Paradise Restored -- The Monk and The Nun

In my opinion, this has to be the happiest story ever. If you're ever down and blue and want a happy story to cheer you up, anytime, anywhere, please bookmark this page, then you can return to it time after time. I know I'm going to, because, frankly, there are those times when even I, an ordinarily cheerful person, need a lift. Here you get that lift! This is a story of "Paradise Restored."

We're all familiar with "Paradise Lost." Not only was it a great poetic work by John Milton, beyond him it is a concept, from Milton's point of view biblical, but really a common story in humanity's experience. Even if it's something as minor as a child's disappointment over a toy. But we're not all familiar with "Paradise Restored," which also was one of Milton's works, but not nearly as good. I for one haven't bookmarked it.

OK ... on with the feelgood experience of a lifetime ...

This is the story of two young lovers, probably a lot like Romeo and Juliet, head over heels in love. As is typical with two hot hormonally-driven kids. You probably remember the feeling. Nature is calling, and, by God, if your soul mate isn't standing right in front of you! Two legs, nice smile, and all the rest. You fall immediately into one another's arms, and pretty soon it's all over ... all but the intense guilt. "I'll never do that again ... Nor shall I!" But how's it going to go three days from now?

Well, in this case, of A and B -- him and her, respectively -- they saw the vanity of it all, the flesh, and immediately withdrew after that one time. They were true to their word: "I'll never do that again ... Nor shall I!" A immediately joined a monastery, B a convent. (These institutions were some religion other than Catholic, since neither A nor B were Catholic.)

The Father Superior and the Mother Superior, both, were skeptical. They weren't sure of their vows. So to test them, they sent them to a place for that purpose. Two towers across from one another with a direct line of sight between them. The stairways down were clear, the doors unlocked. All they had to do was motion, one the other, and they would be joined again somewhere in the middle.

But they were among the lucky -- I should say, the disciplined, those true to their vow -- that they were able to withstand the temptation. Not that temptation was that great. They had made vows and they stuck to them, incorporating the essence of the vow into their thinking, into their very marrow. If you read about the three gunas in the Bhagavad Gita, they lived the good one all the way. They weren't concerned about the fruits of their actions. And they were way beyond dark inertia.

Both windows remained open, the line of sight ever clear. They could look across whenever they chose to. But for the most part they were studying their devotionals and finding ready connections between the enduring truths of life and their own thoughts and essence. They had some little duties for the monastery and convent, like calligraphy and making repairs to cassocks. These duties they tended faithfully.

When it came to lust one for the other, they simply didn't have it. It didn't enter their minds even once. They transmuted all those drives and it became an honorable energy within them that strengthened them more and more in their devotion. What is earthly in most of us, and even devilish, was for them a perfect heavenly stream of light and power. They never -- A and B -- regretted their decision even for a moment and never doubted that their calling from above was real and blessed.

Naturally, then, when it came time for their prayers -- and this was almost constant, not as a task but as a way of life, as immediate and normal as breathing -- there was never a "Forgive me, for I have sinned." It is truly no exaggeration to say they simply experienced bliss upon bliss and grace for grace. Paradise indeed was restored for A & B! May it ever be the same for each one of us ... for you today!

Commentary on the picture -- The dog and fox represent the daily passions of life, which stood at a distance ever calling for attention, but were unheeded. The lobster represents the deeper drives from below, the chthonic impulses, which was never able even to get out of the water. It simply sat there and flexed its claws in vain, wondering why no one cared about it anymore.

Me and Wordsworth's Dogs

At the end of William Wordsworth's huge poem, "The Prelude," in the Modern Library edition being almost 220 pages, longer than any poem I'm ever going to write, he says, "Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, And all will be complete..." That tells me he was an old man at that point; he lived to be 80. Which is only 20 years older than me!

All this matters today for my blog because of one passage I want to celebrate, from Book Four, lines 93-190, which has some good stuff about his dog. I have lots of thoughts about dogs. One, I'm glad a great poet like Wordsworth took time to write about his dog. He's all right.

Of course, when I read it, I have to think of my own beloved dog. Who would've made a great dog for the great poet, had she not been born in the wrong time and place for it. On the positive side, she was born in exactly the right time and place to be my dog. So that's equally cool. She beat the odds. Because I'm happy to say, If you're not going to be Wordsworth's dog, you may as well be mine. Not second best, mind you, but equal or better. When it comes to poems, Wordsworth has me beat, but not at dogs.

I want to lift out some bits from Wordsworth's poem about his dog. Wordsworth had been away from his home and stomping grounds, at school, far enough away he had to stay there most of the year. Then he's back for summer vacation, then he goes up in the heights, the rocky crags around there, thinking up poetry and getting the inspiration from a favorite romantic locale.

At lines 93ff, he says his dog, a rough terrier, was among his favorites "whom it pleased me well / To see again..." I bet! Who wouldn't want to get home and see his dog? But this is more. Wordsworth was out there kindling "with the stir, / The fermentation, and the vernal heat / Of poesy, affecting private shades..." In other words, his poetic impulses were sizzling hot. But what of his dog? He continues, "Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used / To watch me, an attendant and a friend..." And this even though Wordsworth was so absorbed in his poetic inspirations that he had to halt walking a hundred times, making the dog somewhat tired and uneasy.

LOL. Of course I can relate to the dog's faithful presence. My dog's right here as I write, watching me with concern as I virtually tear my hair out, what's left of it, trying to get every word just right. I have very demanding readers and a very easy-going dog, which means if the situation were reversed, I'd be taking the dog for a walk with a constant lash at my back, or any number of other means of goading someone along. But my dog's very patient.

I'm running long, so I'll summarize the rest of Wordsworth's section on his dog. I like it how he celebrates an especially good burst of poetic inspiration by darting toward his dog and caressing him repeatedly "with stormy joy..." Then they'd be walking along and he'd give Wordsworth advance notice of anyone they'd be meeting on the way. The alert meant Wordsworth hushed his voice, since he was thinking out loud. The dog saved Wordsworth's reputation! Lines 129f, he says people would've started "piteous rumors" about him, saying that he was "crazed in brain."

My dog tries to help me like that, a little. Say I'm writing a blog, she barks anytime I'm about to hit the "Publish" button, knowing I'm only digging my hole deeper. You only see the crap that gets through, you should see what she prevents!

Back to Mr. W. In lines 131-190, he doesn't mention the dog much. Here, though, he's writing as the old man in the present time, not so much remembering past memories. So in lines 182ff, he sat in "the sheltered coppice" and heard "the straggling wind" in the hazel leaves, and it reminded him of his dog: "a breath-like sound, / Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, / The off and on companion of my walk..." That gets me! How wistful! The straggling wind reminds him of his dog's panting. But of course the dog is now long gone.

I know my dog's getting up there, 14 years old and in failing health. Years from now -- let's say I survive another 20 years -- I'm going to be looking at photos of my dog and ... whatever. But at least I have pictures. Wordsworth had what? The straggling wind. And a great memory.

The Horse Wildfire

His father was the lightning,
His mother was the weeds,
This horse is made of fire,
The fieriest of steeds.
He came across the prairie
In the greatest cloud of smoke,
Fire like this in horses
Is nothing you can stoke.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on blazing!
WILDFIRE -- He's really one hot horse.


He started out a little flame,
But then the years passed by,
And what was only little once
Had now flamed up so high.
And so the prairie felt him
A'charging o'er the plains,
And not a thing could stop him,
Not the wind and not the rains.

WILDFIRE!
Lights the night!
WILDFIRE -- A horse without a match.


The enemy of outlaws,
He watches where they turn,
And then he flares up at them
And whinnies as they burn.
Their camp will be no refuge,
No water's in the well,
There's nothing that can douse him,
He sends them straight to hell.

WILDFIRE!
Whinnying at them!
WILDFIRE -- His flames will save this land.


His coat is a fiery furnace,
His mane's a living hell.
A marshmallow 40 miles away
Would heat and start to swell.
The children at that distance
May go out pale and wan,
But when their mother calls them in,
They look like Al Jolson.

WILDFIRE!
Can't approach him!
WILDFIRE -- He's lighting up the sky!


And so, my friends, we honor him,
This horse without a peer.
We hail him from afar of course
Because we can't go near.
His fiery coat is burning,
There's brimstone on his breath,
To shake his hoof or brush him,
Would mean our certain death.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on smokin'!
WILDFIRE -- He's burning evermore!

I Double The Rage, Beating Santa Fans

Victory! I found the way to pull this thing out of the fire ... I simply refused to take no for an answer...

They thought they were going to bully me into submission? They thought they were going to win the day with death threats and picketing outside my house? Well, maybe next time they'll think again! Because not only did I pull the thing out of the fire, I kicked ___ and took names! Leaving them to slink off, never to rise again!

That felt good ... And it showed the power of one man sufficiently enraged, with the lesson being, I guess, to tap into the power of your rage at just the right moment. Then when it's unleashed, to let it run rampant, taking no prisoners. Maybe it doesn't sound like a formula for success in the civic arena, where footsie and tabling motions is the usual order of the day. But it could be it's just not used enough; people are too reticent to get really mad, not knowing the secret.

I'm going to have to summarize the whole thing for those of you who've been too ___-lazy the last couple days to read my ___n' blog. The idea came to me that we really ought to do some editing on the beloved poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas." There's several objectionable things in the poem, as it portrays Santa Claus in a way that's unhealthy and undesirable for our children. You could make a case that it encourages obesity, wearing fur, and smoking, just to name a few. I only raised an objection to the latter, merely seeking to remove the verse

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Then, of course, I was met with protests, a quickly put together sideshow of the stupid American mob full of their usual insults and death threats, driven by the local media putting a false slant on the issue, making it an issue of "Crank vs. Beloved Poem," and even questioning my paternity. The positive difference my cause would make for children was neglected. Well, it came to a head last night in a big meeting of the community. An issue this big doesn't come along everyday, so everyone in town was there.

I was fearful on arriving and seeing the crowds, but then I was immediately encouraged when some of the people wanted my autograph. Seriously. I suddenly realized the value in being a major villain: Everyone secretly loves you! Jesse James, Al Capone, Adolph Hitler, the Khmer Rouge, the Soviet dictators, etc. Can it be just a coincidence that these guys are on the History channel all the time? And just the other day I saw a set of six shot glasses for sale with pictures of the Soviet dictators on them, seriously! I suddenly had the key...

Damn, this is something to work with! This is why the Republicans won the election! People love the bad guy! They just want to see someone blow everything up! They don't really care that I might be trying to save their children, that doesn't matter to them; they just want the bad guy to come in and make a mess.

Right there on the curb, I took some pantywaist's bullhorn from his hand and addressed the mob, telling them to shut the ___ up, that this stinking poem was going down. I shouted they could accept it peacefully or they could go to ___, it made no never mind to me. I next threw the bullhorn to the ground and stomped on it, prompting 10 more people to ask for my autograph.

The meeting was at the library, and it was packed out. And suddenly I had the key to life: Walk in there like you know what you're doing, stand there with your face set like flint, and periodically finger the panel and no one's going to give you any ___. It's all Jesus. It's all Jungian archetypes on display. No one can question mythology. Satan in Milton, cf. Stanley Fish, Surprised By Sin. It all proclaims the power of the villain!

There were several church/librarian ladies on the panel, and of course one of the town's milquetoast leaders as moderator. This poor schmuck is one of the town leaders just because everyone else is too lazy to do it and he likes the attention. My blood boils when I think of him. I've been in meetings he's lead before. He's so hopelessly officious, everything has to be cut and dry from a prior meeting in the backroom. But he shuffles papers and occasionally acts confused to give the illusion that the meeting's conclusions aren't foreordained.

Well, he wasn't expecting this: The place cleared out when I strode to the front and picked up his desk and held it over my head. I stood there and calmly outlined my position about the line in the poem being objectionable because of the bad example (smoking) it sets for our children and future generations. I talked for 15 minutes, the desk fully aloft. I explained that we could do this the easy way or the hard way, and that, frankly, it felt like I was in the mood for a little of both.

The crowd by now was putty in my hands. They knew a 200-pound desk being held high that whole time was an implied threat to the whole system, and that I was likely to do anything to get my way. I was negotiating from a position of strength. In a very calm way, I asked the crowd to push up against the wall, because I didn't want anyone to get hurt. Then in the big open space, I brought that SOBin' desk down, shattering it in a million pieces. I stomped through the debris, pointing my finger in their faces and screamed out a rant that is still echoing in the walls.

I went to the press corps and dressed them down. Then I turned my attention to those who'd really opposed me, the grade school teachers and librarians. I had these old marms and the few pantywaist "men" in that line of work in tears. They blubbered out an admission that they were guilty of shortsightedness. Finally, I pulled the moderator from his chair, getting him in a full nelson with my knee up against his back. I screamed, "Tell them! Tell them!" And he also blubbered out an admission, that he'd never run an honest meeting in his life.

That cinched my case. But I wasn't finished yet. I called for a mob to come together. And we all took the offenders from the room out into the parking lot, the teachers, librarians, the moderator, and the local press. I had a kid get the tar and feathers that I keep in my car. We stripped them all naked, tarred and feathered them, and literally ran them out of town on a rail. They were barely out of town when they were all struck and killed by a train.

Now no one dared oppose me. I led the mob to the east side of town, where we stood outside a notorious whorehouse. The mayor was roused from bed. With his pants and underwear still around his ankles, he signed an official proclamation, by fiat removing the offending verse from "Twas The Night Before Christmas." It's finally done! The children are saved from a life of smoking! And now Santa will live forever!

So, to the rest of you out there, beware when you recite this poem. Because I will be watching and I will be listening. And I will track you down. You don't want to see what I can do when I get really good and mad.

I'm Afraid Of Death Threats From Santa Fans

It's been a tough couple days around here. I've always known the American citizenry is a sleeping murderous giant, able to rise from its stupor if sufficiently aroused. It doesn't always take much, a few minor kicks to its psychic groin, like 9/11, a Facebook redesign, or the terrible Yogi Bear voice in the new movie. It really can be anything, if the media gets a hold of it and makes it the next biggest thing.

I've been involved in a few close calls, but so far there's always been other more vocal hotheads who step in and take the spotlight, meaning I've been able to remain in obscurity and not get any significant blame. But this time, it looks like they're trying to pin the whole rap on me and me alone. And as far as I can tell, if this is a matter for blame -- I think I deserve a medal -- then I guess this time I'll have to be it.

Thankfully for me, though, so far, it's only a local story, and I'm hoping that's the way it stays. I hope we can resolve this to my satisfaction without too much publicity. Or, I'd like to see some positive signs of progress, then have some other opportunistic guy step in to get the credit and thereby absorb the brunt of the blame as well.

It'd really be too much for me, let's say, to have CNN trucks and the whole media frenzy scene at my humble door. I really don't like criticism as it is ... I only read about half the mail I get on the blog ... I still have notes from my 2nd grade teacher my mom hasn't seen yet, that's how sensitive I am ... so to get it from strangers far and wide, spouting off, comparing me to the other great villains of history would be too much.

And maybe you noticed it before, that anytime some local guy makes the news, it's always accompanied by death threats? Meaning, I guess, that there's plenty of wackos out there who don't realize phone calls can be traced, email leaves a clear digital trail, and, even if you get me, they're doing wonderful things with forensics and you'll never get away with it. Still, in the heat of the moment, anything can happen. The police can't be everywhere. Unlike Sherwin-Williams, Dunkin Donuts doesn't cover the world. And they might be pro-Santa anyway.

They think I'm anti-Santa. That's the spin this thing has taken. That I'm opposed to Christmas, and they're even invoking God, saying God hates me. I know there's some group out there who's so close to God they have the authorized list of everyone He hates. If they get wind of this controversy, all hope will be lost. The bad news for me is that they're clearly attracted to any kind of nasty scuttlebutt.

I don't know how I could've made this any more obvious: I'm not against Santa Claus, tradition, Christmas, or God. All I wanted to do was call for some very minor tinkering with a poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas," to take out one little reference to Santa smoking a pipe. Is that so huge?

I could almost understand the controversy if the protesters were pipe-smokers or big fans of the pipe. These fanatics really love the pipe and expect everyone else to as well. I'd say they're just babies who haven't given up the pacifier. And before they get upset, just let me say, I myself have smoked a pipe. A few times in the past. The terrible thing, in my opinion, about smoking a pipe is that you waste all day keeping it lit. There's something about a pipe, it can't keep the required mixture of fire and oxygen in its little bowl; it's self-snuffing, the most suicidal form of smoking.

But my cause, if that's what you want to call it, has a very small goal but with some very major benefits. If we can protect untold generations of children from this line in the poem,

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

just think of the positive difference that might come from that. Face it, those not yet born, but who definitely will be born, will also grow up hearing this poem. But the big difference is they won't know the difference if this line is missing. And, look, we're talking about a virtual infinity of new generations coming along. Let's just think of the next million generations; this poem is going to outlive us all, especially the ones who started smoking thanks to Santa's bad example. In that million generations, if we can stop just one child from smoking -- let's say he's a little guy a couple hundred thousand years from now -- wouldn't it be well worth it? I believe so.

When it happens, they'll interview him and he'll give all the credit to there being something about this poem that he can't put his finger on, but whatever it is, he'll say, he definitely felt no desire to start smoking. Crowds will erupt in glory, young women will name their children after me, and college freshmen will spend the whole day in their dorm, privately celebrating.

Of course, the trick is negotiating my way through the thicket at hand to the clearance ahead, from the darkness to the sunshine. And I'm looking for some other guy to step in to take the credit. Because, at least till Christmas is come and gone this year, I'm very afraid I'm going to be getting death threats from die hard Santa fans. Well, I've got to go. Sunrise is at hand, and that's about the time they always get up.

Battling "Twas The Night Before Christmas"

I've been involved in a pitched battle against the poem "Twas The Night Before Christmas." My goal is to see it removed from circulation, or barring that, to get it out of the reach of children.

Maybe you saw the article in the Daily News yesterday, "Local Man Objects To Beloved Poem." The way they slanted the story, it sounds like I'm some kind of crank. And I'm thinking the lack of public support I'm getting so far is mostly owed to that. It's only been a couple days and so far it's been a lonely battle.

Of course I think my objections to this "beloved poem" are entirely just. And anyway, isn't this supposed to be a land where we respect one another's right to "air grievances"? If I could just get a fair hearing without people prejudging who's right and who's wrong, then I'm sure I'd come out with the long end of the stick.

My basic objection to this "beloved poem" is the line that, I believe, glorifies smoking, presenting some very harmful imagery for our children to be reading or hearing:

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Essentially, if they'd agree to excise that one little verse, I'd be happy. I mean, I see objectionable content throughout the poem, but I'm willing to pull back on some of the other things. It's just that I don't think smoking is healthy for children or other living things, like war. How many deaths do they attribute to smoking? I don't know, but I know it's a high number. And how many smokers were influenced to start smoking because of the bad example of a beloved character, Santa Claus, as portrayed in this poem? It has to be a lot!

Anyone looking at the poem can see the line doesn't really fit anyway. The line right before this one says, "And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow." How would you reconcile that with a guy having a stump of a pipe held tight in his teeth, with smoke encircling his head like a wreath?" Assuming this wasn't the first time he'd smoked, which would be ridiculous, his beard wouldn't be white as snow, but instead would be brown not only from the smoke but from spit from his mouth darkened by tobacco use. And with smoke encircling your head like a wreath, naturally that means discoloration of the beard, the teeth, and even the walls around you.

So if you take the objectionable line out, it would go from the part about the white beard to the part about his broad face and round belly. No one would even miss it! And yet there it sets, year after year, and even century after century. By the way, to note his round belly might contribute to obesity among our youth, but I'm willing to overlook that. I'm not even going to get into the other things I object to, since it would take away my focus. But start thinking about some of this language: "The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow..." It really could've been more family-friendly. I mean, I'm not Dobson, but some things are truly objectionable.

Really, I shouldn't be alone in this. I've heard how others have taken up the anti-smoking banner, and have even been successful in getting certain things shelved, like old cartoons where various characters are smoking. And I haven't heard anyone calling them cranks. It all depends on what you're against, what you feel like shelving. I even heard that Bob Barker somehow had the veto on old episodes of "The Price Is Right" where they gave away fur coats. They can't show those episodes now thanks to that! Because suddenly fur is on everyone's $#!+ list. Well, Bob Barker would surely object to this line from our "beloved poem":

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

Personally, I don't care about the issue of fur. Animals that are already dead don't need it anyway. And if we eat their meat, what's wrong with using their fur? You could argue that their meat is more essential to their survival than their fur, although I know both things are essential. But if you're missing your meat, you definitely don't need your fur. Plus, if even Santa Claus himself wears fur, there can't be anything too bad about it.

So please, give me a break. I'm only pitching in to do my part on something that most people would probably agree to anyway, if it weren't such a "beloved poem," a thing of tradition in question. That said, I don't deserve to be called a crank. And I don't deserve anyone's personal scorn. In fact, the lives I save may be those very people's children. Think about it, if I can keep one little child safe -- just one little child -- then it will be well worth the price of everyone's scorn.

The poem, I'll admit, is a great one. But it doesn't need this one objectionable stanza to be great. It would be better without it, in my opinion.

If you agree with me, and I'm hoping that there will be groundswell of support, of course, please start a petition in your area, and present it to the proper authorities, libraries, teachers, the Christmas Club at your bank, Santa's helpers at the mall, and others of your choosing.

My Miscellaneous Morning

I got up and looked at a poem. "Tiresias," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Such things are always obscure to me, since I never just know the names and relationships, especially about things that no one ever mentioned in school.

Now that I think back -- it's been well over an hour -- I guess I read the whole thing. Then I looked it up in a "Reader's Encyclopedia" and they didn't mention it. Except just by name in an entry on Tennyson, which also said that Tennyson's poetry is basically insipid and that he reflects the norms of conventional Victorian society or some such.

I'm thinking, This guy's this famous and he's just a hack? It sounded good to me. But what I know! I only hope I fare better when they finally get around to compiling all my blog posts. I don't want some ignorant schmuck reading them 150 years from now just to discover that I was "insipid" all the while. Not that I picture that happening. True genius can't be dismissed by a "Reader's Encyclopedia."

So I did that. Started off with Tennyson -- read "Enoch Arden" again last night -- now spitting it out.

While on the page about about "Tiresias," which the Encyclopedia did have an article on, although not relating to Tennyson, I saw a little article about St. Theresa, so I was looking around for my copy of "The Inner Castle." Which I couldn't find. My own castle isn't arranged neatly enough or systematically to ever find anything when I want it. Other days I'm moving big piles of them around.

Speaking of big piles, next I took the dog out early, since I heard her clomping by my door, meaning she was on the way to the kitchen to pee on the floor. I made a decision a couple days ago that if I heard her go by I'd intercept her and we'd go outside early. She seemed stunned, but my quick thinking prevented a puddle on the floor.

She really went too, a few Number Ones and a couple Number Twos. With Tennyson on my mind, it led me to rhyme, "I wonder how it got in her / Must've been her dinner."

That accomplished, my mind was racing. I had a lot of other inspired thoughts.

Right, now I remember, I was also reading the first few pages of "Faust -- Part 2," that starts off with a reverie on the greatness of the day. So I'm out with Underbrush and her poop bag, looking up to see one big star (other than the sun just under the horizon), and to think about my existence. I heard a bird off in the distance make a noise and thought about him sleeping outside all night and how much better I had it. I reached down and felt some cold snow on my hand. It melted right away, meaning we could get rid of all the snow if everyone would go out for 10 minutes everyday and grab a few handfuls of it.

Now a quick bagel, milk, grape juice, and freshly ground coffee, a cup of it, and typing this report, and it's about time to do something else.

Note: My copy of Benet's "Reader's Encyclopedia" is considerably older than the Fifth Edition, so I don't know if Tennyson's reputation has been rehabilitated in the meantime.

My Town Needs To Be More Poetic

One of the truths of life is that everything changes. If it didn't, it wouldn't be life as we know it. But it'd be like something in a wax museum, just standing there motionless.

But even in a wax museum, things are still changing. The wax will droop, slowly melt, and fall away.  It's decomposing, so that if you looked way ahead you'd eventually see clumps and hardened puddles of melted wax all over the floor and a humanoid scaffolding left behind of nothing but clothes pins and twisted pipe cleaners.

There is after all a network under girding everything, like the frame of your house or the skeleton in your body. Once you peek behind the curtain, or see behind the facade, that there's workers back there peeing on the backside, you're more content, like me, to live with the illusion. Except I know it's there.

My town is just like everyone else's town. There's the good side of town, and of course the bad side, where the filth goes to prosper. In the part of town where the dives flourish, the houses of ill repute do a good trade, and fly by night carpet dealers scam their victims.


I was thinking that if it were more poetic -- the town -- that at least we'd have the heroic image of something that doesn't change. We could hear the songs and read the words. Like "In a little Spanish town, on a night like this" or "Out in the west Texas town of El Paso." It freezes it, the imagery, to a particular place and time. Even the cactus at the edge of town stands eternal.

I need to read more poetry, so I'd know how it goes.

I'm Abandoning My BIG GOAL

OK. It's not definite yet but I may have to abandon my BIG GOAL of becoming an expert in the poetry of William Blake.

It looks about as obscure as hieroglyphics. Hmm, I knew how to spell hieroglyphics. I did it slowly, but somehow my fingers knew how.

Definitely Blake had his own ideas. And he seems to have been immersed in the philosophy and social thought of his times.

He would've made a strange Twitterer. Just giving random verses with weird stuff all the time, seemingly in relation to nothing we'd know.

Urizen, Ahania, Albion, Los, Orc, Enitharmon, Leutha, Oothon, Antamon...Blake must've terrorized his mother with alphabet soup.

"Look what I spelled now, Ma!" ... "Yes, Billy, 'Manatha-Varcyon'...That's nice, but I don't think that's a word."

For me to become an expert in this, that would take a severe investment of time and effort. By the time I got done, I'd wonder why I did it.

Year after year would pass. I would be studying. Becoming grayer at my chair. Then one day I'd look up and go "I'm an expert." That'd be it.

At the end I'd be the Rip Van Winkle of scholars. All my family and friends would be dead, I'd walk the streets and see jet cars everywhere.

So, at the end of a long day, I'm officially abandoning my BIG GOAL of becoming a scholar, an expert in the poetry of William Blake...

It is simply too hard.

Me and Grandma Slump

Her bust is flat, she's got no rouge,
Standin' by the range,
I feel I'm nearly starvin' for some beans.
Grandma stirs, the lid's back down,
Nothin' very strange,
No meal's fixed till she boils us up some greens.

I took my napkin out of my dirty flapped pajamas,
I was wipin' forks while Grandma set my plate,
Grandma said it's eatin' time, 'n she took her chair and I took mine
And we ate everything that Grandma made.
We washed it down with tea and lemonade.

Grandma's just another word for my own private cook,
And nothin', she gets nothin' 'cause it's free,
Eatin' good is easy, Lord, she doesn't need a book.
And what she cooks is good enough for me,
Good enough if I feel the need to eat.

In the morning she's out of bed, and at evening she's not done,
Yeah, Grandma keeps a pace I can't control,
Checkin' traps and cleanin' fish, in moonlight or by sun,
She cuts our wood and keeps me from the cold.
But somewhere in the forest, Lord, I guessed she slipped away,
She's lookin' for our home, and I hope she finds it.
'Cause I'm hungry and need a woman, and Grandma will have to do,
To be holdin' Grandma's cookin' to my lips...

Grandma's just another word for my own private cook,
And nothin', she gets nothin,' I said it's free,
Eatin' good is easy, Lord, she doesn't need a book.
And what she cooks is good enough for me,
Good enough if I feel the need to eat.

A Difference of Color

Note: The following is a poem from 1895, out of a newspaper. It seems like just a bit of the average sentimental doggerel usually seen from the time. But it takes a surprising, humorous turn!

A Difference of Color

I have gazed into the pupils
Of a pair of sweet blue eyes
And have seen therein reflected
Azure tints of smiling skies.

I have felt a glad emotion
When I gazed in eyes of gray,
And my callous heat has yielded
To the magic of their sway.

I have braved the sparkling fire
Of two flashing eyes of brown.
I have faced their scintillations
And the anger of their frown.

But the eyes that cause most sorrow
Are the black eyes which I bear
Since my darling's angry father
Kindly helped me down the stair.

—Milton Goldsmith in Detroit Free Press.