drenched
poetry
leaves
drip
dirty
from the top of the tree
and splash around the children
nursery rhyming.
if they're lucky they'll stay dry this year
and tear up clovers but nevermind
the voice from the school house
jangling lessons.
and then the sophisticated television
foretelling the future
in images
snappy and vile
promises pointless greed and politics.
this year the children are all getting drenched
and next year there will be a new breed of
the same old shit.
let's follow one child now
as he grows through the peaceful anatomy of lizards and fantasy
on his game boy screen.
don't be too quick to tell him
beyond the flying dragons is nothing
but a dying planet and a corporation sponsoring it.
but don't let him discover it all on his own either
or you'll never get home again.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Books could be written about The Key, a new 3-part serial by Donna Franceschild. Having attended a special preview at BAFTA last night, I believe it will become a classic of television drama. In her introduction the author congratulated the BBC on supporting this project. Somebody from the BBC contacted the author by phone and asked if she would like to do a young girl coming of age story. She responded by saying something to the effect of, "How about if I do a three-part series covering the social and political background and the history of the 20th century, that explains the factors leading up to the story of the girl and her situation?" The producer said, "Ok, leave it with me." (That was the author's jocular paraphrase of the conversation.) The four years consisted of one year to get the go-ahead, one year of research, one year of writing, and one year of production.
The Key is a brilliant portrayal of the effects of politics on ordinary families, and the effect that ordinary people can have on policy when they stand "the gither." That is the accompaniment, the obligado, the orchestra (and there is a beautiful score played by the BBC Concert Orchestra) but the melody is the personal journey of Jessie, one of the two granddaughters, and her sister, played by Ronni Ancona who is about to become a New Labour MP, and in the process is put under pressure to quite literally betray her own grandmother and everything she stood for. Jessie is writing a story called The Key, about her grandmother, who always wore a key as a pendant on her neck. You'll have to watch BBC2 this September to find out why.
The Key (press release - pdf)
The Key is a brilliant portrayal of the effects of politics on ordinary families, and the effect that ordinary people can have on policy when they stand "the gither." That is the accompaniment, the obligado, the orchestra (and there is a beautiful score played by the BBC Concert Orchestra) but the melody is the personal journey of Jessie, one of the two granddaughters, and her sister, played by Ronni Ancona who is about to become a New Labour MP, and in the process is put under pressure to quite literally betray her own grandmother and everything she stood for. Jessie is writing a story called The Key, about her grandmother, who always wore a key as a pendant on her neck. You'll have to watch BBC2 this September to find out why.
The Key (press release - pdf)
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
There are two new poems by W. S. Merwin this month. I think these are wonderful. See what you think. I have never felt like linking any poems in the Atlantic Monthly until now.
To Smoke A poem by W. S. Merwin
To a Tortoiseshell Lyre A poem by W. S. Merwin
To Smoke A poem by W. S. Merwin
To a Tortoiseshell Lyre A poem by W. S. Merwin
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Thursday, August 07, 2003
The Ballad of Lord Archer
Air: Lord Franklin
Lord Archer bade his whore depart
With pounds two thousand for her fare
Not knowing that the hacks were smart
They trapped Lord Archer in their snare
Before the court next day he stood
And swore his chastity for life
His mate an alibi proved good
The Judge admired his fragrant wife
Five hundred grand against the Press
You'll pay to slight his Lordship's name
The whore not fragrant so we guess
A liar and charlatan put to shame
To follow Whittington then essayed
Lord Archer to be London's mayor
But the mate his friendship ill repaid
And revoked his alibi unfair
Four years hard labour you deserve
Lord Archer now a prisoner wan
Four years in open prison serve
In stripes and shackles noble con
Air: Lord Franklin
Lord Archer bade his whore depart
With pounds two thousand for her fare
Not knowing that the hacks were smart
They trapped Lord Archer in their snare
Before the court next day he stood
And swore his chastity for life
His mate an alibi proved good
The Judge admired his fragrant wife
Five hundred grand against the Press
You'll pay to slight his Lordship's name
The whore not fragrant so we guess
A liar and charlatan put to shame
To follow Whittington then essayed
Lord Archer to be London's mayor
But the mate his friendship ill repaid
And revoked his alibi unfair
Four years hard labour you deserve
Lord Archer now a prisoner wan
Four years in open prison serve
In stripes and shackles noble con
Sunday, August 03, 2003
I Shoulda had a Sea Monkey
This afternoon about half past four or a quarter thereof
I had a moment of epiphany -
one of those eurekas when the universe makes a burp
and suddenly sense oozes through the membrane
and I knew what was missing,
the which I had been seeking through folly or desperation
for what has proven so far to be the rest of my life.
I never had a Sea Monkey.
I never saw a Sea Monkey.
I never knew personally, first hand, up close and tall, anyone who ever grew a Sea Monkey.
I never learned if they really came to life
when you added water
and if they swam
and if when you took them from the water
their tiny bodies wiggled with form and substance;
if you could squish them through your fingers
and feel the slimy life within,
and if they had a heartbeat.
I saw the advertisements in the back of treasured comics
promising to send inert and crystallized
a package of living creatures that would come to life
in a drinking glass on my kitchen table
with the addition pure and simple of ordinary water
from the tap.
It was Fantastic Four I liked the most,
collected for a while. Not the usual for a girl, I suppose,
but what is usual?
I was looking for a hero just like all the others.
I had been a Lulu Tubby fan, cutting dolls from old socks
drawing faces with colored crayons
sewing clothing to match the comic strip,
before moving right along to Archie and Veronica
and the blonde Betty who I never could tell was she his lover or his friend,
and I still can’t seem to get that right.
I try to make some sense of this
by putting things in order,
which would be easier if I had a momentous event
like the birth of Sea Monkeys
to mark the calendar, but instead I remember
this was after the honeysuckle oak tree sidewalk scene
and before the little sister came to be,
but on reflection was about the time of her father
with his baby soft skin that had no hair, he said,
because he was part Native American,
but was the fattest Indian with the whitest skin I had ever seen,
being only and most loosely familiar with Tonto from TV.
And that was long before he was shot in a barroom brawl.
Or so I heard.
And had to tell my little sister.
I think if I had used my babysitting money
to order some of those Sea Monkeys
all the other questions would be smaller to consider.
This afternoon about half past four or a quarter thereof
I had a moment of epiphany -
one of those eurekas when the universe makes a burp
and suddenly sense oozes through the membrane
and I knew what was missing,
the which I had been seeking through folly or desperation
for what has proven so far to be the rest of my life.
I never had a Sea Monkey.
I never saw a Sea Monkey.
I never knew personally, first hand, up close and tall, anyone who ever grew a Sea Monkey.
I never learned if they really came to life
when you added water
and if they swam
and if when you took them from the water
their tiny bodies wiggled with form and substance;
if you could squish them through your fingers
and feel the slimy life within,
and if they had a heartbeat.
I saw the advertisements in the back of treasured comics
promising to send inert and crystallized
a package of living creatures that would come to life
in a drinking glass on my kitchen table
with the addition pure and simple of ordinary water
from the tap.
It was Fantastic Four I liked the most,
collected for a while. Not the usual for a girl, I suppose,
but what is usual?
I was looking for a hero just like all the others.
I had been a Lulu Tubby fan, cutting dolls from old socks
drawing faces with colored crayons
sewing clothing to match the comic strip,
before moving right along to Archie and Veronica
and the blonde Betty who I never could tell was she his lover or his friend,
and I still can’t seem to get that right.
I try to make some sense of this
by putting things in order,
which would be easier if I had a momentous event
like the birth of Sea Monkeys
to mark the calendar, but instead I remember
this was after the honeysuckle oak tree sidewalk scene
and before the little sister came to be,
but on reflection was about the time of her father
with his baby soft skin that had no hair, he said,
because he was part Native American,
but was the fattest Indian with the whitest skin I had ever seen,
being only and most loosely familiar with Tonto from TV.
And that was long before he was shot in a barroom brawl.
Or so I heard.
And had to tell my little sister.
I think if I had used my babysitting money
to order some of those Sea Monkeys
all the other questions would be smaller to consider.
Monday, July 14, 2003
door
I often thought beginning again.
I would need at least an
easy tranquile afternoon or
a train arriving on
schedule.
A mere carnal delight
of intimate theft would do.
A fioriture pick from Wilde's
words would do fine too.
Then again, I prefer forgetfulness or
chat with the next-door carpenter who's
passion for old alleys whispered sense,
and if dogs did not bark at night,
eternity would go unnoticed.
With all my due respect for miscalculations
who saved my life all too often, I have to admit:
I have been an ideal patient.
One thing bothered me though, a tiny detail.
I could not see my pipe in the mirror.
No, no, no. I'm not absurd. It is because of this magic
of words of no particular meaning, that
this paradox of a journey would have no value
if it was reality
stratos©2003
I often thought beginning again.
I would need at least an
easy tranquile afternoon or
a train arriving on
schedule.
A mere carnal delight
of intimate theft would do.
A fioriture pick from Wilde's
words would do fine too.
Then again, I prefer forgetfulness or
chat with the next-door carpenter who's
passion for old alleys whispered sense,
and if dogs did not bark at night,
eternity would go unnoticed.
With all my due respect for miscalculations
who saved my life all too often, I have to admit:
I have been an ideal patient.
One thing bothered me though, a tiny detail.
I could not see my pipe in the mirror.
No, no, no. I'm not absurd. It is because of this magic
of words of no particular meaning, that
this paradox of a journey would have no value
if it was reality
stratos©2003
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
This begins as what appears to be a ramble, but there is a poem at the end and the parts in the middle will take the reader in a convoluted way from here to there with a modicum of adhesion. If, that is, the reader can postpone impatience and take the journey slow as a Southern drawl - like a story told on a Sunday afternoon from an old porch swing, between sips of sweet iced-tea with lemon in tall, green glasses dripping the cold sweat of summer humidity.
Yes, it is that sort of ramble. Is there any other for one so entrenched in the life south of the Mason-Dixon line?
The only thing causing pause in progress is the decision of whether to start at the beginning and proceed sequentially or start in the middle and weave in the beginning or start at the end and tell how I came to be here. I will start somewhere that could be any of these, depending on your personal interpretation.
I am learning a new language. I have entered the second half of the first century of this lifetime – optimistically speaking – with the realization that one language is not enough, should never have been enough, simply does not say enough. It does not speak enough. I have come to realize there is much I have never heard because I did not have the language to hear it. So, I have begun to learn Spanish.
There are many reasons for this and many motivations. It began as a wish to describe the blue of a Mexican sky and discovering it could only be done in the language of that sky. English can talk about it, but English cannot be it. I need the language of that sky to be the sky, to speak for the sky. That was the beginning. Georgia O’Keefe once wrote, “It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough I could have it.” Perhaps I heard the same voice tell me if I could write it, name it, be it as it is, I can have it. But for that I need words I do not yet have.
There are more practical reasons that are merely intellectual justification. The reality is the language of the Romans, and the languages derived from that language, speak more deeply within us. I have found listening to the language, without understanding the words, reveals its own message, and it is very pleasing to the ear. As I gain tiny illuminations of understanding, the pleasure is intensified.
This has been said to make the reader aware of my recent and developing interest in the language of Spain. From there the story segues into my daily practice of reading the “poem of the day” at Poetry Daily. I only occasionally find a nugget to savor, but when I do it is quite a savor. I found one of those this week entitled Sea Washes Sand Scours Sea by Tom Vander Ven. Now, in fairness to Mr. Vander Ven, his poem is worth a read, and I do hope you will look it up and find as much to treasure as I. I have printed it out and pinned it to the bulletin board next to the computer, and I will share it with others when time permits. However, I think one poem is enough to include in this ramble, and for this I have chosen another one.
Vander Ven introduces his poem with the following quote from another poet:
No hay camino. El camino se hace al andar. – Antonio Machado
My ear heard the sounds of those words, and my mind flew in search of meaning. With the help of I found the source. I subsequently rushed out to locate a book by this poet, preferably with English translation and was very fortunate to find one copy at a local Barnes & Noble. The book title is Antonio Machado: Selected Poems, and the editor/translator is Alan Trueblood, espoused by some critics to be one of the truer translations.
I am very pleased. I have found one more reason, perhaps the more sustainable reason, for learning another language.
from Proverbs and Song-Verse
VI
Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista astrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.
(translation)
VI
Wayfarer, the only way
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wayfarer, there is no way,
you make the way as you go.
As you go, you make the way
and stopping to look behind,
you see the path that your feet
will never travel again.
Wayfarer, there is no way-
only foam trails in the sea.
- Antonio Machado
Yes, it is that sort of ramble. Is there any other for one so entrenched in the life south of the Mason-Dixon line?
The only thing causing pause in progress is the decision of whether to start at the beginning and proceed sequentially or start in the middle and weave in the beginning or start at the end and tell how I came to be here. I will start somewhere that could be any of these, depending on your personal interpretation.
I am learning a new language. I have entered the second half of the first century of this lifetime – optimistically speaking – with the realization that one language is not enough, should never have been enough, simply does not say enough. It does not speak enough. I have come to realize there is much I have never heard because I did not have the language to hear it. So, I have begun to learn Spanish.
There are many reasons for this and many motivations. It began as a wish to describe the blue of a Mexican sky and discovering it could only be done in the language of that sky. English can talk about it, but English cannot be it. I need the language of that sky to be the sky, to speak for the sky. That was the beginning. Georgia O’Keefe once wrote, “It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough I could have it.” Perhaps I heard the same voice tell me if I could write it, name it, be it as it is, I can have it. But for that I need words I do not yet have.
There are more practical reasons that are merely intellectual justification. The reality is the language of the Romans, and the languages derived from that language, speak more deeply within us. I have found listening to the language, without understanding the words, reveals its own message, and it is very pleasing to the ear. As I gain tiny illuminations of understanding, the pleasure is intensified.
This has been said to make the reader aware of my recent and developing interest in the language of Spain. From there the story segues into my daily practice of reading the “poem of the day” at Poetry Daily
Vander Ven introduces his poem with the following quote from another poet:
No hay camino. El camino se hace al andar. – Antonio Machado
My ear heard the sounds of those words, and my mind flew in search of meaning. With the help of
I am very pleased. I have found one more reason, perhaps the more sustainable reason, for learning another language.
from Proverbs and Song-Verse
VI
Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista astrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.
(translation)
VI
Wayfarer, the only way
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wayfarer, there is no way,
you make the way as you go.
As you go, you make the way
and stopping to look behind,
you see the path that your feet
will never travel again.
Wayfarer, there is no way-
only foam trails in the sea.
- Antonio Machado
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Tourettes for Professionals
Rick G Walber
Don't ask for I cannot join your ganglia.
Refrain your waxing titrations.
Ghosting limbs reserve autonomous
Echopraxia to their own desultory devices.
Off shoots articulate, emulate.
Random is regular as anti clockwork when
Grunting inaudible utterances.
Expletives to a degree
Send me into isolation.
Grace your prognosis on a deserving mind.
In complete innocence I will motor on.
Leave me be to discover myself.
Lend a head when I need clemency and
Ease my unmerited affliction.
Defect; your deluded farce.
Ebb with time alone to
Loosen its grip.
Arithmomania is my security blanket,
Today counts as any other.
Onlookers grimace as I, yet they
Urge their premonitory swear box
Right under my nose in
Expectant chorea, don't insult me or
Tic me off for I am not yet consummate.
Till that day arrives
Each day I swear brings no remission.
© Rick G Walber, 6/06/2003
Rick G Walber
Don't ask for I cannot join your ganglia.
Refrain your waxing titrations.
Ghosting limbs reserve autonomous
Echopraxia to their own desultory devices.
Off shoots articulate, emulate.
Random is regular as anti clockwork when
Grunting inaudible utterances.
Expletives to a degree
Send me into isolation.
Grace your prognosis on a deserving mind.
In complete innocence I will motor on.
Leave me be to discover myself.
Lend a head when I need clemency and
Ease my unmerited affliction.
Defect; your deluded farce.
Ebb with time alone to
Loosen its grip.
Arithmomania is my security blanket,
Today counts as any other.
Onlookers grimace as I, yet they
Urge their premonitory swear box
Right under my nose in
Expectant chorea, don't insult me or
Tic me off for I am not yet consummate.
Till that day arrives
Each day I swear brings no remission.
© Rick G Walber, 6/06/2003
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
wrap this around your wordmouth, part 6
Wrap this around your wordmouth and tell me what teethers.
You see I am terminal. Not in any worblesense that would cause long suffering to my progeny. But terminal in the realsense. Terminal in the quicksense. My eyesight was the first to go. Really. I can't tell if you are a piece of toilet pepper or Marie Antoinette biting her fingernails. Then the hearing, you know. Hear that? I don't.
Chauncy tasted leprosy when he was a budling. Then later in life he was chimpanzled by a coronaryman before his plugbucket became undoodled and his carrottack wedgewayed into the littlest primdot. It gave me some small sadisfaction.
I asked Chauncy if I could wedgeway his femprogeny. He said 'nah'. That Chauncy. I'm gonna wedgeway anyway.
Fibriomitiocondiopestatosis. ALSMRBAA Death Fever for short. That's the death-ease. A slow spreading of flylike baubles that live 3 dolotrics off the skinpreen. They can't be shoodled. Last week I tried to shoodle them but they trickuled like old moonbonnets re the an drop. It's terminal, you see. I wasn't kidding.
So I'm laying here and flipped through the buttribbons. Mixbot.
Two banditos were holed up in a half-way house on third street. They have fivespan, a skingirl, and one of toonhall's mixpreen grimfritters. Negotiations are
Gum death-ease. Don't be caddled in bingtoi. 3 out of 10 d
I can't hear anything, but it looked like some woman was nagging six men again.
Did I tell you about my hearing? It's proto-ick-ick. The nogginscan too. It goes. Let me tell you it goes. And when the nogginscan goes, libble ungrays flickle inouterspan bingtoi. Tell me I'm wrong.
Bye and the booby, I should inflict my goosemix now. Nuzzletime.
Wrap this around your wordmouth and tell me what teethers.
You see I am terminal. Not in any worblesense that would cause long suffering to my progeny. But terminal in the realsense. Terminal in the quicksense. My eyesight was the first to go. Really. I can't tell if you are a piece of toilet pepper or Marie Antoinette biting her fingernails. Then the hearing, you know. Hear that? I don't.
Chauncy tasted leprosy when he was a budling. Then later in life he was chimpanzled by a coronaryman before his plugbucket became undoodled and his carrottack wedgewayed into the littlest primdot. It gave me some small sadisfaction.
I asked Chauncy if I could wedgeway his femprogeny. He said 'nah'. That Chauncy. I'm gonna wedgeway anyway.
Fibriomitiocondiopestatosis. ALSMRBAA Death Fever for short. That's the death-ease. A slow spreading of flylike baubles that live 3 dolotrics off the skinpreen. They can't be shoodled. Last week I tried to shoodle them but they trickuled like old moonbonnets re the an drop. It's terminal, you see. I wasn't kidding.
So I'm laying here and flipped through the buttribbons. Mixbot.
Two banditos were holed up in a half-way house on third street. They have fivespan, a skingirl, and one of toonhall's mixpreen grimfritters. Negotiations are
Gum death-ease. Don't be caddled in bingtoi. 3 out of 10 d
I can't hear anything, but it looked like some woman was nagging six men again.
Did I tell you about my hearing? It's proto-ick-ick. The nogginscan too. It goes. Let me tell you it goes. And when the nogginscan goes, libble ungrays flickle inouterspan bingtoi. Tell me I'm wrong.
Bye and the booby, I should inflict my goosemix now. Nuzzletime.
Saturday, June 07, 2003
In the Middle
Jan Harris
Standing on the bridge watching brown water
wash the past downstream.
A discarded letter read, re-read, red
words all soaked away,
a shoe that was once brand new and danced, dragged,
stopped and jumped right in,
a cacophony of being in its place
fish, water fleas, weed,
a place from the commotion of being.
Standing on the bridge watching empty sky.
The future all gone,
no starlight, no moon, no far galaxies
to cause reflections
or to reflect on. Waiting for resolve
to unlock the light
to shine anew, illuminating night,
to show the water wash the past downstream
and wait for today.
© Jan Harris May 2003
Jan Harris
Standing on the bridge watching brown water
wash the past downstream.
A discarded letter read, re-read, red
words all soaked away,
a shoe that was once brand new and danced, dragged,
stopped and jumped right in,
a cacophony of being in its place
fish, water fleas, weed,
a place from the commotion of being.
Standing on the bridge watching empty sky.
The future all gone,
no starlight, no moon, no far galaxies
to cause reflections
or to reflect on. Waiting for resolve
to unlock the light
to shine anew, illuminating night,
to show the water wash the past downstream
and wait for today.
© Jan Harris May 2003
Thursday, May 01, 2003
the diary of a storm
Thursday, May 1, 2003
Today I learned there is a dog named Storm. Now, that would not be of much interest to most people, but Storm is not your usual dog. He is currently experiencing unemployment and will, most likely, never work again. His owner has expressed some desire to have him adopted. I have expressed a reciprocal desire to adopt him. If his owner finds me suitable. If Storm finds me suitable. I will let you know how that turns out, but today I want to tell you what I know about him.
Storm is a trained 'search and rescue' dog. It seems even in the canine world there is career specialization. He was trained to find survivors. His job was to go into to burned out or collapsed buildings, or caved in caves and dig among the rubble to sniff out survivors. His first big assignment was in New York City, at the site now known as Ground Zero. He was sent from Louisiana to find survivors.
And he failed. He looked. He dug until his paws were burned and continued to dig. He dug until his stomach was burned and continued to dig. He became desperate and despondent because there were no survivors for him to find. Only cadavers. He was not trained to find cadavers. Other dogs were trained for that.
When the burns became too painful to look at, and hope of finding anyone alive was exhausted, Storm was sent home to his trainer. He arrived home discouraged and with a real sense of failure. He had not been able to do his job. He had not been successful. He had been taught that if he did what he was trained to do he would find someone alive. And he failed to do that. Dogs thus trained want nothing more than to please their trainers, to do the job they were trained to do so they can wag their tail at the end of the day and know they deserve that pat on the head.
Storm was unable to wag. His trainer hoped he would recover with time and special care, but he has not. Two and a half years later, Storm appears to suffer from something similar to "failure to thrive." He is not dying, but he cannot maintain a healthy weight. He continues to be despondent and unsuitable for work. He is loved by his trainer, but living in a kennel where dogs are trained to assist in search and rescue is not the same as living as a family pet. It is hoped that if he finds the love of a family he will recover his love of life.
Moose the beagle, expert at "licking the love back into ya,'" and I hope we are found to be suitable. However, if a family can be found with little children abounding with glee, I will be just as happy for Storm to be with them. I only know that I cannot let him stay in the kennel. With all the sadness he has inside.
I will keep you posted on the outcome.
Thursday, May 1, 2003
Today I learned there is a dog named Storm. Now, that would not be of much interest to most people, but Storm is not your usual dog. He is currently experiencing unemployment and will, most likely, never work again. His owner has expressed some desire to have him adopted. I have expressed a reciprocal desire to adopt him. If his owner finds me suitable. If Storm finds me suitable. I will let you know how that turns out, but today I want to tell you what I know about him.
Storm is a trained 'search and rescue' dog. It seems even in the canine world there is career specialization. He was trained to find survivors. His job was to go into to burned out or collapsed buildings, or caved in caves and dig among the rubble to sniff out survivors. His first big assignment was in New York City, at the site now known as Ground Zero. He was sent from Louisiana to find survivors.
And he failed. He looked. He dug until his paws were burned and continued to dig. He dug until his stomach was burned and continued to dig. He became desperate and despondent because there were no survivors for him to find. Only cadavers. He was not trained to find cadavers. Other dogs were trained for that.
When the burns became too painful to look at, and hope of finding anyone alive was exhausted, Storm was sent home to his trainer. He arrived home discouraged and with a real sense of failure. He had not been able to do his job. He had not been successful. He had been taught that if he did what he was trained to do he would find someone alive. And he failed to do that. Dogs thus trained want nothing more than to please their trainers, to do the job they were trained to do so they can wag their tail at the end of the day and know they deserve that pat on the head.
Storm was unable to wag. His trainer hoped he would recover with time and special care, but he has not. Two and a half years later, Storm appears to suffer from something similar to "failure to thrive." He is not dying, but he cannot maintain a healthy weight. He continues to be despondent and unsuitable for work. He is loved by his trainer, but living in a kennel where dogs are trained to assist in search and rescue is not the same as living as a family pet. It is hoped that if he finds the love of a family he will recover his love of life.
Moose the beagle, expert at "licking the love back into ya,'" and I hope we are found to be suitable. However, if a family can be found with little children abounding with glee, I will be just as happy for Storm to be with them. I only know that I cannot let him stay in the kennel. With all the sadness he has inside.
I will keep you posted on the outcome.
the lifespan of the human eye
Someone I didn't see raised the blind of the window across the street and I saw a large, blue balloon that seemed to float on its own, untouched by hand or string or ceiling in the middle of a small, empty room. There was something about the balloon that reminded me of a gesture that I had taken part in so many years ago when I noticed such things and became involved in them through no fault or credit of my own.
I was reading on the metro and a family of tourists sat a few seats in front of me. I noticed the daughter, who was probably a few years younger than I was at the time, and I thought that she noticed me too. Nothing was said, but when we exited the metro and the family went their way and I went my way, separated by the distance of a large parking lot, I turned around to see that the girl had turned around also and we waved to each other. Certainly I would never see her again and if I had at any point in my life since then, I had no knowledge of it.
I refocused and inconsequential though it was to my existence, I sat in an unfolded chair with my back straight and both feet on the ground. The night before I pondered and commented out loud on the infantocratic regime of the neighbors below. No one listened. And yet I felt dazzled at the prospect that a day later I had the pleasure of being circumspect about something that I had said the night before. Circumspection was my bon-bon and I treated it to myself only on the rarest of occasions.
I meant to spend my day jotting down some notes on the word 'distend' and how it fabricated a sort of credibility to any given thesis it was used in. A fabrication of credibility was no doubt an illusion, and yet I was wont, as was my wont, to relegate what was to be a jotting down to a thought dismissed. The nature of illusion fascinated me. Not the kind of illusion that magicians do. Not the illusion of something not being there that is there, but the illusion of something being there that isn't there. But how could one use words about something that really isn't there?
So my pencil stayed in its place and the white sheet of paper that I had taken from the notebook by my bed remained unchanged save for any microscopic draft that assailed it. I was unaware of any movement by the paper, which surprised me because the small window in my apartment was opened and I was certain that there was enough air out there in this big world, and that air was most likely moving in a manner that would exploit the smallest of creases let alone an opened window, however small, that was larger than a small crease.
So I sat and waited, deciding not to move until I saw the paper move. I didn't have to wait long because a few moments later as I was thinking about the motorcycle that I heard roaring by below my window, the left corner of the paper rose slightly before falling back into place.
I no longer sat in the chair and I wondered for a moment what consequences, if any, I would suffer. I moved closer to the window where I didn't see the motorcycle, which by now, had probably turned one of the corners, right or left, of the road that intersected the busy road upon which the building I lived in stood. Disappeared. Vanished. And it occurred to me that people who ride motorcycles are from the future and that if I were to encapsulate this new hypothesis into a few understandable words, that I would be doing a great service, not only to mankind, but to the future beings who existed now as well. It would remain only a hypothesis though, and never become a theory as I was frightened of theory, not because I wasn't a courageous man, but because others were so easily fooled by the mere mention of the word theory when accompanied by any number greater than five. I only theorized while I was on vacation and at a great distance from people.
I stood at my window looking at the balloon, pondering conversational devices that would make it possible to communicate with inanimate objects when another motorcycle roared by. There were many of them, I thought, and they circled the block of this busy neighborhood, which was a good thing really because I didn't have any clocks in my room, and therefore found it impossible to be certain of the time that most people use to reference points of the day. I knew now that it was three fifteen and forty-two forty-three forty-four seconds. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. And although people who ride motorcycles were from the future, I considered them not contrary to the ways of those living in the present and of a benevolent nature.
The blue balloon seemed to peer at me, which made me cast my eyes down. When I did I saw a fly crawling in my window and I was afraid for it because my window, when opened, had a tendency to slip. It usually slipped slowly until it reached a certain point then slammed to its base. I had invested much time in certain fathomable aspects of fly-life and conjectured with infallible logic that the fly would consider me a prophet if I could communicate with it. If the fly lived for only one month and I knew with certainty that my window would slide down and kill it, I could save the fly's life by telling it one minute before it died, which would probably seem like someone telling a human something a few days or weeks before something happened to them. Of course my window slipped much faster than that and I was never certain when it would, so I could only shoo the fly away and leave it perplexed in whatever way flies are perplexed, as to the nature of the force that acted upon it. It might consider me a god, and yet, I was no god. If I were a god I would quiet the neighbor's children in the apartment below.
I retrieved my notebook and pencil and thought to capture the vision of that balloon in the window with words like blue, balloon, window, untouched, float, but when I looked up from my notebook I saw that the blind was being pulled down. That's when everything around me went dark and I disappeared.
Someone I didn't see raised the blind of the window across the street and I saw a large, blue balloon that seemed to float on its own, untouched by hand or string or ceiling in the middle of a small, empty room. There was something about the balloon that reminded me of a gesture that I had taken part in so many years ago when I noticed such things and became involved in them through no fault or credit of my own.
I was reading on the metro and a family of tourists sat a few seats in front of me. I noticed the daughter, who was probably a few years younger than I was at the time, and I thought that she noticed me too. Nothing was said, but when we exited the metro and the family went their way and I went my way, separated by the distance of a large parking lot, I turned around to see that the girl had turned around also and we waved to each other. Certainly I would never see her again and if I had at any point in my life since then, I had no knowledge of it.
I refocused and inconsequential though it was to my existence, I sat in an unfolded chair with my back straight and both feet on the ground. The night before I pondered and commented out loud on the infantocratic regime of the neighbors below. No one listened. And yet I felt dazzled at the prospect that a day later I had the pleasure of being circumspect about something that I had said the night before. Circumspection was my bon-bon and I treated it to myself only on the rarest of occasions.
I meant to spend my day jotting down some notes on the word 'distend' and how it fabricated a sort of credibility to any given thesis it was used in. A fabrication of credibility was no doubt an illusion, and yet I was wont, as was my wont, to relegate what was to be a jotting down to a thought dismissed. The nature of illusion fascinated me. Not the kind of illusion that magicians do. Not the illusion of something not being there that is there, but the illusion of something being there that isn't there. But how could one use words about something that really isn't there?
So my pencil stayed in its place and the white sheet of paper that I had taken from the notebook by my bed remained unchanged save for any microscopic draft that assailed it. I was unaware of any movement by the paper, which surprised me because the small window in my apartment was opened and I was certain that there was enough air out there in this big world, and that air was most likely moving in a manner that would exploit the smallest of creases let alone an opened window, however small, that was larger than a small crease.
So I sat and waited, deciding not to move until I saw the paper move. I didn't have to wait long because a few moments later as I was thinking about the motorcycle that I heard roaring by below my window, the left corner of the paper rose slightly before falling back into place.
I no longer sat in the chair and I wondered for a moment what consequences, if any, I would suffer. I moved closer to the window where I didn't see the motorcycle, which by now, had probably turned one of the corners, right or left, of the road that intersected the busy road upon which the building I lived in stood. Disappeared. Vanished. And it occurred to me that people who ride motorcycles are from the future and that if I were to encapsulate this new hypothesis into a few understandable words, that I would be doing a great service, not only to mankind, but to the future beings who existed now as well. It would remain only a hypothesis though, and never become a theory as I was frightened of theory, not because I wasn't a courageous man, but because others were so easily fooled by the mere mention of the word theory when accompanied by any number greater than five. I only theorized while I was on vacation and at a great distance from people.
I stood at my window looking at the balloon, pondering conversational devices that would make it possible to communicate with inanimate objects when another motorcycle roared by. There were many of them, I thought, and they circled the block of this busy neighborhood, which was a good thing really because I didn't have any clocks in my room, and therefore found it impossible to be certain of the time that most people use to reference points of the day. I knew now that it was three fifteen and forty-two forty-three forty-four seconds. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. And although people who ride motorcycles were from the future, I considered them not contrary to the ways of those living in the present and of a benevolent nature.
The blue balloon seemed to peer at me, which made me cast my eyes down. When I did I saw a fly crawling in my window and I was afraid for it because my window, when opened, had a tendency to slip. It usually slipped slowly until it reached a certain point then slammed to its base. I had invested much time in certain fathomable aspects of fly-life and conjectured with infallible logic that the fly would consider me a prophet if I could communicate with it. If the fly lived for only one month and I knew with certainty that my window would slide down and kill it, I could save the fly's life by telling it one minute before it died, which would probably seem like someone telling a human something a few days or weeks before something happened to them. Of course my window slipped much faster than that and I was never certain when it would, so I could only shoo the fly away and leave it perplexed in whatever way flies are perplexed, as to the nature of the force that acted upon it. It might consider me a god, and yet, I was no god. If I were a god I would quiet the neighbor's children in the apartment below.
I retrieved my notebook and pencil and thought to capture the vision of that balloon in the window with words like blue, balloon, window, untouched, float, but when I looked up from my notebook I saw that the blind was being pulled down. That's when everything around me went dark and I disappeared.
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