Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Never Too Early to Start Planning



The Man Next Door Is Teaching His Dog to Drive by Cathryn Essinger


It all began when he came out one morning
and found the dog waiting for him behind the wheel.
He thought she looked pretty good sitting there,
so he started taking her into town with him
just so she could get a feel for the road.


They have made a few turns through the field,
him sitting beside her, his foot on the accelerator,
her muzzle on the wheel. Now they are practicing
going up and down the lane with him whispering
encouragement in her silky ear. She is a handsome
dog with long ears and a speckled muzzle and he
is a good teacher. Now my wife, Millie, he says,
she was always too timid on the road, but don't you
be afraid to let people know that you are there.
The dog seems to be thinking about this seriously.

Braking, however, is still a problem, but he is building
a mouthpiece which he hopes to attach to the steering column,
and when he upgrades to one of those new
Sports Utility Vehicles with the remote ignition device,
he will have solved the key and the lock problem.


Although he has not yet let her drive into town,
he thinks she will be ready sometime next month,
and when his eyes get bad and her hip dysplasia gets worse,
he thinks this will come in real handy.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

..where the deer and the antelope play...

We're making plans to fly away to Montana. We don't give a hoot about no stinkin' oil prices. (Well, actually, we're really quite worried about them.)

We have friends out in Dillon, they just got a divorce, had some other disruptions in the family, and we thought it would be a good time--friend wise-- to visit with them. Bad time--gas prices wise, but don't know that it will get better.

Our college girl is a bit mopey about not going, but she has decided in her Junior year to switch majors, which is fine, but that places her in summer session right now picking up some required courses, Microbiology and Physiology. Crazy girl. And honey haired girl will probably (hopefully) have a summer job next year at the zoo or a vet's office/somewhere animal-oriented, so this seemed a good time to take a more adventurous vacation.

Too bad it's still snowing in Montana. We'll be leaving the barely 60 degree grey drizzliness of CinCity to the end-of-prolonged winter weather in the Mountain State. Whatever...I think as long as the hubby and I do not have to be in charge of strangers' bodily functions all will be well.


There are the usual last minute plannings about caring for the dogcatsratandfish menagerie, stocking up on pet food, figuring out the packing of lethal liquid shampoo, and what books we want to read on the plane.


Mostly though, how will we find out what happens on LOST and will Sex and the City be playing in a theater

near us in Bozeman?? Somehow I think it will all piece itself together.

So here's hoping for blue skies in Big Sky country and a happening start of summer for all those who might wander into this blog.








( "Look over there...something shiny.")

What We Want by Linda Pastan

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names—
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.

Monday, May 26, 2008

"There was no way I would be able to squeeze the enormousness of this spirit into one tiny little body."



I've read about this woman before, Jill Bolte Taylor,a Harvard trained neuroanatomist, and her memories of the experience of having a stroke. The following article from The New York Times reminded me of her again today and from there was led to a video of her lecture. For anyone who works with brains or works inside a brain this is a fascinating travelogue of her experience. It's 18-20 minutes, so grab your favorite cuppa of caffeine. What follows is an entirely different perspective on what we tend to think of as our "mind," and as she calls it, "a stroke of insight."





Sunday, May 25, 2008

Soldier rest! thy warfare o'er...






Soldier rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep thast knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking.

Sir Walter Scott




My only brother, my only sibling, died a year ago. He was no longer in the military, had been discharged years ago, but had his own battles to fight for many, many years. It just happened to be Memorial Day weekend when he fell through the cracks of the VA Medical System. No offense to any ER nurses or docs. It was one of those bad alignment of the stars when everything that can go wrong, goes wrong.

His ashes are scattered along the Tidal Pools off Highway 1 near Half Moon Bay among the sea stars, the red albalone, the anenomes, the harbor seals... I do believe he is peaceful there. It's a rugged, beautiful, plentiful piece of the earth. I can see why he liked to go there to talk to God. God feels present along that rocky coastline with a vigorous and masculine force, yet the intertidal landscape itself is very fragile. Each retreat of the tides creating ocean worlds in miniature. Survival literally depending on the ablility to cling to life.


I'd like to tell him again how sorry I am that I was working that weekend and the holiday. I'm sorry I didn't pay more attention when my mother told me he'd been to the ER for pancreatitis. He'd been sent back home. I thought he was okay. I thought this was something that could wait until my stretch of work was over. My husband and I still cleaning out his mother's home after her recent death. Everything had to be out by the end of the month. We had just walked through the door after sending off the last of the boxes and bags of clothes to St. Vincent de Paul's when we got the call that my brother had been found dead in his apartment.


"If I could have used my hands to pick you up and make you stand
Would you still have fallen"--Holly Williams


I'm sorry I'm too late. Rest in peace, Tommy.
Requiscat in Pace

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Boarding House by Ted Kooser


The blind man draws his curtains for the night
and goes to bed, leaving a burning light

above the bathroom mirror. Through the wall,
he hears the deaf man walking down the hall

in his squeaky shoes to see if there's a light
under the blind man's door, and all is right.
please note--art by Edward Hopper

Friday, May 23, 2008

Put Down the Pen, Sir, and Step Away from the Desk

Generally at the eve of a holiday weekend I would be nagging about wearing your seatbelts and preferably a helmet for the next 48hrs. Tonight I'm just going to ask you not to stick Bic pens in your eye. Thanks for the cooperation. Oh, and no running with scissors you crazy cats.

interested?? Please see:
http://scienceblogs.com/retrospectacle/2007/08/suicide_by_ballpoint_pen_1.php

Thursday, May 22, 2008


We saw a movie yesterday that has given me pause. Starting Out in the Evening had a 4:30pm showtime. Easy enough for my hubby and I to walk up to the Esquire Theatre after we brought the honey haired girl home from school and she settled in to study for her last exam. Wasn't expecting more than a few hours out of the house not spent in the hospital, but surprisingly, the movie has lingered with us and carried over to the morning.



The movie's storyline centers around a literary giant, one of the intellectual writers of the 7o's, and the loss of his hold over his writing, his past work, and his health. Although he admits to not having a plan for his novels, "I just follow my characters around and hope they do something interesting," he finds after ten years of waiting they have not. And, for an author whose literary theme may have been personal freedom, he finds that he may just have squandered his time and reached a dead end.



I thought about this character and I thought about Ted Kennedy, two lions of men succumbing to the dissolution of their bodies. Lives so large felled by such small crumbs of disease--a clot no larger than a fresh spring pea, and the pearly whiteness of a glioma on an MRI. Milk spilled and seeping into the recesses and crevices of a brain. Our lives seem so vast, a country of time to be traversed, yet invariably interrupted by the mundane. There exists no time to squander.



Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Looking for a Rest Area by Steven Dunn


I've been driving for hours,

it seems like all my life.

The wheel has become familiar,

I turn it

every so often to avoid the end

of my life, but I'm never sure

it doesn't turn me

by its roundness, as women have

by the space inside them.

What I'm looking for

is a rest area, some place where

the old valentine inside my shirt

can stop contriving romances,

where I can climb out of the thing

that has taken me this far

and stretch myself.

It is dusk, Nebraska,

the only bright lights in this entire state

put their fists in my eyes

as they pass me.

Oh, how easily I can be dazzled—

where is the sign

that will free me, if only for moments,

I keep asking.

Brains. Older and Wiser.

Ha-ha. Told you so. I just knew that getting older was going to be good for something cuz the rest of the bod is going to hell.


http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/20/health/research/20brai.html?ex=1


And just in case anyone is interested in brain physiology given the news lately about Senator Kennedy and reportings of malignant gliomas in the temporal/parietal regions-- here's a short video with song and dance included. Probably the only way to truly learn about the brain. I am all about the education here. Learn away.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Going in for 12 Hrs with #8 Here...

Excellent thumbs up there, big guy.

Thanks, Can You Bag It and I'll Take It To Go??

Now that is just plain wrong.

My ONLY defense is that I have vacation coming up in 10 days and I really need one. Seriously.

Also, is this the proper way to pack for carry ons??



also reallocated from:http://scienceblogs.com/twominds/

It Happens Like This by James Tate





I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Nothin's a Matter With Your Head, Baby, Find It...

Was not a big fan of disco back in the day, crazy cuz I cocktail waitressed in one.
Gotta say though, and I realize that I'm showing my age here, prefer the disco look to the gangsta look. What wouldn't I give to see someone dressed like this come
strolling through my unit as opposed to our visitors with the waist of their pants hitting at the nether regions.

I reckon the pieces they're carrying now are too damn heavy.

Enjoy the soulful vocals of Redbone, Ladies and Gentlemen...
(always thought they were singing "What's the matter with your hair...)




Hey (hey) What's the matter with your head? yeah...
Hey (hey) What's the matter with your mind and your sign?
And-a ooh-ohh
Hey (hey) Nothin's a matter with your head,
baby, find it
Come on and find it

Just Going In For A Walk-About


please note--reallocated from: http://scienceblogs.com/twominds/

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Homeplace by Jo McDougall


Awake while you sleep,

I tie and untie the strings

of what went wrong:

the farm auctioned, my father buried in Minnesota,

you and I alone

in a rented room.



I remember my father when I was six

pushing open a gate on the farm road,

stirring the dust of August.

The locusts sizzling in the grass,

a hum of dragonflies hanging sleepy above us.

Hup Two Three Four, Keep It Up Two Three Four






"I meant what I said, and I said what I meant...

an elephant's faithful--one hundred percent!" Theodore Seuss Greisel







I really am trying to finish The Inheritance of Loss but was waylaid this past week by the aroma of popcorn, cotton candy, and hayburners. I spent some rainy days amidst sequins and freaks. I shall get back on track in good time, for this show must go on.


Water for Elephants--The gritty glamour of the circus world in all of its ragged edges, hardness, and heart; where the value of life is measured by performance.

Quintessential Sentence(s)--"The whole thing's an illusion, Jacob," he says, "and there's nothing wrong with that. It's what people want from us. It's what they expect."

"...why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?"

Favorite Word--roustabout





Friday, May 16, 2008

Fabulous Poetry Idea--Blackout Poems


http://www.austinkleon.com/category/newspaper-blackout-poems/

Read Between the Lines to Find Texas Poet’s VerseMorning Edition, May 9, 2008

Instead of starting with a blank page, poet Austin Kleon grabs the New York Times and a permanent marker — and eliminates the words he doesn’t need. He recently transformed an article about a piano concert into a poem that begins: “Forget about trying to speak … the image is the travelogue.” The newspaper ends up more black than white, and shows another way to read between the lines.


Read about this from Jillypoet's site. Both interesting writers and well deserving of a look/see.

Behold by David Lee


And came forth like Venus from an ocean of


heat waves, morning in his pockets and the buckets in his hands


he emerged from the grey shed, tobacco and wind


pursed together in song from from his tight lips he gathered day


and went out to cast wheat before swine. And in
his mind he sang songs and thought thoughts, images of clay

and heat, wind and sweat, dreams of silver and

visions of green earth twisting the cups of his mind

he crossed his fence of wire, the south Utah steppes

bending the air into corners of sky he entered

the yard to feed his swine. And his pigs, they come.
please note--art by Vernita Bridges Hoyt

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Forty Years and Counting...




Day off today and, although I cleaned around the house a small amount, it's another rainy day here in Cincy so I read. Last month's Smithsonian magazine has an article about President Johnson and the events surrounding the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.--"The Unmaking of the President." I love LBJ. Always have. It may not be the most popular choice, but it's not a choice made objectively. He 's the face I remember seeing on our television set while I was growing up and the one we listened to during the turbulant events of the sixties. I think he's fascinating.


And although this season's crop of presidential candidates seem to want to distance themselves from the events of the last forty years those issues remain in the forefront of the problems we face today. An unpopular and no-end-in-sight war, poverty, racial inequities. Some of the speeches could be given today without one change in wording necessary to make it relevant.

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/president-lbj.html

So there's a couple of books I'd like to read about LBJ and one about the 82 day presidential campaign of Bobby Kennedy. I remember the late sixties but from the perspective of a thirteen year old breathing in the anger and riots and chaos of the times as part of the air mingling with the smells of high school gymnasiums and English Leather. I may have grown up, I'm not so sure our country has. Maybe I just don't like what we've grown up to be. I had higher hopes for us all.





http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2008/06/rfk_excerpt200806

For Anyone Having a Grey Day--CRANK IT UP!!



Found this tape in a dark recess of my kitchen, AKA the bookshelf, and have been playing it ever since. I am so hoping to find some white go-go boots there also.

Borrowed Time by David Moreau

I will not die tonight

I will lie in bed with

my wife beside me,

curled on the right

like an animal burrowing.

I will fit myself against her

and we will keep each other warm.

I will not die tonight.
My son who is seven
will not slide beneath the ice
like the boy on the news.
The divers will not have to look
for him in cold water.
He will call, "Daddy, can I get up now?"
in the morning.

I will not die tonight.
I will balance the checkbook,
wash up the dishes
and sit in front of the TV
drinking one beer.


For the moment I hold a winning ticket.
It's my turn to buy cold cuts
at the grocery store.
I fill my basket carefully.


For like the rain that comes now
to the roof and slides down the gutter
I am headed to the earth.
And like the others, all the lost
and all the lovers, I will follow
an old path not marked on any map.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Characters by Kevin FitzPatrick

Aunt Duly is here wallpapering our kitchen.
She is seventy-one years old
but still paints silos and moves pianos.
If I bet her, she will touch her palms
to the floor without bending her knees.


When she first sees me, long hair and beard,
she comes down the ladder waving her brush:
"Judas Priest, Kev, when I was a girl,
they used to beat guys like you with chairs.


"She has been going up and down this last hour
as if her ladder is an escalator,
telling me about drunken gravediggers
or the grocer who wouldn't serve lawyers.
I'm afraid she'll slip or faint,


but she is coming down the ladder,
telling me about Barney Ruckle in the back pew
quietly mocking each bead during the rosary:
"Gimme a nickel, Mary. Gimme a nickel, Mary.
Gimme a nickel ...


"Going up the ladder
because she really does have work to do,
she pauses halfway and says,"You know, they're all dead now,
all those characters who used to make us laugh."

Two More 12 Hrs With a Couple of Ring-A-Ding-Dings


Monday, May 12, 2008

Break a Leg



Honey haired girl is in a ballet recital this evening. She had talked about wanting to take ballet again--she stopped many, many years ago--and finding beginning ballet classes for a teenager is close to impossible. But, the Cincinnati Ballet Company teaches an Enrichment class for high schoolers where she could take ballet and/or musical theater. There is the requisite recital at the end of the year, but since HoneyHaired would only have taken lessons for 10 weeks she wouldn't have to be in it. Well, guess again. Yes, she is. And, it's at the Aronoff Center which is intimidatingly huge. I was going to take her there this past weekend to see Carmina Burana but didn't want her to see how large and imposing the theater is. Perhaps it will look smaller and simpler from backstage.


She's down there now. I dropped her at the stage door with her deer- in- the -headlight -eyes. My best advise for her?? "Honey, you guys are down here so early and you are going to practice so much that by the time the actual show starts you will be tired of it and just want it all over and done with." Not enjoy all the moments and relish your time in the spotlight. No, just go in, practice, and get it done. I do believe I need to rethink my approach to life. Hopefully she will find joy in performing tonight, maybe a few laughs for the next go round with a scary endeavor. Spotlights tend to be few and far between and deserve to be enjoyed with all heart, mind, and soul.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Birthday Girl:1950 by Linda McCarriston


for my mother
The day the package came
from Sears, you were ironing
and smoking, in the one
slab of light that elbowed in
between our three-decker
and the next one.
World Series Time, and the radio
bobbing on the square end
of the board told over
what you already knew:
The Sox are the same old
bunch of bums! you said, slamming
the iron into some navy gabardine;
the smells of workclothes—Tide
and oil—rose up together
in steam around you,
like the roar of the crowd at Fenway
and the shouts, downstairs,
of Imalda, getting belted
around her kitchen at noon.
Some people can make anything
out of anything else. If you still can,
remember that day
like this: you douse your cigarette
and squat down close; I open
the box addressed only to me
and find inside the pair of sandals
you call harlequin, with straps
as many colored as a life.
I am happy. You buckle them on me.
Every room is dark but where we are.
Every other room is empty.

And a Happy Mother's Day to You, Too


Could not have have gotten through
these last twenty - one years without you.
Love ya,
need ya, mean it.

Friday, May 9, 2008

Windchime by Tony Hoagland


She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it--the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving--
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead,
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.


Thursday, May 8, 2008

Shall Be Missed


I haven't been back to the cemetery for a year. Last May it was miserably hot and humid as we silently stood by the gravesite tissues in hand and lowered her ashes into the ground covering them with songs, poems, and prayers. My mother-in-law lived less than six months after her diagnosis of small cell lung cancer, and most of that time was spent sick and confined. Dying was a release for her. An end to the discomforts of her body fighting a civil war and losing on all fronts. We saw a hawk that day at the cemetery as the ceremony ended, the large red tailed bird flying low over our heads. We saw it again the day we finished cleaning out her home. We watched it fly in and out of the wind currents with a harsh shriek, circling us, then leaving us for other spaces.

Today was not hot. It's a grey, rainy and chilly day. A perfect backdrop for Spring Grove Cemetery and the monuments built there. A "MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet green icing flowing down. Someone left the cake out in the rain..." kind of day. Thick luscious greenery thriving and abundant where so many bodies are laid for their final rest. We drove the narrow roadways searching for the statue of Johnny Appleseed that provides our landmark for Nancy's grave. There were flowers damp from the morning's rain, left from the weekend's visitors. The ground crew was mowing and clipping on the hill and the sound of motors droned around us.
I stood by the car while my husband stayed at the grave speaking quietly to what spirits might remain near. No hawks to be seen soaring above the gravesite today. I would like to think that she is free and flying, her fierce eyes watching all and letting go.
please note--photo by Jim M. Goldstein

Whasssuuuup with Blogging?


"What's it all about, Alfie? Is it just for the moment we live? What's it all about when you sort it out, Alfie? Are we meant to take more than we give..."



I've only been aware of the blogging world since March and have slowly. tentatively dipped my toes into its waters of self expression and self revelation. But I wonder, "What's it all about, Alfie?" What will this abundance of photos--babies in hats, trees in autumn, plates of food either desired or just cooked, and the ubiquitous "Portrait of a Young Woman Sticking Out Tongue"-- say about us in fifty or sixty years? Is there a bigger picture here and will blogging be a significant social phenomenon of the new millenium?


Is blogging simply the creative outlet of the double 00's generation; the equivalent of the every teen's garage band during the sixties and seventies? Or, is it an indication of a trend towards an increasing self indulgence, a validation in writing of our own importance, a "published" review of our perpectives and worldviews for all to see? We can relate the details of our days and give our opinions without much revision or re-thinking. The words don't fade or disappear as those placed on a sign stapled to the community board at the local grocery store. They stay forever posted in clarity in an internet world with infinite access.


Does the plethora of intimate details of daily lives lead to global closeness? Does it bind us together in our human commonalities, does it allay some generalized anxiety of the strangers among us planning suicide bombings, planes as missiles, destruction of subways and embassies? If a person is blogging about the latest daily drama with Caitlin and Trevor does that mean they are not plotting the spillage of blood for idealistic purposes? Make Blogs, Not Bombs. Make the World Smaller One Blog at a Time. Love My Blog--Love Me.


What could possibly be the point of all these words that hundreds of thousands people post every single day? And, what is the point of our reading these words? Is it communion we seek or diversion?



Posthumous by Jean Nordhaus

Would it surprise you to learn

that years beyond your longest winter

you still get letters from your bank, your old

philanthropies, cold flakes drifting

through the mail-slot with your name?

Though it's been a long time since your face

interrupted the light in my door-frame,

and the last tremblings of your voice

have drained from my telephone wire,

from the lists of the likely, your name

is not missing. It circles in the shadow-world

of the machines, a wind-blown ghost. For generosity

will be exalted, and good credit

outlasts death. Caribbean cruises, recipes,

low-interest loans. For you who asked

so much of life, who lived acutely

even in duress, the brimming world

awaits your signature. Cancer and heart disease

are still counting on you for a cure.

B'nai Brith numbers you among the blessed.

They miss you. They want you back.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

WHERE? by Kenneth Patchen


There's a place the man always say
Come in here, child
No cause you should weep
Wolf never catch the rabbit
Golden hair never turn white with grief
Come in here, child
No cause you should moan
Brother never hurt his brother
Nobody here ever wander without a home
There must be some such place somewhere
But I never heard of it
please note--photo by Virginia Todd

Monday, May 5, 2008

Where you gonna go now that you've won* the super fine badge of blogging??

(*stolen from http://www.citizenofthemonth.com/ and Neilochka. Thanks. It's an honor just to be nominated.)






I'm going to NeuroLand for two days of funfilled
bliss.
MRI's!! CT scans!! Cerebral angiographies galore!!


Please keep arms and legs inside the carraiges at all times and no standing while the rides are in motion.

Show me two fingers, stick out your tongue, follow my finger with your eyes. Pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time.


Please no inappropriate oozing of bodily fluids. Any visitor who voices more than five sentences about their own health concerns will be forcibly removed from the park.

Thank you for your patronage.

days of hopefulness and the best peace sign in the world


Sometimes by Sheenagh Pugh




Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

Saturday, May 3, 2008

quietly sad


I haven't felt much like writing these last few days, or even finding a poem to reflect the day. The loss of the 16 year old boy on Tuesday has lingered and I've not been able to completely wash off the raw pain that filled his hospital room and seeped down the hallway until it filled the entire unit with the cries of his family. It was not an unexpected death. The resulting injury from the bullet's path was non-survivable. It had crossed the midline and the swelling to the brain from the blast force pushed his brain downward herniating his brainstem which led to brain death. It was non-survivable once some young boy's index finger pushed back the trigger in a tiny increment of a second. Less time than taking a breath.


He either pulled the trigger himself or someone else pulled it. Kids playing to be men with guns not realizing the gun was loaded or perhaps some darker,more malevolent reason. Doesn't matter in the nanosecond of choice to the nanosecond of no return. In less than the length of time it takes to blink an eye, to take a breath, to think a thought another young boy's future is determined and set in place. The length of time it takes for his family to sit by his bed watching blood and brain matter seep from the bandages wrapping his head is 17 hours and 13 minutes. The recovery time for them will be without an end.


And so, borrowing a music video from V-Grrrl's post, I plan to listen to a little Lyle Lovett because I adore him and his voice is a balm for this sore heart. Thank you Miss V.






Friday, May 2, 2008

by Rumi


Let yourself be silently drawn

by the stronger pull

of what you really love.