk and his mother and aunts and Grampy have derived a lot of amusement from his little glitches. Imagine my delight when his mother imparted this little gem to me - Patty and the kids were in the car when Brad accused her of driving erratically, only this is not the way it came out. What he actually said to her was that she was driving "erotically." Patty, being one of a trio of evil sisters, immediately broke into her own rendition of that wierd song, "I'm Too Sexy." This of course embarrassed the children, but they all had fun with it and the matter was forgotten until Patty mentioned it to me. (Hee, hee, hee!) Of course, I was off and running with it, as the thought of erotic driving actually has a great deal of a rather peculiar appeal. (Ohhhh, yes, yes! Mmmmh hmmmm! Oh, oh, oh! Hey, out of the way, Road Hog!) Well, anyway, you can at least sort of get the picture. This is typical of much of the amusement we all derive from life and from one another. It is not derisive in nature nor is it intended as any sort of criticism. It is just a part of the fun a loving family has together and it is a part of what lets each of us know how special we are to the family as a whole. Of course Brad blushed and laughed as Auntie Liz carried on for a moment or two and then threatened to write about it (hee, hee, hee!), but he is a pretty good sport about being teased unmercifully by the female branch of his family, so he survived.

In looking over these two seemingly diverse topics, I think I see why they have stayed in my thoughts so intimately entwined, they are both about families; one mine, the other of someone I have never met. Although it is unlikely such a loss to my family would ever touch Steve Irwin's family, there is a bond, nevertheless, and I know how they are feeling as we have lost loved ones as well. That seemingly insignificant episode of teasing between mother and son, aunt and nephew, is a large part of what has been taken from the Irwin family this week. Great moments create history but it is those funny, silly, precious moments of mistakes, acceptance and laughter together that really define our relationships and it is all of those moments, now stilled forever, of interplay between Steve and his family - particularly his children - that are gone forever. I imagine that, at some future date, should his son decide to follow his sister in following their father's footsteps, that the world will watch as the young man, son of the famous Steve Irwin, demonstrates that, though wild, stingrays are actually very fascinating creatures as long as you are able to understand them and respect their space. You see, the true legacy of a man like Steve Irwin is not that his children will seek revenge against the species that caused his demise, but that they will strive to understand it, communicate with it, and protect it as the natural treasure it is to this world. They will know absolutely that the stingray that killed their dad was only panicking, trying to escape and survive, and had no wish to deprive the whole of humanity and the natural world of one of their greatest advocates.