In One Life

We have played together on the plains of Agape, we have sailed the seas of Eros with our lovermates.  We have experienced the world of reality, we have thought of each other at inconvenient times and yet…all of this I would exchange for one fantasy, that I could be more than one person, and spend the length of every life with just one person to share (unrestricted, unencumbered, non-self-conscious) all of my thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Can you imagine existing in a thousand different lives?

In one life, I would wander the world with Amy Easter, the woman who lived in the top floor apartment in the Victorian house on Laurel Avenue in the student slum area of Fort Sanders in Knoxville, Tennessee.  We would spend our waking hours looking for mischief, mushrooms and marijuana.  We would walk up to a stranger in a bar and ask if he/she wanted to fuck, no strings attached.  We would break Coke bottles and carve shapes on our arms.  We would go from odd job to odd job, wearing freaky clothes and lying through our teeth to get what we want, turning to petty thievery when necessary.

In one life, I would follow Joey Francis to Paris and live in the same
building that Henry Miller lived in during his Anais Nin days.  In the middle of the day, we would work on the study of French music in the 17th Century.  In late afternoon, we would retire to a cafe and watch the tight bodies walk by.  We would go to friends’ houses in the early evening and eat a three-hour dinner, then go dancing late into the night, picking a partner for the evening with whom we would wake up with in the late morning.  For kicks, we would go to Amsterdam for good hashish and strange sex.

In one life, I would browse the bluegrass state of Brenda Faye, the
broomstraw girl from a little town in Tennessee.  We would take time from antique shopping to enjoy afternoon tea in an out-of-the-way restaurant in Edinburgh to discuss the books we had finished the night before.  We would meet again a couple of weeks later to see the third installment of the Belfast street play, “The Life Not Yet Lived”, about Irish life without British rule or religious strife.

In one life, I would marry my year younger 15-year old girlfriend, Robyn
Ricketts, putting our first child in college when I’m 34 and our twelfth
child through college when I’m a 49-year old great-grandfather.  I would see three of my children win the Pulitzer Prize, three would be successful politicians and the rest would work in the same town as my wife and me.  I would end my working years as a greeter at Wal-Mart, hugging just about everybody who walks through.

In one life, I would complete my college degree at Georgia Tech, having
completed my Navy ROTC training, as a lieutenant marrying a young woman I met at a social at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta and retiring as an admiral.  Our three children would all grow up to be doctors, having completed their premed education at Emory University.

In one life, the girl who told me she loved me in third grade, Renee Dobbs, would not die in 5th grade.  We would spend our school years pushing each other to perfect grades, graduating from high school as the 4th and 5th academically best students.  We would go to the same college, just to keep an eye on each other.  We would marry people very much like the other and either live in the same town or spend a lot of time on the phone together, treating each other’s children as our own.

In one life, I would give Janeil all my attention, because I would not be
frustrated by all the other lives I was not living.

In one life, I would record all the thoughts and actions of the other lives,
periodically publishing the parallel lives on the Internet, inspiring a young Irish writer to pen the 30-day street drama, “The Life Not Yet Lived”.

In one life, I would spend all my time with someone who only liked bluegrass music, and we would travel across the country going to bluegrass festivals, playing duets, I on harmonica and he/she on fiddle or guitar (of course, I would write the lyrics and an occasional melody).

In one life, I would spend all my time with someone who only liked the blues, and we would travel across the country going to blues festivals, playing duets, I on harmonica and he/she on electric guitar (of course, I would write the lyrics and an occasional melody).

In one life, I would live next door to one of the great-great-great
grandchildren of one of my other lives, and we would talk humans’ obsession with linear time.  We would publish a mathematical treatise on the absence of the 4th dimension and not be appreciated until 7th great-grandfather of a friend of mine proved that he had proposed this theory to one of my 7th great-grandchildren.  Although genetic testing would prove him right, the mass media would not absorb the theory for another hundred years.

How would your life be different in this fantasy?  As you and I know, I have magical powers so I am giving you the gift of multiple lives now.  Will you know the difference after you read this?  Would you have known the difference?  As I said, this is your fantasy so do with it what you will.

– 7 March 2001

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March Comes In

March comes in like a lion at times,
with winds that swirl ’round
and take winter’s leaves off into the neighbors’ yard.
Crocuses have bloomed
and daffodils smile at passersby
while children revel in the lukewarm weather,
getting their shoes muddy and covering their pants with grass stains.

March comes in like a lamb at times,
with sunshine and billowy clouds,
chasing the dull winter colors away,
replacing them with blues and yellows and greens and reds.
Children play outside –
riding bikes, flying kites,
shooting BB guns at robins
(after all kids ARE kids) –
while trees and bushes burst forth quickly,
sprouting in haste to meet Mother Nature’s schedule.

March is a month of change,
the time of the spring equinox, when winter melts away.

I met you in the month of March,
looking for a change of pace,
a break from the doldrums of winter.
Although our meeting of the minds was brief,
I feel I’ve known you far longer than a few short weeks.
Perhaps we’ve met somewhere before (in another time).
If that is true,
I hope we had as much fun then as we have had now.
I’ve truly enjoyed the moments we’ve shared
(though the moment were spent in front of a CRT,
not conducive to the formation of happy moments),
and I imagine you enjoyed them, too.

March leads to April and April to May
when winter’s blahs have long passed away.
Spring leads to summer and summer to fall
when winter’s bleak nights will soon appear;
our friendship was brief
(too short, I’m afraid) but one I will long hold dear.

18 March 1987

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King Cotton

While I walked upon the stubbled field
And squinted in the winter sun,
I wondered how to spread the news
That spring is soon a comin’.

I huffed it back into the barn
And grabbed a dirty burlap sack;
I reached inside and shoved my hands
Into raw cotton, soft yet firm.

Then I knew just what to do –
I’d spread the news both east and west
By giving all my non-farm friends
A little bale of cotton.

So now you have that tiny bale
And know when Southern farmers plant,
They look to heaven and they pray,
“The South shall rise again.”

— 25 January 1995

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Poem Made From Cutout Ads

Viewpoint:
Answers to most commonly asked questions.
What will it take to deliver the answers?
Resolution
DO IT ==> Hassle-Free
DO IT ==> It’s so easy
DO IT ==> For Fun!

Your own technique.
There’s an easier way,
The Power To Make You Forget About Life.

A 1992 Pure Wish List

I’m tired of reaching for a piece of stationery.

– 1992

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NYC – A story that’s rap for the times

You did what you could to find a place to stay
But you know how it is when they break your windshield away;

You go to the school and tell them, “Give me a pad,”
They throwo out their lottery and say, “We’ll only be glad.”

We hope you’ll do fine while you’re waiting on tables
Cause we saw what you did here and know you’ll always be able.

Don’t forget all the fun and the sarcastic jokes
And we’ll remember you well when we recycle our Cokes.

– 31 July 1991

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No Lack For Wanting

If friendship found its meaning in the little words we say –
“Hi, pumpkin,”
“Hi, fatso,”
“Help me find a date for this weekend;”

If lovers could do it with a single thought each day –
“Oh, darling,”
“You look scrumptious,”
“We’re the only ones arounds;”

If we could leave our bodies and live out our fantasies –
“Scream or I’ll tighten the handcuffs,”
“I wish our honeymoon would last forever,”
“Cops never stop you for speeding through here;”

Then I’d repeat this fantasy, a single thought of simple words –
“Bye, wife,”
“Hello, frienda,”
“Let’s caress with our eyes and ears and make love without touching.”

Sigh, would that age-old wants could be.

– 8 June 1992

 

Music Literature

Was It Music Or Was It Noise? [For MMW]

I could not sleep last night

In part because I was thinking about you,

Wondering why your husband’s phone number

Appeared on the caller ID at home.

I could not sleep last night

Because I was lost in memories

Of friendships that started in innocence

And ended in unpleasantries.

I could not sleep last night

Because I wanted answers the night could not give me —

Questions about looks, glances and phrases

That only a one-on-one session would explain.

I could not sleep last night

So I delved into old journal entries

I’d posted on the Internet,

Seeking advice from old relationships.

I could not sleep last night

But slipped into bed with my wife,

Stared at the ceiling,

And tried to block out the snoring.

I could not sleep last night but

Fell into dreams around three a.m.;

I awoke tired but refreshened and

Decided I’d have to write these words.

I could not sleep last night

But caught a nap while driving (and weaving)

From Huntsville, AL, to Rogersville, TN,

To visit my mother in-law at Easter.

I could not sleep last night

And now I am tired and resisting the need

To work on a computer database assignment

For one of the last courses for my degree.

I could not sleep last night

Because once again I am caught in the trap

That ensnares me every time I meet someone like you —

Energetic, bright, cheerful (should I say gorgeous?).

I could not sleep last night

And because I’m tired, I’ll tend to ramble on,

Losing my focus, remembering too much a particular stare

Or a shared flush of the face in class.

I could not sleep last night

And now that it’s time for supper

I’ll gather the strength to tell you what I think,

Knowing I’ll give you these words anonymously.

I.

Could.

Not.

Sleep.

Last.

Night.

How many folks are lucky enough

To have others fall in love with them at first glance?

More than just for looks,

These folks are filled with animal magnetism.

I will not sleep tonight

Wondering if I will ever know you; thus,

These words are mere reminders

Of the love that was and was not.

I will not sleep tomorrow

Because I’ll rack my brain for the answer.

In case you’re wondering, too,

Was it music or was it noise?

 

— 13 April 2001

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Amour Anthropology [For MMW]

Damn it! It’s just not fair.

You get to stand up there in front of us,

Lecturing to a class of 20 to 30 students,

While I try to figure out whether phrases you speak

[Seemingly out of context]

Are directed at me or away from you.

I experienced these feelings once before

When she was married (but going through a divorce)

But I was not (yet).

Now, your exuberant self,

Lecturing to students about music literature,

Smiles and nods while turning your head slightly,

Making your scherzo sigh, and walking to the chalkboard.

I cannot be you nor can I approach your delightful ability

To express the emotions of musical composers through the piano.

I cannot be you nor you me

But I can feel the world through the behaviors you exhibit

And feel your reactions from the reactions of others to your behavior.

Wow! You entertain with ease

But you as entertainer is not the one I see.

I see another

But I don’t know if I have the right words to describe who I see.

I’ll try anyway:

A female specimen of the species Homo sapiens

Stands upright on two hind feet in front of a gathering of 20 or 30 similar specimens.

The specimen utters patterns of sounds.

By waving its hands in the air and walking back and forth to a wall

With a piece of soft white rock in hand,

The specimen seeks to influence the behavior of other specimens,

With varying degrees of success.

The specimen wears layers of cloth

(Cannot tell if the cloth is designed for protection from the weather

Or for ornamentation;

There is no distinctive homogeneity of cloth patterns among the specimens

To indicate a clan or tribe gathering).

The specimen references a series of symbols on paper.

Is the specimen reciting a ritual?

From the similar voice patterns being uttered by the other specimens upon request,

It appears the specimen is teaching a new ritual.

The purpose of the ritual is not obviously apparent

Although the specimen does use an instrument with rotating cylinders to produce sound.

These sounds illicit a broad range of reactions from the other specimens,

Not altogether pleasant.

The undertones of the specimen’s voice

Produce a strange reaction from this observer,

As if the observed specimen is communicating on another level,

Using voice articulation, body temperature, facial gestures, and

Odorous chemical signatures to send a message.

This as-yet-to-be-classified form of communication and resultant message

Requires further study and may not be solved

Because only two more sessions are scheduled for observing this specimen.

 

— 13 April 2001

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Not Always Right [For MMW]

I sense in you

Anger,

Jealousy,

Love,

Anticipation,

Anxiety,

Desire.

You are more than you seem

And although you love Liszt,

What of your request to play Ligeti?

If your brother is the embodiment of Paganini,

Then whose body do you wish to adorn?

I will give you this to ponder —

Dr. Graves is dead

So it is time for you to be you.

Let go.

Be wild.

Don’t let an oral surgeon get in your way.

Love isn’t always what it seems to be

And I’m not always right

But I want you to see the you that you love

Live for your love to be complete.

Is a comfortable life enough?

If you really want to teach others,

Listen to the lesson you’re trying to teach yourself.

Take a chance.

Fifty years from now,

Wouldn’t you want to read about yourself

In Music Literature class?

 

— 13 April 2001

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Georgia Peach [for MMW]

 

I have the luxury to hide behind these words

And attempt to weave a tapestry of Western images —

Picture a young woman and an older man

Sitting on a bench in front of a water garden.

The bench is one of those popular teakwood pieces

Advertised in horticulture and haute couture magazines,

Painted white.

The man wears a wheat-colored woven hat over his red-hair-turning-white and

A white embroidered shirt he picked up in Mexico;

His cheap summer pants and sandals he purchased at a discount store.

He sits to the left of the woman,

Turned so that his right knee almost touches hers,

His right arm drapes across the top of the bench.

She wears a pink summer dress she bought at a department store;

Her blonde hair is pulled back with a headband.

Between her fingers, she spins a peony

She plucked while strolling along the garden path.

The sound of gurgling water washes over them from the waterfall,

Interrupted by the mockingbird’s rubatic singing.

Their eyes are locked on one another.

Neither one says a word.

They wait for the poet to put words in their mouths to speak

(Although he cannot replace the thoughts in their heads).

The poet hesitates.

“Is this the tapestry I want to weave?” he asks, suddenly unsure of himself.

The couple raise their eyebrows in alarm. Is their existence for naught?

The poet pauses for a moment. Is this where he wants the couple to be?

Yes, but more specifically he places them at the water garden

In the Huntsville-Madison County Botanical Garden.

The teakwood bench has never been painted white;

It has faded over time and is now covered with lichen and algae.

The waterfall is gone, replaced with a spraying fountain.

The peony is gone, replaced with a stack of potential conductors’ vitals

The woman must review for a conductor’s position with the Symphony.

The man is holding a book in his left hand that he reads

While the woman reads the papers.

There is no need for them to talk.

Occasionally, they look over at each other and smile,

Enjoying the natural sounds around them and

Jointly imagining a song which incorporates these sounds.

 

— 14 April 2001

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“And on the third day, he ascended into heaven…”  I have heard this phrase hundreds of times in my life and wonder what it is about our wanting to part of an immortal being’s life.  At times, I am jealous of those who feel they can join with others in a group activity.  At other times, I…keep my mouth shut in order not to offend others.

 

— 30 June 2001

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Wishing you all the joy and wonder of the first Virgin Mother’s Day (Christmas)

Broomstraw Gal, I just finished watching, “O Brother Where Art Thou?” again.
I enjoyed bluegrass as a small child when I would go with my parents to weekend campouts
In the mountains of western North Carolina –
People would perform bluegrass/folk songs around the bonfire –
And when we’d be allowed to accompany my parents to square dance get-togethers.
As I grew older, I was exposed to commercialized music played on my friends’ 45RPM record players.
The first song I remember was either “Down Town” or “Georgy Girl” –
I never decided which one was the first I heard although I recall hearing both when I lived in Boone, NC.
I returned to my enjoyment of bluegrass when I moved back into my parents’ house while attending ETSU.
The college / NPR radio station, WETS, did and still does feature bluegrass and blues;
Therefore, I consider WETS my hometown radio station.
The NPR station here, WLRH, is too “fine arts”-centric for my taste,
Although it is the only radio station I listen to when I turn on the radio.

So how is your friend from Big Cove?
He still marvels at his friend from Dellrose,
Who travels the world like it’s here playground (of course it is!).
Today, he sits at home,
Sick with a chest cold / sinus infection.
Some days, he questions his sanity, but realizes that there is no such condition –
He just has to continue living with an eye to the way others react to him.
So far, so good.
Okay, back to the first person.
Right now, I sit in a UT folding chair in the sunroom,
Glancing up to see the chickadees, cardinals, mourning doves and chipmunks enjoy the birdseed.
Behind me, the hold I dug for the garden pond is full of muddy water after the deluge of rain
We’ve had in the past three days, somewhere between 3 and 9 inches, depending on the weather station estimates.
The water rushed off the hill into our backyard, washing a pile of leaves and dirt up to the door of the sunroom
And filling the 5’ x 7’ x 3’ future water garden with mud, water, and pieces of wood.
A wireless speaker plays bluegrass music from one of the digital cable music channels.
By the way, I turned 41 yesterday.

I have chicken Florentine cooking in the oven while Janeil is shopping at Target for a trellis for her mother’s clematis.
My life is a group of sentences written on a card intended to celebrate the birth of a god’s son.
I used to worry about my place in history but now I worry less and wonder more
About the simple things like the birds hopping from branch to branch in the wet forest
Who depend in part for their nutrition from a large creature’s habit of putting seed on a small wooden platform
At the edge of the woods.
Why does a large creature like me bother to feed birds?
Entertainment, I guess.
A sense of control, perhaps.
The reason is unnecessary, unknown.
The fact is I buy birdseed and support humans who deal exclusively in wild bird products
And then I put the seed out for the various wildlife visitors –
Raccoons, opossums, and the other critters I mentioned earlier.
These and the cats in the house are the children I never had.
Thus, my midlife crisis is not about a place in human history
But a place in the history of life on this planet.
I do not know about the animals that were killed or never born because of the stuff I’ve bought –
House, cars, books, electronics –
So I comfort myself with the satisfaction of the life I’ve perpetuated with the bird feeders
And plants in the backyard.
In the meantime, I have a job where I keep track of the work lives of others,
Making sure their work is sufficient to justify their jobs.
Overall, a satisfactory life for someone 41 years old.

— 7 May 2003

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Here’s A Song For You, Instead

No surprise, it’s me again,
Standing in the kitchen waiting for the crabmeat-stuffed tilapia to finish cooking
While Erin (the St. Patty’s Day-born Cornish Rex) romps around waiting for me to throw him a scrap.
Once again, I’m interrupted by persistent meowing so I open the fridge
And break off a few pieces of sliced Boar’s Head Black Forest turkey,
Not to munch on myself, which is tempting,
But to throw into the dining room for Erin to chase.

I hate to come to you in this mood but my long-term depression
Has been hounding me of late.
This morning, I finished a half bottle of Ruffino Riserva Ducale Chianti Classico (1999)
And have gone over to another unfinished half bottle,
This time of a Bald River Red from Orr Mountain Winery in Madisonville, TN.
Mmm, the tilapia is ready – time to eat.

So, a few words and a full stomach later,
I sit in front of the TV watching, “Bedazzled,”
A movie that shows how a person might serve her vanity as a devil or damned soul.
I came here for another reason but after “Bedazzled” and “Clear and Present Danger,”
After sobering up, so to speak,
After listening to the raindrops on the sunroom from tropical depression Bill, After checking home and work email,
I have lost/used up the energy to say what I wanted to say.

— 1 July 2003

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Late September

Late September, I made up my mind
To drive from Knoxville to Cookeville
To say goodbye to my girlfriend.
Late September, in a Chrysler station wagon,
Packed with underwear, a bicycle, some empty soda bottles,
And a couple of blankets,
I drove West.
Was I being rational? Of course not.
I thought I’d drive until I found some
Ideal cliff to drive off into eternity.
Instead, I found the grand landscape
Of the United States of America, wrapped
With asphalt ribbons, a package ready to be opened.
Late September, I saw a lot of things I won’t see again.
But that was 1984. This is 2003.
What did my friend from Dellrose see
When she flew out west?
I don’t know because this time it wasn’t
Late September.
Will I ever get to see the package I left behind in
Late September?

— 1 July 2003

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Sentimentos, Nada Mais Do que Sentimentos

The setting? [SILENCE] The setting is…low rumble in throat [MORE SILENCE]… She is not one to be lonely. I do not see her as lonely but today she is alone. She is alone, sitting in a theater. She is alone, biking through villages outside Amsterdam. She is alone, reading a book in her hotel room. Alone with her thoughts, alone with her Self. But not lonely.
Thinking.
I am devoid of thought.

— 15 Feb 2003

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Equal and Opposite Reaction

I am sure that I operate from a reactive standpoint;
that is, I am not self-motivated —
instead, I am motivated by the anticipated reactions of others
or by my immediate reactions to demands/requests of those around me.

I often see something that I think is a good idea to implement
but I am more excited about the idea as a concept than as a reality
and am quickly satisfied by implementing the idea in my head.

What causes me to be reactive only?

Now that I am a full-fledged middle-aged guy,
I should have a full understanding of what I want to do with the rest of my life but I don’t.

Janeil and I watched a movie called “About Schmidt” the other day and I could definitely relate to the character —
he had progressed through his life doing what he was supposed to do at work,
even though as he started out he thought he would be a great mover/shaker but only progressed up the corporate ladder through seniority/age.
His life had been all about the job and he thought that his replacement / company would continue to use his life’s work.
Instead, he finds that his files have been boxed up and put away for storage/disposal.
I have already experienced that sensation twice through two layoffs
where I found the stuff I had worked on had no future use and thus was thrown away before I even left the company.

So now that I have no illusions about my life’s importance,
now that I no longer have to pose the question, “Why am I here?”,
now that there is no worry about having a purpose or meaning in life,
what am I to do?

I can see why this period of a person’s life is called the middle-age crisis.
Life has slowed down through the perspective of age but I still have the possibility of living my years of life again.
Can I endure 40 years of doing something “for a living”,
watching television at home,
going to the movies occasionally,
going to football games,
dealing with strangers who I do not care about or who annoy me,
eating food I have eaten a thousand times before,
driving roads I have lost count traversing,
more and more losing interest in new scientific discoveries and new literary/artistic creations,
all while contributing to a human society I do not know if I want to support?

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” — Newton’s Third Law of Physics

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Today is Tomorrow

Just a moment to write a quick note while sitting in the car on a warm, late November in Huntsville,
watching flocks of birds fly over the fields and parking lots of Cummings Research Park.
Dozens of insects take advantage of the warmth in the grass,
flying back and forth for reasons known only to them.
On the radio, piano music streams forth from the NPR station.
Some people stand in the parking lot, talking on cell phones.
A Chick-fil-A sandwich is being digested in my stomach.

What am I to make of this day that’s half gone?
Not much —
an email to a friend,
some instructions to my employees,
this note to you —
a small blip on the radar screen of life.
Even so,
“there’s a graveyard full of people who would love to have this day.”
Some would take this day to see loved ones.
Some would do what they never did before.
Some would try to avenge their deaths or do something to prevent deaths like theirs.
I will not have this day again, so I choose to record the weather and this scene I’m in.
I will take a moment to reflect on who I am, where I am, and where I want to be.
I have wished for things I cannot have
(Toyota Prius,
preservation of all species (which requires human expansion to stop),
previous friendships).

There is no “I” that corresponds to an answer to “Who am I?”
There is no core inside the layers of onion.
There is only this reactionary human who adapts to situations around him to ensure his safety.
“Fear is the key to your soul.”

Physically, I’m 41 years old, 202 pounds, 6’1″ tall, near-sighted, gray-headed.
I could just as easily be 61 or 81 years old for there is nothing in particular I want between now and then
which makes daily living and plans for the future border on chaos/mediocrity.
Yet, I continue to follow daily, weekly and yearly routines.
“Today is the future.”

Where do we go when we are nowhere and everywhere at the same time?
— 20 Nov 2003

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What am I to make of this day?

What am I to make of this day?
What shall I do to improve my lot?
There is the small picture (my life)
and the big picture (humanity’s chance for survival).
I can do little about the big picture except live my life as if I care about humanity.
What if I don’t care?
Well, what if I’m not aware enough to care?
Is there such a state as “not caring enough”?
Is there such as state as “not caring at all”?
Then surely there is a state of “caring too much”.

All I’ve ever wanted to do is have fun but there’s always this nagging part of me that says not to have too much fun
because of all the starving children in Africa,
because of all the forests burning in South America,
because of all the fish being killed in the ocean,
because of all the air that’s being polluted,
because of the ozone layer,
because of the spotted owl,
because of the…
well, you get the picture.

I focus too much on environmental news stories.
Yet, I still waste food, waste wood, eat swordfish, and drive a car.
I buy frivolous stuff.
I watch a lot of television.

Like a lot of things in my life,
I feel the pain of the destroyed environment when I take time away from all the distractions
but I feel inadequate, unable to do much to save the planet from the spread of my species.
I have chosen not to have children but I’m still here consuming, thus destroying.

What am I to make of this day?
I have driven my car to work,
I have sent a letter via express mail in order to enter a New Yorker cartoon contest,
I have turned on lights to keep plants alive in my office,
I have written several emails,
I have drunk two mugs of coffee.
I will drive to eat lunch with my wife,
I will send more emails,
I will fill my car with gas,
I will buy candy for my Christmas jar at work,
I will work on Dad’s laptop computer,
I will drive home for dinner,
I will watch television.
I will do little to keep humanity’s spread in check.
I shall not improve my lot.

— 11 Dec 2003

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Can you have what you do not want? Can you want what you do not know?

Words in front of me at this moment in a Holiday Inn Express –
“What made [them] think that this historical hokum would translate to compelling theater?” USAToday;
“Every Morning we offer a delicious FREE breakfast bar for our guests.” Guest Services Directory, Holiday Inn;
“These were the potters, and those that dwelt among plants and hedges: there they dwelt with the king for his work.” I Chronicles 4:23, Holy Bible placed by the Gideons in memory

Yesterday, I enjoyed another relaxing morning by getting up at 8:30 a.m.
I drove in a two-car caravan (Allan Berry driving his family minivan and I our sedan),
leaving Huntsville around noon and arriving in Cordova around 4:45 p.m.
There, we encountered the wry (rye? 😉 ), sly, sleek, slim trim fantasy called Faye.
And that’s just the superficial observation.
On another level, from another perspective, well…
it’s like trying to break through the ice I’m skating on to see the wonderful tropical reef below.
Do I continue to enjoy slipping and sliding on ice or do I dive into the warm water?
Let’s see…uh, sharks, barracudas, sea urchins, stingrays…the water’s full of danger.

Or so it seems.
There’s no harm in flirting.
There’s no harm in admiring.
That’s the secret to the enduring beauty of the tropical reef –
look but don’t touch.
Anemones will keep hosting clown fish (e.g., Nemo),
mammals will still inspire (e.g., Flipper),
reefs will keep dying because of non-human reasons.

But where does that leave me?
Always the observer, I suppose.
That leaves you as the observed this time.
Only this time I sit in my office, not in a hotel room.
Only this time I’m listening to Steve Earle and the Del McCoury Band, not an NFL game.
I also have the perspective of another day’s passing,
with stories of Patrick’s sniper training,
subplots defined by the body language between Patrick and Gina,
Ken and Lisa, and
Janeil and me.

The older I get, the less I’m chased by my fears.
No one (except for the constant inner voice)
is going to chastise me for not doing enough in this world.
And so it is that I find myself here once again,
wondering about this world of mine by observing yours,
the world of the well-kept woman,
the woman whose feet are firmly planted in her world,
never dipping her toes into the waters of other worldly ways
(never having to, in fact).
Her children are grown up,
the natural progression of her life leads to grandchildren
but no grandkids are in sight.
What’s she to do?
I cannot say because I only know of her –
the house she’s decorated, the books she’s read –
I do not know her.
Thus, the dilemma that faces us all.
We barely know ourselves at times,
hardly know others,
yet we can readily predict the behavior of most everyone we see.
Another twist on “knowing is doing”?

I’ve recently been singing the tune of middle age,
memorizing the lines about lines –
laugh lines, crow’s feet, brow lines;
words about white hair;
beats about sore, aching feet.
My wife is tired of me singing this song but I approach these late summer days with sadness.
My days of mourning my loss of youth will be long, I figure.
She’ll have to hear my wails a bit longer.

When next we meet,
when the greetings are complete,
when the cordialities are served as cordials,
and the pause
(the silence after the opening measures),
opens up possibilities for new tunes,
I hope the song we sing will still contain hints of our youth.
Despite the presence of the children or grandchildren.
Despite the addition of ailments.
Despite all the years that will have passed.

— 28-29 Dec 2003

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Seeing Is Not Enough

I am once again at the bottom of a bottle, this time of Chaucer’s Mead.
I have just finished watching, “Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl.”

I am once again contemplating the meaning of the word freedom,
freedom represented by the phrase, “I love you,”
Love represented by the thought of freedom,
All represented outside reality,
No different than fantasies on SciFi channel or the Cartoon Network,
No less daunting,
No less true.

Why are computer games all about fighting and winning?
Why can’t I win you?

— 3 Jan 2004

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A Limerick Composed in My Sleep
(With a Nod to Robert Francis)

There once was a boy named Rick
Who liked to play with his stick
One day while chopping his wood
He wondered if he could
And now he eats his meat with a lick.

Gibson’s BBQ on a stick. Available in your grocer’s meat department today. One case per customer only. Void where prohibited.

— 4 Jan 2004

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A day from my wife

 

Today, while sitting at home on a vacation day, watching “Amelie”,

I think about this opportunity to write here right here.

 

When looking at a painting, do you see the work of art?

The canvas?

The strokes of paint?

When you look at this writing, do you see yourself?

The paper?

The strokes of ink?

 

When I write, I write to you,

the person I do not know,

the person who’s always traveling,

the person who sees this writing through her eyes only,

whose thoughts flitter and flow while taking the time to read my words.

 

With that said, I’ll take a moment to tell a short story, a tale of a guy and some critters…

 

As he awoke, he realized the cold night had stiffened his muscles and joints.

He looked around.

The sky was just brightening in the east.

He stood up and stretched.

There really wasn’t much for him to do this morning,

especially this early,

because the raccoons had probably emptied the feeder overnight

and the owls might still be about.

Well, he might as well get up and see if any other titmouses were scavenging.

Until the tall ones dumped food in the boxes, they’d all have to eat grass seed off the ground.

 

With the birds up and about, she got upon her feet –

wouldn’t be long until the tall ones would be out,

making it difficult to drink water from the pond,

which had only recently formed at the edge of the woods.

She missed her siblings

but the tall ones, at least some of them, had become vicious predators,

killing her brother from a great distance, with no warning, either.

Her family split up quickly, her hooves crashing through rotting limbs as she ran.

Her legs were sore but she might be able rest on the back side of this hill for the day.

 

Merlin and Erin sat quiet as statues on the cat stand,

watching the birds fly to the bird feeder looking for food.

A strange creature, taller than all the dogs in the neighborhood, sipped from the garden pond.

 

I rolled over on my back, my ear hurting from being folded.

I twisted back and forth, using the bounciness of the air bed to straighten my back.

The birds flew back into the woods,

the cats turned to look at me

and the deer ran up to the first ledge of rocks as I threw the covers off me.

I put on my glasses, glanced at the clock (5:52)

and made a mental checklist of things to do today, knowing I wouldn’t do them all.

 

I didn’t feed the birds today.

Instead, I bought cat food,

some holiday presents for my co-workers

and a box of See’s Candy for my wife.

I didn’t clean the gutters.

I didn’t finish the airplane for my father.

I turned on the computer.

I watched “Amelie”.

I wrote this letter.

 

I thought about the opportunity to write this letter.

I thought about it and used the opportunity

not to solve human hunger or create peace between humans

but to see you in virtual time read about one morning and subsequent afternoon in the life of Rick Hill.

His thoughts during the day are not important in relation to the sun going supernova

but they are part of the energy-producing body that is Rick Hill,

a consumer in human society,

a provider of food for animals, forest and domestic.

 

So, as this tale winds down, as this letter ends,

as the sky clouds up and the only light in the room is the computer monitor, I bid you adieu.

 

— 25 Nov 2003

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Caught In The Middle

 

Around 1996, I sensed that a part of me was disappearing,

the part that believed in an infinite future,

the part that was mesmerized by the wonders of the world,

the part that could find meaning from interactions with the environment

and thus could compose stories and poems about the experiences.

That part of me is gone.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of it and marvel at what I could do and think.

That part of me was the remnants of my childhood.

 

That part of me was also my early adulthood,

when I learned that some women were interested in what I had to say,

when I still enjoyed the debate about what I would be when I grew up,

when I began the journey down the path of marriage,

and I thought old age was a long way away.

That part of me should have finished college in 1984 or 1985

but finished in 2001 instead.

 

I don’t let go of parts of me easily.

I struggle with the parts —

grabbing, pulling, pleading —

and when they’re gone,

my grieving process lasts for years.

 

Here in 2002, I wonder if I can stop grieving over the loss of my childhood and early adulthood.

I can’t because I’m scared,

scared of what middle age means and what old age will bring.

If I end the grieving process, then I feel that those parts of me were not important;

after all, there is only a one letter difference between average and overage,

with a special thought about the origin of average meaning “damaged goods”.

So now I feel somewhere between damaged goods and too old to be useful.

I see that the human population has nearly taken over the world,

eliminating other living beings with little or no regard,

and even though I have already chosen not to have kids

I still feel that I am excessively contributing to the destruction of other species

so what right do I have to keep living on this planet

if I’m neither perpetuating my species nor protecting other species.

 

 

Yes, I confuse the grieving process with self-deprecation but self-deprecation has become my mantra,

a replacement of my fear of the future with reassurance of my inadequacies.

 

All this boils down to my not knowing what the hell I’m going to do with myself in middle age.

 

— 23 October 2002

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Valley Oasis

 

I drove through Butte years ago (late Sept or early Oct. 1984),

while on a quest driving from Knoxville to Seattle to LA and back in about 10 days.

 

I vaguely remember driving through Billings, Bozeman, Butte and Missoula

but what I recall best was driving into Coeur D’Alene, Idaho.

It was likely dropping into a valley oasis after driving through the mountains for days.

 

— 8 May 2003

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To B- (once again)

 

I’m glad you got to see your family.

I’ve definitely come to the conclusion

that a good start on the road to understanding the meaning of life

is having a decent mother/father and decent sibling(s) —

how we travel down the road is up to us.

Will we ever know the meaning of life?

I don’t know.

I have seen that others’ observation of a person

implies they think that person has a path she’s taking

evidenced by the combination of her past actions.

 

Pretty scary, that others would see a person seeking something

when even he doesn’t know what he’s seeking.

 

I remember someone once telling me that he didn’t judge my personality based on what I did

or the questions I asked

but by what I didn’t do and the questions I didn’t ask.

I used to worry about his statement.

 

I must admit I’ve pretty much given up on living alone in my head

because no matter how much I wanted to live there,

I still had to work with other humans in the physical world.

All the years in school programmed me to live in my head

and only after completing my bachelor’s degree

have I felt the desire to leave the mental world for the physical one.

I guess I’m leading a pedestrian life for now.

 

I’m glad you’re still seeking the real meaning of life.

 

— 9 June 2003

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Happiness, Epilepsy, Prejudice

 

Go see the movie, “13 Conversations About One Thing,” if you get a chance.

It reminded me in part of “Glengarry Glen Ross,”

but the fun part was the discussion of happiness.

 

Let me know what you think

…about the movie…

well, and happiness, too.

 

Did I tell you that one of my workers has developed epilepsy?

Yesterday, during one of his seizures,

his Siamese cat actually stopped breathing

and the guy had to give mouth-to-mouth to the cat after he recovered from his seizure.

I’ve heard of animals being sensitive to humans but not that much.

And I thought I had problems!

His parents have taken him to a 24-hour observation clinic to see what can be done to control the seizures.

He has tried different medications and has stopped breathing more than once.

I cannot imagine what he’s going through mentally because he does not know what happens to him during his seizures.

He just “wakes up” feeling either very confused or very refreshed,

unaware of all that his body has gone through

(literally punching holes in walls sometimes, once dislocating his shoulder)

or the shock that others around him experience during his seizures,

especially when he stops breathing and someone has to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

 

Also saw the movie, “Focus,” which made me reconsider my prejudices.

I can’t believe how prejudiced my opinions have become as I’ve gotten older.

I only assume that I am jealous/envious of (or threatened by) other people’s lives.

 

— 29 July 2002

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Down In The Middle

 

Hey, you may already know it by now but ADS is almost becoming the company we knew, employee-wise.  Not only have Susan McCafferty, Carl Schindler, David Bjorne, Lanny DeVaney, and Janice Wright gone back to ADS but even Jeff Huebener has joined them.  I’m almost tempted to put in my resume!  Ha.

 

Really, though, I just wanted to send you an email on this day of days to say I appreciate you as a friend, am glad to know that you have survived all your travails and hope that your depressive state has improved.  For my part, I still suffer self-destructive tendencies but have learned ways to cope, which is as close to happy as it gets for me.  There are days when do definitely enjoy being on this planet but they are outnumbered by the days I wish I wasn’t here.

 

Have you read/seen/heard anything interesting lately?  Speaking of enjoying some days, I saw the “Down From The Mountain” finale concert at the Ryman Auditorium a couple of weeks ago.  Performers included T Bone Burnett, Alison Kraus and Union Station, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Ricky Scaggs (and his daughter, Molly), The Whites, The Fairfield Four (which is now the Fairfield Three, in a way, because the oldest member died recently (I was lucky enough to see them all perform in Huntsville a few months ago) although they have a new fourth member), Ralph Stanley, The Nashville Bluegrass Band, Norman Blake, Emmylou Harris, Chris Thomas King, The Peasall Sisters, Dan Tyminski, and the Del McCoury Band.  It was amazing to hear about all the people who had died in the past year, including John Hartford — the Cox Family was hit hard by a critical car accident and may never perform together again.  A week later, I saw Harley Allen perform at The Station Inn, a local honky-tonk in Nashville.  He was one of the Soggy Bottom Boys on the movie soundtrack and a great bar performer.

 

I still have on my list of books to read, selections from Charles Portis (I believe you suggested, “The Dog of the South”?), the biography of John Adams (which is highly touted; I’ve started reading it and it’s quite boring; the biography of Benjamin Franklin was much more interesting to me), “Digital Aboriginal: The Direction of Business Now: Instinctive, Nomadic, and Ever-Changing” by Mikela and Philip Tarlow, and “A Yankee Raid to East Tennessee by the Lochiel Cavalry, Christmas 1862”.

 

Movie-wise, it’s been pretty much a desert, as usual.  I bought “The Anniversary Party” on DVD for $10 at Unclaimed Baggage. I thought the movie was pleasant and very familiar — it kinda tied into the “Down From The Mountain” concert in that it was interesting to watch a bunch of performers try to work together who are used to be the top billing.  The movie also reminded me of my college days.  I’ve got Suspiria on VHS to watch.  I bought “Liquid Sky”, watched part of it and gave it to one of Janeil’s co-op students — it wasn’t as good as I remembered.  I’m waiting to get “Eraserhead” in the mail.

 

— 11 Sept 2002

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A Tourist Like Me

 

“The present state of America is truly alarming to every man who is capable of reflection.  Without law, without government, without any other mode of power than what is founded on, and granted by courtesy, Held together by an unexampled concurrence of sentiment, which is nevertheless subject to change, and which every secret enemy is endeavoring to dissolve.”  Common Sense, Thomas Paine, 14 Feb 1776

 

A tourist like I exists in and out of time, holds dear the thought of one place while learning of another – home being both a spot on this planet and a thought in the mind.

 

The end of this week has caught me in Philadelphia, near no special anniversary of our nation’s birth – out of time.  Our arrival in late summer affords us the viewing pleasure of the new Constitution Center but not the new Liberty Bell Center – in time.

 

Our appearance here is random in nature for we are not migrating to summer feeding grounds.  We are only escaping our daily toiling places for a few days of rest, no different than a few thousand visitors in this town.

 

My knowledge of the events of the mid to late 1700s, though not vast, prevents my mind from absorbing much else here this trip about the lives and events of that time.  Instead, I continue my quest to observe and memorize the behavior of those around me in my time.  Complaints about service at the hotel front desk.  The lack of respect a man gave a woman because he couldn’t leave work until 6:30 p.m., forcing both of them to miss dinner in the rush to get to the Phillies game.

 

Chance brought me to this planet.  Am I to be grateful for where / when I ended up?

 

— Sunday, 3 August 2003

 

Looking out the hotel window – the changing, fading foliage of all, a lone picnic table, a couple of old barns – the fog has lifted on this Indian summer day.  Does it matter how I fit into this picture?  I take my place later on, in the midst of one-hundred thousand college football fans for the annual Tennessee-Georgia game.  The trees here will drop their leaves outside the realm of my personal history, outside most written history, no better or worse for the notice.  Being inside or outside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, living here in Townsend or over in Gatlinburg, does not qualify or add quality to their lives.  I live in human society as well as on this planet so geographical names and recorded time make a difference.  My position here was given to me, granted to me, if you will, so I do take my position for granted, thus I am not grateful.  I am acceptful, if such a word and feeling is possible.  I am acceptful for the position – geography, weather condition, physical health, social conditioning.

 

— Saturday, 11 October 2003

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Calming Down

 

Calming down…

I am calming down after playing with Merlin,

Trying to figure out why he was angry and frustrated —

Not enough attention lately

And a desire for water from a can of tuna —

I should have figured that out by now.

But now I sit and write while “Naqoyqatsi” plays on the

DVD / TV / Dolby 5.1 surround sound system.

Life at war, indeed.

 

You didn’t know it (or maybe you did, I don’t know)

But I asked you to let me go for a while.

I needed to be relieved of my obligation to write only to you.

I assumed you reluctantly said yes,

Knowing I’d be back (you know I can’t resist).

So here I am, so recently after seeing, “Big Fish,”

Inspired to tell stories of my childhood,

Perplexed at the disappearance of Spalding Gray,

Contemplating not suicide this time

But a treehouse / playhouse / cliffhouse / studio / getaway, instead.

No square corners (should the floor be flat?).

Lots of windows.

A winding staircase.

Hut-like. A mini-cottage.

A place to site like now and be me.

A quite insanity.

No phone.

No misery.

A taste of nirvana,

A glimpse of heaven,

A piece of bliss.

 

I had my teeth cleaned yesterday

Although I sensed the dental hygienist was only going through the motions,

At least compared to others who’ve cleaned my teeth.

 

I can’t feel you with me now

Which means I don’t feel very insightful.

Would I be a better writer if I had instant access,

“Always on” Internet connectivity to my brain?

I desire being a cyborg at times

In that part of me could be connected to the endless data network we call the Internet,

Fulfilling the needs of the Wandering Wonderer and Wondering Wanderer at the same time.

I’d like it except for the noise —

The capitalistic advertising —

The “money makes the world go around” glue

That holds the whole Internet / cyborg thing together.

 

I am thirsty,

Thirsty for the taste of something new,

Like the poem in a roll I made for your friend, Kate.

Words are not always enough you know,

even for me.

 

— 14 Jan 2004

 

 

The Picture Show (For Faye)

 

I know that words have meaning

Being the symbols that they are –

“The pen is mightier than the sword” and all that –

So I hesitate to say this to you,

Pondering all the possibilities,

But while watching “Naqoyqatsi,”

While I had my glasses off writing,

I thought I saw you in the movie.

I squinted to see the image was not you

But Jackie O.

 

Would you call an image of Mrs. Kennedy art?

Does it approach that of a religious icon?

Are art and religion separate?

Are religion and humor separate?

Does the Bible, Koran or Bhagavad Gita demonstrate God has a sense of humor?

Would someone call of a picture of your smile

Art, religion or humor?

 

— 14 Jan 2004

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To Wendy

 

I barely know you; in fact, I don’t know you.

All I know are the words you told me

And that the orange eye shadow you wore makes you alluring.

 

And so it is that all I have to give you are these words

And the memory of cutting my orange hair, what’s left of it.

 

You never said what happened between you and your first husband

But I imagine your personality was too strong for him,

Your sense of independence was not what he wanted,

And your love of animals might have been threatening

(Or was that the cause of your second divorce,

Other than the money pit your second had become?).

 

CHORUS

 

You never said how old you were.

Although you didn’t look 25,

I’d say with a 12-year old daughter,

You’re 30 or 31 years young –

Young enough to turns the heads of young men,

But old enough to know better

Than do more than kiss one.

CHORUS

 

A 70-pound dog in your bed…

That still amazes me.

And besides, what guy can compete with that?

You’ll always know pawing in the middle of the night

Means affection, not lust.

No wonder you miss your dog so much.

 

CHORUS

Wendy, there’s a place in every man’s heart for you.

Wendy, some men would never get over you.

The question’s not when will the right man come

But will you need him when he finds you.

 

— 19 August 2003

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Journal Events of 10 May 2003

 

9:00      Watched Nicholas play soccer in field off I-81 near airport exit 63.

 

11:00    Watched Maggie play soccer in fields at Warrior’s Path State Park.

 

12:30    Got haircut at Smitty’s.  Walked home from there, passing Mike’s old house;

also the houses of the Cummins, Smiths and Evans – grade school teacher, fellow band members and Boy Scout leader/member, respectively.

 

17:00    For Maggie’s birthday, went to Lazer Ventures in building of old Woolworth’s in downtown Kingsport.  Watched Maggie open gifts, then played Lazer Tag, playing on Nick’s team (we won).

 

19:00    Went to dinner at the Chop House to celebrate Mother’s Day, Maggie’s birthday and my birthday.

Afterward, Dad, Mom and I took Nick to get ice cream for Nick & Maggie.

At M&P’s house, Nick and I played war.  Later, Mom, Maggie and I opened presents.

 

Today, Janeil and I drove to Rogersville to take Mom B. to Rogersville Presbyterian Church for Mother’s Day.  Time for church (I’m writing this on a pew prayer request card, of course; shame on me).

 

— 11 May 2003

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Thanks for Listening

 

I used to justify my existence, as many people do of course, by sending letters to people describing my mindset, knowing that the people to whom I sent the letters were kind enough to tolerate my ramblings and for the most part, throw my letters in the trash.  Whole sections of libraries and landfills are filled with similar material — some people have the drive, initiative, and lifestyle to be able to turn their ramblings into books.  I have barely been able to concentrate my energy into letters, poems and the occasional short story.

 

I used to enjoy writing but I have sufficient disbelief in my writing skills.  Sufficient disbelief?  Well, I’m not sure what that phrase means.  I don’t really know what I mean anymore.  I have lived my life and done all I plan to do — the rest is just filling space and time until I die (I stopped believing I had the capability to kill myself).

 

What next?

 

— 2 May 2003

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