Who me? My aim?

Yes, you, you monkey, your aim?

Hey—awright, but show a little respect.

I'm waiting. Ain't that respect enough?

No comment. My aim as a writer is... to rearrange the words in the dictionary into some more meaningful order. How's that?


JULY 7, 2009

Another birthday. For someone who thought he'd never make it past thirty I'm doing pretty good. A birthday. And it wasn't just any old birthday, it was a lulu. My wife, who is the woman of my dreams, kicked it off with a spontaneous expression of her love, her passionate love, for me. Then—would you believe it?—breakfast in bed (eggs done perfectly). Then, while the world holds its breath, in that delicious early afternoon quiet, I exude a story. It comes so easily it hardly seems to be written.
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Revolution in the Sky

There, there again—black against the blue—

the same two sky birds at it;

the wide-winged hawk aloof,

loafing on the wind, above the roof-peaks,

proud of the fear his shadow stirs

scraping over the open-hearted hills;

and pecking, poking at him the crow

(if it is a crow) careless of how

he looks or sounds, raggedy,

harassing his unflappable majesty,

nipping at his underbelly, driving him out

of his cerulean realm. The brass of the bird!

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Swinging in the Rain

A summery spring day was sinking to its knees. No rain for once. I'm alone. My wife is off again to see her brother who is inching his way to the grave—in hospital and out. So alone I go to an end-of-term, end-of-program, beginning-of-life celebratory art exhibit at the college up the hill.

Dressed up (so as not to embarass the young lady who so kindly invited me to this culmination of her Master of Fine Arts' effort) and trudging (after a sticky, dragging, wearisome day) breathing heavy now, moving like sludge uphill, I reach the hall spilling over with the aimless stir of many people of culture and cultivation pondering art work on wall, ceiling and floor.
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A Bloggy Day or A Blog of a Blog

Today, being a red-letter day in a long march of days of dubious gray, I declared to my web master that I would produce a "blog."  Now how could I, who had seen and felt the effect of words—good and bad—upon outlook, inlook, doing and deeds, undertake an activity that carries such a grotesque, self-mocking label? Whoever came up with this word, a word that has come to encompass a worldspin of words, has, perhaps unwittingly, condemned whatever effort flying this flag to foolishness, triviality or downright, out and out imbecility. Too harsh, you say? Look at it a moment. Sound it to yourself. Whisper it in your wife's ear. Blogblogblogblogblog... Words determine things. They open up vistas. They flap down a coffin lid. They inspire. They exasperate. They create. They destroy. Damn, but they are powerful beasts!

When we accept a word and agree to labor under its shadow we are acquiescing to life lived within its limits. So take this revolting blob of a word—an overstuffed suitcase of a word—a word blended of the bl of blindness, blab, blather, blabber, blip, blase, blah and the og of fog, sog, bog, log, cog, smog. Ye gads! who in their right mind would consent to such a word? Who would allow the force of such a blubbering, slobbering, drooling, gargling word to dominate the content of their creative expression? Not I !!! Words master us if we are oblivious of their power; if we use them as robots would. When we awaken to their potential power we can use them to good purpose. Master or be mastered! Plunge your mug into a bog or lift your countenance to the sky. Whatever else you may say the activity will be a distinctly different experience with a distinctly different outcome.

No, no, I will not blog today.

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