You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
a shower to a bath, but indulge in hot tubs.
a hot tub to a sauna in the snow, not that I haven’t delighted in the latter.
religion that relies on questions more than answers.
discovery to fabrication. Accuracy more than cleverness.
Chocolate or candy?
White chocolate. Or dark, bittersweet.
Waffles or pancakes?
Either one, awash in melted real butter and local maple syrup. Better yet, a classic cheese omelet. Or baked pears or baked French toast.
They are a memory, more as an emblem and ideal than creature. I never tasted elk flesh, though I heard praises. Nor have I stroked the fur. What I’ve known has appeared only on the forest floor as track and scat – no ticks on the neck or patchy summer skin like the moose where I now live. That, and winter encounters viewed from a distance.
The deer who frequent our yard these days are so small by comparison.
Will I ever revisit the Pacific Northwest where I lived? Would I even recognize most of it?
Or was it all gone in the divorce?
letting go to simply be
what I would be without this body?
I don’t feel as rigidly Quaker as I was
nor a hiker, much less camper
or any of the other identities
who am I to deserve this much?
Its albums stood apart from many of the others I borrowed from Dayton’s public library, with its fine record collection and its guardian.
Contemporary Records was the name of the company, founded in Los Angeles in 1951 by Lester Koenig and soon a leading advocate of what became known as West Coast jazz, including Chet Baker, Shelly Manne, Art Pepper, Sonny Rollins, Bud Shank, and Andre Previn. It was even the first jazz label to record in stereo.
It also ventured into classical, including guitarist Pepe Romero, perhaps joined later by his brothers and father, all of whom soon became famous.
The company also offered a Good Time Jazz label focusing on Dixieland, plus the Society for Forgotten Music in a classical vein, and a contemporary composers’ series.
I had thought one of its founders was American songbook master Vernon Duke – aka Vladimir Dukelsky, his Ukrainian name, used for his 12-tone pieces – but I seem to be wrong. I vaguely recall that one of the disks presented his work as played by the Hollywood String Quartet, but find no support for that now, either.
I have no idea what brought all of this to mind, all these years later. What I am seeing now is how easily so much falls into oblivion.
All this time spent online is not at all what I anticipated in retirement.
Perhaps, you know, rather than the lingering over coffee and an open newspaper or even a Bible and or deep meditation in front of a candle first thing each day.
I’m still seeking an ideal daily routine, or perhaps even a weekly one.
What are my goals at this stage of my life? I’d still love to have a champion for my literary ambitions.
For that matter, how will the renovations to our dwelling impact me? It should be easier to stay up later or take afternoon naps, for one thing, or even listen to music. Things were getting pretty crowded.
Many of my activities weren’t on the horizon, back when I was thinking ahead to my years of freedom. Blogging, choir, photography, and, for a while, swimming laps all came along after I left the newsroom. As was moving to this remote fishing village on an island in Maine, where 8 p.m. is the local midnight and dawn can start appearing around 3.
One option just might be rediscovering the joys of “simmering” abed in the morning, likely with (decaf) coffee and some light reading or journaling.
Now, if I could only purge some of my deadline-driven dreams that trouble my sleep.
When my plantar fasciitis and related ankle pain kicked in again, I assumed that the only real healing required extended rest.
Shoe inserts, a few exercises, and ibuprofen seemed to provide some relief, but I really don’t want to be taking one more pill in my daily regimen and, frankly, I wasn’t so sure that anything that would cover up what my body was trying to tell me was such a good idea.
Finally, I did cave in at my wife’s suggestion of Voltaren nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory ointment. I just couldn’t see how something applied to the surface of the skin could really reach far into the muscles. I guess all that Bengay smeared on me in my childhood hadn’t convinced me.
We buy ours in Canada, by the way, where the tubes that are offered are stronger and longer-acting.
So far, as I’ll crow, my attitude’s changed.
It even has me reconsidering some of the traditional treatments in the healing circles of our neighboring Passamaquoddy tribe. Pine tar, anyone? They say it works wonders.
For years, Vanity Fair closed each edition with its own Proust questionnaire of a celebrity, which I always read even when it was my introduction to the celebrity in question.
Turns out Proust merely prompted what became a popular party game and perhaps more.
Still, I’ve found that these can be a fine prompt for self-reflections, especially when I was drafting contributor’s notes to accompany my literary appearances in small-press periodicals.
Here goes.
What is your idea of perfect happiness? Being centered in the Holy Now within a circle of those I love and trust.
What is your greatest extravagance? Dining out. Or entry-level boutique wines.
What is your current state of mind? Littered across too many fields.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Actions rooted in a sense of duty or obligation, rather than passion or desire.
What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Patriotism.
What is your favorite occupation? Deep writing and revision when the act becomes a form of prayer.
What is your most marked characteristic? Serious, with a twist of lime.
What do you most value in your friends? Spiritual warmth.
What do you most dislike / deplore about your appearance? Aging, and all that comes with it.
Which living person do you most despise? Besides Trump and his toadies on the Supreme Court?
On what occasion do you lie? Not lies, exactly, but less than full disclosure under uncomfortable conditions.
Or much else, for that matter.
He was my introduction to philosophy professor, and then a semester of logic.
I expected to learn pithy bits of wisdom but discovered that philosophy is mostly about bottomless questions. I did find symbolic logic enticing, akin to geometry a few years earlier.
He was young, apparently Greek, as I recognize today – that curly hair and beard resembled any of a slew of statues. Rumors were that he was madly in love with his girlfriend and spent most of his nights talking long-distance to her in Europe.
What fascinated us was his clothing, the same cheap gabardine suit and tie and pair of scuffed brown oxfords every time he showed up for class. We assumed it was the same pair of socks and same shirt, too.
The next semester he wore a different suit but only that one to every class.
Later, hearing of his finals question from the previous year, I was grateful I hadn’t had him then.
The question he assigned for the blue-books scribbles was just one word:
“Why?”
Nothing else.
Most of the students labored away, hoping to chance across an acceptable answer.
The “A” grade went to the one who wrote a one-world answer:
“Because.”
And the “B” went to the one who used two: “Why not?”
I’m not writing poems lately
but I’m not praying much, either
Let me elaborate:
Consider the act of writing as prayer. Neither is done for outward compensation, much less any guarantee of results, but rather to open one’s heart and mind to what is eternal and true – and attune oneself to that, regardless.
I was looking at one of our typically outrageous dawns or maybe it was a sunset and realized it was as amazing as an aroura borealis.
Jnana's Red Barn 