tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61357344011871832722024-03-12T22:27:40.160-04:00The Prompt ResponseThis is where you can post, read, give, and get comments on your writing inspired by prompts. If you want to leave a comment, please make sure it is only one of the following two kinds:
1. What you liked best about the writing?
2. About what did you wish the author had written more?
Have fun, be respectful, be helpful...The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-38818522726680316832016-11-27T19:22:00.000-05:002016-11-27T19:23:56.177-05:00What is my greatest fear?<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><br />What if I wrote the truth, about who I really am? All those little secrets I keep from even my closest friends, relatives, children, parents, spouse… What if I turned myself inside-out?<br /><br />The problem with turning myself inside-out is my insides are very messy: no boundaries, no social etiquette, often driven by basic instincts and not higher functions. The problem with turning myself inside-out is my insides are selfish, self-centered, self-consumed.<br /><br />I once knew a man who had no self-control. He suffered from head trauma, a concussion that compressed his frontal lobe. He was charming and disgusting, all at the same time. There were no secrets for him. Where I have a toll road, this fellow had a freeway between his thoughts and what came out of his mouth.<br /><br />His life was very difficult. He would tell people he wanted to kill them, when really it was just a passing thought, a brief spark, neuronic noise, fleeting, but hurtful once uttered.<br /><br />He had no friends. None would tolerate his outbursts of raw emotion, his politically incorrect blurts, his thoughtless comments and passing passions. He had lots of lovers. Women seemed to flock to his open emotional state. He was as easy to read as the Sunday comics. But the women seemed to go as quickly as they appeared. I was told by several of his revolving-door female partners that he was a passionate lover. Being a man of more controlled passions, I once asked him how many women he had slept with.<br /><br />“Too many to count,” he said sadly. “But, none of them stayed.”<br />“Did you ever want children?” I asked, afraid of his answer, that he might want to subject a child to his hectic cacophony of words.<br />“No,” he said, “though many of the women did.”<br />“Do you have children?”<br />“Not that I know of, but I’m sure some of the women I got pregnant decided to keep the baby.”<br /><br />I bit my tongue. I wanted to harangue him about responsibility, about planned parenting, but I knew it would only hurt him, make him feel ashamed of his malady.<br /><br />I often thought he would make a great fighter pilot, a world of pure reaction. And if I were ever in a battle, I would want him by my side. He would be the one knocking me down to avoid the bullet that I would take because I was frozen in thought, unable to act.<br /><br />So there must be some balance, this inside-out thing, revealing myself to others. I would hurt many, I’m sure, if I told the truth about what I was thinking. But it saddens me, that I will not have someone to share my inner thoughts, my deepest, primal feelings.<br /><br />I guess I am still afraid of letting myself out, inside-out. Maybe that’s why I write.<br /></span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-81396893506347278202016-03-21T18:35:00.000-04:002016-03-21T18:35:48.823-04:00Containers
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">People tell me my heart is huge. Then
why does it overflow so quickly? I cannot hold all the suffering I
see. So I give it away, to Grandfather, before I drown in compassion.
It is not a matter of being a coward, or an ostrich, but rather my
own survival. Maybe I am a coward, afraid to die of compassion. I
quiet my heart by shielding it, and lose all feeling, becoming a cold
shell, unable to communicate with loved ones.
</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-19411507701190613282016-03-21T18:05:00.000-04:002016-11-27T19:23:56.172-05:00The Shot<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I heard the shot, a single shot, a
revolver by the openness of it. I looked up, out the window, towards
the sound, up the hill to my neighbor's house. I blinked, my eyes
filling before my heart began to pound. It was 3:28pm.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I retired last year, moved to the
southeast, a small development and home-owners association, fifty
plastic-siding homes, white with green decorative shutters, and
rolling clean-shaved lawns with islands of dahlias. Half of us were
displaced Yankees, the other half southerners washed into the Blue
Ridge mountains on waves of humidity. Only one couple, one out of
fifty, was born in the state.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom, a Yankee, was 91,
Brooklyn-born to Italian parents. His wife, Ingrid, was 92. Tom was a
World War II veteran, his first day of active duty D-Day, landing at
Normandy, 19 years old, flowing with the invading forces through
France, Belgium, into Germany. He met his wife after the war, on the
beaches of Long Island, drawn to her foreign accent and broken
English. She was German, daughter of a general in Hitler's army.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom and Ingrid lived alone, inside
their home, rarely came out. She was blind, bed-ridden. He was in
better health, walked every morning past my house at 7am, spent the
rest of the day taking care of his wife, cooking, cleaning, bathing,
clothing.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I first met Tom on a rare walk of my
own. He was getting his mail, mistook me for someone he knew, waved.
He waited for me to climb the hill to the end of his driveway. He
seemed lonely, wanted to talk. I gave up my walk to listen.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I thanked him, for his military
service, and asked if he had gone back for the 70<sup>th</sup>
anniversary of D-Day. He scoffed, said he wanted no part of it.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He talked about his parents, New York
immigrants in the early 1900's, and their produce market in an
Italian neighborhood. I asked about family. His brother died 40 years
ago. No children.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I asked if I could bring them a meal
sometime. He declined. I told him I liked to cook. He shook his head.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I later met Ingrid on a sunny day after
a long stretch of rain, another excuse for me to walk. She and Tom
were stationed beside their garage, enjoying the sun, she in a wheel
chair, him standing behind. Her accent was heavy, her hearing poor.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was several months later that I
heard. Ingrid had just had a stroke two days earlier, was dying, was
at the hospital, was not expected to live.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I heard the shot, a single shot, at
3:28pm, the same time the call had come that Ingrid had died.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-2467986270929337762015-12-28T19:16:00.000-05:002015-12-28T19:16:03.373-05:00Something good that came from something bad.<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ve had it, Pops,” Jason said.<br /><br />Steve stopped walking. Jason didn’t.<br /><br />“Jason?”<br /><br />Another three steps, then father watched his son’s head fall, shoulders hunching forward. Jason didn’t turn, just stood there, a tree bent in the wind. Steve walked up alongside, afraid he wasn’t going to be able to help his son.<br /><br />“I’m a failure, Dad.”<br /><br />Jason’s flat whisper cut deep. Steve breathed, holding back tears, knew feeling sorry for his son wouldn’t help anything, changed his perspective.<br /><br />“You know, I’m pretty successful,” Steve said, walking again, hoping to engage his son in something other than his own self-pity.<br /><br />“You’re f*cking successful!”<br /><br />Jason quickly caught up, even as his father walked faster.<br /><br />“Yep, I’m f-ing successful!”<br /><br />They smiled at one another, accepting a truce on the taboo of Jason’s use of explitive deletives.<br /><br />“It’s partly your fault,” Steve said.<br />“What?”<br />“My success.”<br /><br />Jason stopped, jerked his body upright.<br /><br />“B*llsh*t!”<br />“Easy,” his dad reminded, keeping Jason focused on what was being discussed, not the playful use of foul language.<br /><br />“I wouldn’t be the man I am,” Steve said, facing Jason, looking him right in the eyes, “if it weren’t for you.”<br /><br />For a brief moment, sadness poured between them, a flood of memories, painful reminders of Jason’s brain damage and lack of self-control.<br /><br />“F*ck you!”<br /><br />Jason was off, walking fast.<br /><br />“It’s true,” Steve called, “and you know it.”<br /><br />Jason slowed.<br /><br />“You taught me patience, tolerance, acceptance,” Steve said, slowly closing the gap between them. “I would never have been as successful as I am, without you.”<br /><br />Jason turned. Even in the darkness his eyes glinted with the growing moisture.<br /><br />“It’s partly your fault,” Steve laughed, trying to distract his own tears. “If you think I’m successful, then you’re successful, too.”<br /><br />Father and son searched each other’s face for the truth that was there.<br /><br />“Come on,” Steve said, putting an arm around his son, pulling him close alongside as he turned them around, back towards the Christmas dinner and family that they had so abruptly left. “Let’s get some dinner.”</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-27487282702429611172015-12-28T19:10:00.000-05:002015-12-28T19:10:54.464-05:00 What hurts right now?<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The chill in the air reminds me how much I love to be held, warm, in the safe arms of a loved one, the heat seeping, penetrating every fear, relaxing every tension, releasing every anxiety.<br /><br />I wish I could give my children, now grown and responsible for themselves, the security I felt from my parents and family. Where did that feeling come from? My parents weren’t “holders” or “huggers”. Yet I have always felt safe. Perhaps it was just luck, the luck of NOT having that trust broken by circumstances.<br /><br />The holidays boil over with my insecurities, doubt, regret, remembrances of innocent childhood, unharmed, magical, protected from the outside world and all its ugliest challenges. I want to make it all better, a kiss on the finger, a band-aid wand.<br /><br />I have a mantra for the holidays: my suffering is caused by me taking responsibility for things I cannot control. It’s a variation of Buddhism and the Alcoholics Anonymous Serenity Prayer. As much as I might wish to have given my children the Christmas I remember, I cannot change the past, nor can I control their perception. So I let go of expectations, cherish my memories, let go of the pain of wanting to change things I cannot, and bath myself in gratitude, giving until it hurts, and letting the wonder of this moment wash me silly with the dopamine of delight.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-47617955282104069972015-12-28T19:04:00.000-05:002015-12-28T19:04:23.573-05:00Homonyms<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tether cut, the newborn floats, adrift, ripped from safe berth by birth.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-91023895687286960282015-09-01T15:56:00.000-04:002015-09-01T15:56:32.076-04:00Show rather than tell<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He stared, not at the blood-red Dahlias staked tall
and heavy against the next cloudburst, or the iridescent hummingbird
flying guard over the the sugar-water feeder, or the giant swallowtail
butterflies fluttering like folded scraps of tissue in the hot humid
air. He stared, out the window, at the outside, and wondered if it was
real, then rolled his wheelchair back in front of the television to watch Jeopardy.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-57618881388742584812015-09-01T15:53:00.000-04:002015-09-01T15:53:38.681-04:00Tattoo<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We met beneath my house, an 1885 Victorian raised
on cribbing to replace the old stone and mortar foundation. It seemed a
fitting place, in the middle of the city, to have a ceremony. He was
getting married tomorrow. The groom, best man, and six close friends
were celebrating his last day as a bachelor.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We stood in a circle, arms over shoulders, and talked of the coming
challenges. Most of us were married, had been married for years,
and told stories of battles and wars waged between husbands and wives,
and how to survive them.<br />
<br />
“We need to mark this moment,” the groom declared, and we grumbled our assent.<br />
<br />
We headed down the street, past the old church, the park, past the
Odd Fellows, the Masons, to the fountain, and the little tattoo shop on
the corner.<br />
<br />
“Let’s all get a tattoo,” someone said.<br />
<br />
I lagged behind, had never been inside a tattoo shop before, so followed after everyone else slipped through the door.<br />
<br />
“Brotherhood,” the tattoo artist was explaining. “It’s the<br />
Chinese symbol for brotherhood.”<br />
<br />
One by one each man sat in the chair. It reminded me of a barber’s chair,
might have been a barber’s chair. Then the buzz, the bravado smile, as
the needle jabbed at the stencil, into the skin of his right
shoulder. One by one, until it was my turn.<br />
<br />
“Come on,” he said.<br />
<br />
The tattoo artist cleaned his needles. I shook my head.<br />
<br />
“Come on,” they said.<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
They grabbed me, started to drag me to the chair.<br />
<br />
“Why not?” he asked.<br />
<br />
I told them. Nobody in my family had a tattoo. None of my brothers,
my father, my uncles, my grandfathers, none had ever gotten a tattoo. But the men still held me, still pulled me closer to the chair.<br />
<br />
“Wait,” he said. “It’s important to him. Let him go.”<br />
<br />
They didn’t, until he came and undid every hand that held me, telling them they had to respect my conviction.<br />
<br />
I followed them out of the tattoo shop, each nursing their shirts back over their wounds, seven brothers and another.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-67319009821496793672015-09-01T15:39:00.000-04:002015-09-01T15:39:27.468-04:00Change<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Change is elusive, like the mosquito I see out the
corner of my eye and disappears when I turn, only to wake the next
morning with a bite.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
“You’ve changed,” my friend says. He has nothing else to say and doesn’t call again.<br />
<br />
Have I changed? I know I have. From what to what? I talk less. I
listen more. I am not so sure of myself, not ready with the answer, the
solution, the right way. Nothing bothers me. Little interests me. Each
day is new, changed, the same.<br />
<br />
Spring changes to summer changes to fall changes to winter. I flow
with the seasons. Change is attachment to the difference between the
past and the present, but I forgive now, let the past be, and the
present is.<br />
<br />
I am a raindrop, a stream, a pond. Change is not for me. Change is for those who remember, and dream.</span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-52783494413916171982015-09-01T01:02:00.000-04:002015-09-01T15:40:27.641-04:00whisper, eternity, soar, frantic, thousand, chain, live, lie<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His was a whisper, closer, the heat of his cheek burning into hers.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Why shouldn’t I,” she thought. “Forty-five is not old.” But her head
echoed with another voice, “Hell is an eternity.” Still, she had waited,
been patient, tried for 18 years in a marriage that was killing her.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He touched her shoulder. Her heart pounded, lightened her head. She
let herself soar. He pushed open the door, went in, tugged at her arm.
She floated behind him, the choice made with the click of the latch.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">They were frantic, afraid, anxious. And then it was over.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Her disappointment welled, and a blink sped her life down her cheek.
His eyes searched, found. He was gentle this time, generous, until a
thousand petals burst into blossom, exploding the chain her father had
locked.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">She wept. He waited, held her. She melted into his arms. To live in
this moment was everything. They slept. She woke. He was gone. Her heart
ached. She smiled, knowing it would never happen again, knowing it was a
lie.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-5771487049865522952015-02-05T17:27:00.000-05:002015-02-06T00:33:58.258-05:00Special object to give...<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was pitch black and chilly, but the rain that had come and gone
the whole weekend had stopped. The clouds parted, giving us a
beautiful view of the Milky Way.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I led the men, staff in hand, single file, each man's right
hand on the shoulder of the man ahead of him. We walked in silence until
we came to the large circle of corn meal I poured earlier.
Cautioning against entering, I walked the men around the circle until
they were spread along its perimeter. I stepped back and introduced them
to the neighborhood.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I talked about the redwoods around us, how they were there before
any of us was born, how they would be there long after all of us died. I talked about a fallen redwood, just beyond our circle, still
taller on its side than any of us standing, and how it was on its
journey back into the earth.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I looked up at the stars and I asked the men to let themselves
stretch in time and space, connecting with their legacy, a legacy passed on for billions of years, across time and space.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We stood, quiet. The men waited as I lit a bundle of white sage, blew
out the flame, spread the smoke over my entire body. I went to each
man, blew on the embers until the bundle glowed red and a cloud of sweet
white smoke billowed. I wafted the smoke over his back side. My hand on
his shoulder, I gently guided him to turn clockwise, coaxed the smoke
over his front side, then guided him clockwise again, returning him to
face the other men around the circle. It was a Lakota cleansing
tradition known as smudging, that I had learned from my teacher, who
had learned from his.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The smudging took some time, a ritual that invited us all to be with
ourselves in a way so rarely found today, an invitation to sink into our
hearts.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Finishing the last man, I entered the circle,
walked to a large flat rock at the center, on which I laid the smoking
sage. I kneeled and said a prayer out loud to Grandfather, asking him to
take care of my family, to take care of the men putting on this initiation, and the men here around me.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Leaving the circle, I invited the first man on my left to enter. It did not take him long to find his voice at the altar, nor
any man, as we slowly rotated to allow each to enter. In the next
half-hour I was moved to tears as 20 men shared themselves through some 9
different manners of expression. Some I recognized: Christian, Judaic,
Islamic, including one man who honored us by singing a prayer in Lakota.
Others I did not.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When the last one finished, I led the men back inside, staff in
hand, single file, right hand on the shoulder of the man ahead, in
silence. And we left just as we had come. Almost.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-43845517578845910732015-01-26T17:25:00.000-05:002015-01-26T17:25:23.449-05:00What I Know<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What I know is that as I get older, that which I know
can keep me from seeing what I don’t know. Change is the domain of the
young, for whom it is not change, but just is. The older I get, the more
I realize how fragile the origins of my understanding. We are born
without attachment. We die without attachment. In between, things get
pretty sticky!</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-46112310710648269822015-01-26T17:22:00.000-05:002015-01-26T17:22:24.481-05:00Challenging Situation<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t have to understand his French. The man
growled and slurred the words as he wobbled towards the woman seated at
the table not far from my own. His jacket swung, heavy with grunge, as
he steadied himself against her wrought iron table and began to raise
his voice, transforming the quaint romantic Paris café into a trap. The
woman held her child tight, her eyes on his, even as he became angrier.
The child winced. The woman’s body stiffened. She slowly turned her
face, lifting her chin, ready to accept any blow. The man yelled,
slipped off her table and moved on, past my table, back into the street.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
And for years, I have asked myself why. Why didn’t I stand? Why
didn’t I stand up and walk over? Why didn’t I put myself between that
mother and child, to let her know, to let them both know, that I would
not have let any harm come to them, that they were not alone, on that
warm spring afternoon, in Paris.</span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-13170135628135033502015-01-26T14:54:00.000-05:002015-01-26T14:54:50.693-05:00Evening<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em> Pacific Sunset</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>
Through the evening haze,<br />
The sun slipped<br /> Behind a cloud<br /> To change her dress.<br />
<br />
I peeked beneath the horizon<br />
And saw the ocean of creation,<br /> Blue-green, sparkling with life,<br /> Swirling, hungrily swallowing all she offered.<br />
<br />
I joined the feast<br />
And let her slip into me.<br /> Warm, still, and then gone;<br />
A rainbow of echoes.</em></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-82063996672238817112015-01-26T14:43:00.001-05:002015-01-26T14:43:48.748-05:00Seeing Red<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It swam across my vision, a wisp of reddish-brown
smoke, then swirled as I turned my eye to try to see what it was. The
blood seeped within the clear fluid, shifting and spinning with every
flick of my eye.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“That’s strange,” I mumbled.<br />
“What?”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My wife was watching cable, back-to-back episodes of some real estate
reality show. I shifted my eyes left, right, left. The swirl was
beautiful, and reminded me of a murder mystery special effect.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Something’s happened to my eye,” I said.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was looking up, because the white ceiling made a better backdrop,
studying the flow of two fluids mixing. I recognized my intellectual
curiosity. It was my unemotional brain taking over as a defense
mechanism.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I’ve seen floaters before,” I said, “but this is… more.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My wife muted the television, turned to look at me. I didn’t lower my eyes, just kept staring at the ceiling.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Call Kaiser,” she said.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">She knew me well enough to make it a command rather than a question.
Her tone added to my growing fear of the unknown. I stood and walked to
the phone. The concern I saw on her face reminded me to stay calm. I
smiled, but felt the lie at the corners of my mouth.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I ignored the brownish haze filling my right eye and tried to make
out the tiny markings on the back of my health insurance card. Unable to
read the phone number, I pulled on my reading glasses and forced myself
to focus. Even so, I was only able to remember and dial one digit at a
time.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After a brief wait, and a short conversation with the nurse, I was talking with a doctor.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You need to go in to the emergency room,” he said. “Your retina may
be torn. If it’s not taken care of, you could have a detached retina.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was used to medical exaggeration. Lawsuits tended to encourage doctors to give very conservative advice. I knew the drill.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Can it wait until morning?”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was Friday night and I didn’t really want to spend hours in the
hospital emergency room waiting for a doctor to tell me I was fine,
exposing myself to who-knows-what diseases.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I wouldn’t advise it,” he said. “You could lose the sight in your eye.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Silence.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My heart beat faster. I realized I was taking shallow breaths and
took a long deep one, which ended as a sigh. He must have heard my
indecision.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“If you don’t go in to the emergency room, at least lie down facing
up. It will put less pressure on the torn retina, if there is one,” he
said. “But tomorrow morning you have to go and see a doctor.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I hung up the phone.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I have to go to the emergency room,” I whispered.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My wife stood up, got her coat, and without a word waited for me by the front door.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I fought back my anxiety and frustration as I headed out the door for
yet another trip to the emergency room, as if getting out of bed each
morning weren’t reminder enough that I was old, that I was going to die
some day, that I needed the help of someone else along the way.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sorry,” I said.<br />
“Don’t be silly,” she said.</span></span><br />
The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-87941373727296153802015-01-26T13:49:00.000-05:002015-02-05T17:55:23.764-05:00How do you want to be remembered?<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">How do I want to be remembered? “I” remembered?
Such an ego, self-centered thing. I pass on my DNA, because it will
contribute, or not, in the evolutionary process of survival, but be
remembered? As in a remembrance? A memory?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Memories are attachments to the past, to what has been. Do they serve
those who remember? Why remember? Perhaps to learn lessons through
transmission rather than experience. To learn faster, better, removed of
your ego perspective, burdened with mine. Be careful of what you
remember. It may not be the truth. It may be a distraction, a biased
perspective, more valuable forgotten than remembered.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But there are memories worth keeping, memories which are useful,
perhaps even across time and space. How to decide which memories are
valuable? Which memories to feed, encourage, pass on?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I hope I am remembered, only so far as it might be useful, helpful,
instructive to those that remember. If I have contributed no such
remembrances, please forget about me, and let the bad memories die with
me, the lessons learned, the search for truth advanced. Don’t remember
me. Instead, make your own memories, and be willing to be forgotten.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-9826622357529760812015-01-26T02:51:00.000-05:002015-01-26T02:51:31.062-05:00Color<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Winsor & Newton Cadmium Yellow Pale Hue, a bright yellow, a yellow that flashed the smiles of a thousand sunflowers on a bright day. I squirted another line of the paint onto my canvas. Where was my yellow?<br /><br />The tube was defective, so I bought another, then another. I even tried a different brand. But my yellow was gone. After four different tubes I knew it wasn't the paint at all. It was me.<br /><br />At the time, I thought it only odd and didn't pay enough attention. But as the months passed, I became more and more sad. The melancholy bled the color from my life, turning my world gray.<br /><br />I knew I was not well. I couldn't paint. But it took another two years for me to realize. Nightmares haunted my sleep, and waking became a chore. I was drowning in such a profound sorrow that living became painful and death floated on the horizon like a welcome island. It was one of those mornings, head splitting apart as I yanked myself conscious, that I knew I was not going to make it on my own.</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-7860788602673778902014-06-18T06:34:00.000-04:002014-06-18T06:34:37.243-04:00I Spy<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The sun was low. I didn’t notice this right away,
but knew there was something different. It was the leaves. It was the
shadows. They were too big, too dark, too horizontal. My eyes drifted,
trying to follow the rocking boughs, trying to wake up.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Bright sun was rare enough. Bright sunshine at sunrise was, well, I
had been in Ireland for five weeks and not once seen anything but clouds
in the morning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There was no sound, no rustle, no whisper. Perhaps my ears were still asleep, or the double-glazed windows were closed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“It’s too early,” the tree reassured me, every leaf smiling, every leaf glowing and dancing. “Go back to sleep.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">How could I argue. Sunrise meant 5am. And I was on vacation.</span><br />
The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-45369231709063375212014-06-12T10:16:00.001-04:002014-06-12T10:16:36.065-04:00Summer - Northern Latitudes
<span style="font-size: large;">As the earth’s north pole tilts towards the sun on its annual
seasonal swing, I love being north. June 21st is fast approaching. “The
days are getting longer,” as my mother would chime every morning of the
new year, though by June 1st, her voice already carried the wistful
regret of June 22nd.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where long days meant going to
bed before the sun and waking long before parents. I would go out into
the wild sassafras forests, trees with root-beer smelling feet and
large, three-fingered hands, lowering their vines to invite me to give
my best Tarzan cry. Deep in the forest hid the old log cabin, rotting,
where I would scratch for arrowheads while keeping an eye out for
Indians. Called home by the Ivanhoe cry of my father at the doorway, I
would quickly eat to go out again. And if it was Friday or Saturday
night, I would wait for dusk to chase and bottle lightning bugs.</span><br />
The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-11651251300643994192014-06-12T10:08:00.000-04:002014-06-12T10:08:03.162-04:00Internet Adventure - The Quest of Two New Words<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">April 8th, 2014 was a good day. I learned two new words: frenhoferian and furbelow. The circumstances of my enlightenment were as fascinating as the words' origins and meanings. Here, for no reason in particular except to share my love of questing and windmills, is how an e-mail that advertised a free book for Kindle was made to enrich my life.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The e-mail had arrived, like every day, advertising free books for my Kindle. I had a few minutes, so I double-clicked to open:</span></span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Posted: 08 Apr 2014 04:22 AM PDT<br />Complete Collection Of H.P.Lovecraft – 150 eBooks With 100+ Audio Book Links(Complete Collection Of Lovecraft’s Fiction, Juvenilia, Poems, Essays And Collaborations)<br />Orintage Publishing is proud to bring the complete works of … [visit site to read more]</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had seen Lovecraft's name often, though, strangely, it was mixed in my memory with L. Ron Hubbard. I remembered that Lovecraft had been one of the authors recently advertised by <a href="http://www.loa.org/volume.jsp?RequestID=223" target="_blank">Library of America</a>, a collection I respect, so I went to Wikipedia to learn more about Lovecraft. [<a href="http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/abandon-hope-all-ye-who-enter-here.html" target="_blank">Abandon all hope, ye who enter here</a>!] </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Wikipedia article included the sentence: "He subsisted in progressively straitened circumstances in his last years." I had never seen the word, "straitened," and had no idea what it meant, so I sent the mighty Google forth in search of the phrase, "progressively straitened circumstances."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The results? Only 43, and most of them were sites referring back to the same sentence about Lovecraft that I had seen at Wikipedia. So resubmitted the search excluding the sites that referred to Lovecraft. I was given the five results shown below, three of which referred to a sentence in a book on WWII and two of which referred to a book called <u>Ginger Man</u>. There were also links to a review of a book called <u>Julius Vogel: Business Politician</u> and a web site calling itself "Granite State Games":</span></span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Certain Victory: Images of World War II in the Japanese Media<br /><a href="http://books.google.com/books?isbn=0765617773">books.google.com/books?isbn=0765617773</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">David C. Earhart - 2009 - History</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The progressively straitened circumstances both prescribed behavior appropriate to wartime and proscribed “unpatriotic” behavior, as every day came to ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Ginger Man - Shvoong</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.shvoong.com/">www.shvoong.com</a> › Books › Novels & Novellas</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Aug 29, 2007 - Undeterred by his progressively straitened circumstances, he seduces his tenant, the naive and timid Miss Frost (a frustrated, ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">[PDF] 188 REVIEWS Julius Vogel: Business Politician. By Raewyn ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.nzjh.auckland.ac.nz/docs/1986/NZJH_20_2_09.pdf%E2%80%8E">www.nzjh.auckland.ac.nz/docs/1986/NZJH_20_2_09.pdf</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">of disappointed hopes and progressively straitened circumstances, remember his. •youthful scrapbook entry? 'The great merit of philosophy when we cannot ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Ginger Man Summary - eNotes.com</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.enotes.com/topics/ginger-man%E2%80%8E">www.enotes.com/topics/ginger-man</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Ginger Man presents the slapstick, bawdy, picaresque adventures of Sebastian Dangerfield. Born in St. Louis, Sebastian is supposedly studying law at ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">GRANITE STATE GAMES</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://granitestategames.tumblr.com/%E2%80%8E">granitestategames.tumblr.com/</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had been required to abandon my late model automobile, and inasmuch as my options were limited in my progressively straitened circumstances, I had spent ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Certain Victory Images of World War II in the Japanese ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.scribd.com/.../Certain-Victory-Images-of-World-War-II-in-the-Jap...%E2%80%8E">www.scribd.com/.../Certain-Victory-Images-of-World-War-II-in-the-Jap...</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Apr 11, 2011 - The progressively straitened circumstances both prescribed behavior appropriate to wartime and proscribed “unpatriotic” behavior, as every ...</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Disappointed at not finding a definition for the phrase, but intrigued by the rarity of its use, I searched for "straitened circumstances" and <a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/in+straitened+circumstances" target="_blank">found a definition</a> (one of 164 results) :</span></span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Adj. 1. in straitened circumstances - not having enough money to pay for necessities; hard up, impecunious, penniless, penurious, pinched; poor - having little money or few possessions; "deplored the gap between rich and poor countries"; "the proverbial poor artist living in a garret"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"It is but bare justice to Mr Swiveller to say, that, although the expenses of her education kept him <b>in straitened circumstances </b>for half a dozen years, he never slackened in his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently repaid by the accounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement, on his monthly visits to the governess, who looked upon him as a literary gentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in quotation."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Old Curiosity Shop by Dickens, Charles</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(Also appearing in 35 other classic literature books in The Free Library at <a href="http://thefreelibrary.com/">thefreelibrary.com</a>.)</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My curiosity piqued about who would use such an old-fashioned phrase on the internet, I went back and linked to the tumblr site calling itself Granite State Games (<a href="http://granitestategames.tumblr.com/">granitestategames.tumblr.com</a>). Unfortunately, the link no longer existed. But I did find there was a cached version and found that the site was created by David Carlton Boyd.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Boyd's writing style so intrigued me that I searched for "David Carlton Boyd," and then "David Boyd," at which point I came across the site <a href="http://voilacezanne.tumblr.com/">http://voilacezanne.tumblr.com</a>, a site self-attributed to David (Carlton) Boyd. And this site led me to the site <a href="http://bonjourcezanne.tumblr.com/">http://bonjourcezanne.tumblr.com</a>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lost to the journey and not the destination, I read the bonjourcezanne site and noticed that it mentioned in its afterword, "We concluded our inspection of this frenhoferian oeuvre...," using yet another word I did not know, namely "frenhoferian."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, fair reader, how a few minutes to spare on the internet had turned into an afternoon of wandering! I searched for the word "frenhoferian" and found references to Balzac's <u>The Unknown Masterpiece</u> but no definition of the word. My good Google was kind enough to ask if I had meant "frenhofer" so I clicked to search for the modified word.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the results, I found a site with "<a href="http://publishing.cdlib.org/ucpressebooks/view?docId=ft8779p1x3&chunk.id=d0e220" target="_blank">Chapter One Who was Frenhofer? - UC Press E-Books</a> ...," in which I learned Master Frenhofer is the old master painter protagonist in the book by Balzac called <u>The Unknown Masterpiece</u>. Going on to read "<a href="http://publishing.cdlib.org/ucpressebooks/view?docId=ft8779p1x3&chunk.id=d0e831&toc.depth=1&toc.id=&brand=eschol" target="_blank">Chapter Two, Cezanne in the shadow of Frenhofer</a>," I saw another word I did not know: furbelows, so I looked up furbelows and got this definition:</span></span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">1 : a pleated or gathered piece of material; especially : a flounce on women's clothing</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">2: something that suggests a furbelow especially in being showy or superfluous</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">— furbelow transitive verb </span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rhymes with FURBELOW</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">acid snow, afterglow, aikido, alpenglow, apropos, art deco, art nouveau, audio, Baguio, Bamako, barrio, bay window, Bergamo, bibelot, Bilbao, black widow, blow-by-blow, body blow, bone marrow, bordereau, Borneo, bow window, buffalo, Buffalo, bungalow, Bushido, buteo, calico, cameo, cachalot, cembalo, centimo, CEO, chassepot, cheerio, Clemenceau, cogito, comedo, comme il faut, counterflow, Cupid's bow, curaçao, Curaçao, curassow, curio, daimyo, danio, Delano, Diderot, do-si-do, domino, dynamo, embryo, entrepôt, Erato, escargot, Eskimo, extrados, fabliau, folio, French window, fricandeau, gigolo, golden glow, go-no-go, grass widow, guacharo, hammer throw, hammertoe, haricot, heel-and-toe, hetero, high and low, HMO, Holy Joe, horror show, Idaho, in a row, indigo, in escrow, in the know, Jericho, kakapo, latigo, little toe, long-ago, Longfellow, Maceió, Maginot, Manchukuo, medico, Mexico, mistletoe, modulo, Monaco, Navajo, NCO, nuncio, oleo, olio, on tiptoe, Oreo, overflow, overgrow, overthrow, ovolo, Pamlico, Papago, paseo, picaro, piccolo, Pierrot, polio, pomelo, pompano, portico, PPO, Prospero, proximo, quid pro quo, radio, raree-show, ratio, Richard Roe, Rochambeau, rococo, rodeo, Romeo, rose window, round window, saddlebow, Sapporo, sapsago, Scapa Flow, Scipio, Scorpio, semipro, show window, sloppy joe, so-and-so, SRO, standing O, status quo, stereo, stop-and-go, studio, subito, tallyho, tangelo, Taranto, tic-tac-toe, TKO, to-and-fro, Tokyo, tombolo, touch-and-go, tournedos, tremolo, tuckahoe, tupelo, UFO, ultimo, undergo, undertow, Veneto, vertigo, vibrio, video, virago, vireo, Zhangjiakou, zydeco</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And there my journey came to its end, though not because the journey itself had ended, but because my time had come to its end.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-82707603931876939482014-06-12T08:20:00.000-04:002014-06-12T08:20:55.984-04:00Balance<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I closed my eyes and took a step...<br /><br />It had been a couple months since taking the transformation seminar in the city, only a handful of short weeks, and the memory of that celebration of rebirth was already fading.<br /><br />"Why are you running?"<br /><br />She was a friend, acquaintance really, someone close enough to be comfortable asking the question, yet distant enough to keep her judgement to herself.<br /><br />Why was I running, indeed, literally running from one client meeting to the next, from building to building, block to block, out on the streets of the town I called home? What could I say? What would I say?<br /><br />"It just feels good to run."<br /><br />The words tumbled out, like children rolling down a grassy hill on the first warm day of spring, laughing as the world turned upside down. The smile on my face stretched at my cheeks until a laugh bubbled out.<br /><br />Anita, that was her name. Anita laughed, too, sharing the joy of that moment. Our eyes met. How had I never noticed how beautiful she was? I looked away, my heart pounding with the "I want to make love to you right now" feeling that swept over me so often these days. When I looked back up, she was looking past me.<br /><br />"Got to go," I said, looking at my watch.<br /><br />I had only three minutes to get to a meeting back at the office, down by the old railroad tracks, abandoned tracks, where I challenged myself every day with how far I could follow without falling. Today, I would walk the line blindfolded.<br /><br />I closed my eyes and took a step...</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-18588271229614941192014-02-04T17:20:00.000-05:002014-02-04T17:20:09.004-05:00I stand on the edge...
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I
stand on the edge of change, only to find it is not an edge.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The edge
is in my mind, my perception and fear of the different. The edge is
that which is out of pattern, out of the usual. It is only an edge
because I make it so, to protect myself from the effort and pain of
change, afraid that all I have done up to now becomes pointless,
terrified that everything I hope to do lacks meaning, lacks purpose.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I stand on the edge of change, only to find it is not an edge, but a
Möbius strip, a path that reveals no steps, no breaks, is smooth and
continuous, but ends up turning my world upside down.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-71047627945220323702013-12-25T03:09:00.002-05:002013-12-25T03:09:51.276-05:00Nice to Cannes Marathon
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The sun, unable or unwilling to climb
higher, stays low in the autumn sky; not long awake, but more patient
in morning risings and evening settings. The wind howls, stripping
the trees bare, clearing the streets of fallen leaves and small dogs.
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a marathon from Nice to Cannes
today. It lures thousands of runners. And because it is southern
France, and already cold to the north, and seeing as how jogging is a
self-indulgent sport, the runners are joined by sun-loving family,
friends, wives and lovers under the guise of caring supporters,
support which is easily distracted by the magnificent stores and
<i>après</i>-shopping coffee, croissants, and conversation.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I take the bus from Grasse to Cannes,
following a raindrop that had begun its descent high in the Maritime
Alps. We fly together down the mountain until my coach stops, the
driver no longer able to maneuver in the heavy traffic. The raindrop
falls from a cloudless sky, as if from nowhere, landing beside the
bus. Other drops follow until the air is filled with winks of
sunshine flying in the wind like a swarm of fireflies. Hot Macadam
welcomes their arrival with a hiss of applause, celebrating the
moisture's transformation into invisible humidity, a transformation
that allows them to climb with the wind, riding upwards, in search of
other spirits with hopes of being borne again.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The coach's progress is slow and heavy.
We crawl down the boulevard, turn left, left again, and arrive at the
train station. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know where the
finish line was, though I had heard it was at the famous Cannes Film
Festival <i>tapis rouge</i>. I walk against the prevailing current of
pedestrians. Many had numbers attached to their chests. They were the
marathon runners, the finishers heading for the trains to Nice. I
follow the ant trail backwards to the finish line.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am too late for the Kenyans. Had the
winds blown them off course? I did not see Leo, either, who I had met
the week earlier in Dublin and learned he would be in Nice for the
race. He had been the inspiration for my sojourn, along with my 8am
train from Cannes to Paris the next morning. But I never did see him,
unable to recognize him in the flood of bobbing heads. Was it Leo who
had told me the fast Kenyans weighed under 100 pounds? When I texted
him from Cannes, he was already safely returned to his companion.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I walk back towards the train station,
check into my hotel and reemerge onto the crowded sidewalks. I join
the pilgrimage to the trains bound for Nice, a ride that will follow
the coastline. The station is filled with men who wobble down the
stairs, back and forth, their calves complaining, thinking their work
was done after the 26 mile run.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The ride is short, children being
admonished to put down their iPhones to appreciate the Cote d'Azur.
The view is spectacular, all the more so because it is from a train,
often running at water's edge. From Nice Central I wander alone,
searching for the sea, following the sun as I head down Avenue
Durant. The cafes are filled with yellow jerseys with jogging shoes
surrounded by family and friends, all recounting the day's battles,
the wins, the losses.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A sudden gust of wind and my hand jumps
to my hat and I turn to protect my eyes. A high-pitched tinkling
sound rides above the rumble of wind in my ears. The breaking glass
draws my attention to the surprised faces of patrons at the sidewalk
tables, their expressions turning to disbelief as another
place-setting of wine glasses are toppled by the wind, rolling,
slipping over the edge of the white tablecloth, shattering,
scattering their remains at the feet of Adidas and Avia shoes.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The waiter is unperturbed. Perhaps this
scene is played out every year, tourists eating outside in a futile
attempt to stretch summer into fall. They are not American tourists,
though there is the occasional smattering of nasal English. Most are
continental tourists. For it is off season, too late for <i>le grand
voyage</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and only </span>a long
weekend in November, Armistice Day, a holiday not even celebrated by
many countries in Europe.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Placing the wind at my back I abandon
my sea quest, settle instead for a cluster of trees just visible a
few blocks away. Closer, the trees reveal a rectangular oasis among
residential buildings whose orange-ochre walls are decorated with
plaster versions of Corinthian columns, tall windows with azure
shutters, and fanciful wrought-iron balconies.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a plaque declaring the square
“Park Mozart,” its benches filled alternately between old men and
the sleeping homeless. Standing in the middle, easily visible, is a
heavy-booted <i>flic</i>-looking man. The radio that hangs from his
belt crackles with news of distant wayward souls. Was he there to
protect the old men? To protect the homeless? Protect one from the
other? His cap and shirt carry the initials “A.S.V.P.” Did the
S.V.P. portion stand for <i>s'il vous plait</i>? I did not ask him. I
had been treated poorly on previous attempts to satisfy my curiosity
about French police. I avoid eye contact, feeling diminished, bent to
submission by my years of experience. Perhaps he was there to protect
me, the old man from America. I sit down on a park bench, ponder how
close I am to the end of my own marathon, and watch the sun disappear
behind rooftops cluttered with chimneys and TV antennas.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-47200574329963363912013-12-24T18:15:00.000-05:002013-12-24T18:15:46.607-05:00A Child's Christmas in Pittsburgh
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The tree is up, hung with
lights and garlands, decorated with memories of children, memories of
parents, brothers, and sisters, memories of a child whose excitement
was so pure and alive with love and life, whose belief in goodwill
was unshakeable, whose belief in wonder and joy was instinctual,
whose belief in love was unconditional. In those days, when my years
were a single digit, I would overflow with anticipation during the
days before the winter solstice celebration I knew as Christmas. It
was this time of year that the calendar seemed to stand still, the
ten days before Christmas becoming unimaginably slow in coming, the
day itself becoming so distant that my mother posted a large piece of
paper casually scrawled with a number, filling the whole page,
announcing the number of days before Christmas. She taped it to the
cabinets above the kitchen pass-through where she hoped I would see
it and not ask how many days until Christmas, where she pointed
throughout the day when I posed the question, where I would tilt my
head and lift my eyes every morning, hoping that somehow, because
Santa was magic, that the sequence would unexpectedly jump from 10 to
1, from 9 to 1, from 8 to 1.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But it wasn't as if I sat
idly, without anything to do. Every day brought another tradition,
traditions that had been repeated since the beginning of time,
traditions that, if not followed, if not duplicated in exact detail,
brought hoots of heartfelt displeasure and chastisement. How regular
and ordered my childhood was around this most potentially chaotic
holiday. I was taught to celebrate Christmas as the season of giving,
which I only understood as the season of getting. But my father
enforced a strict rule of don't ask, don't tell, and should I even
accidentally mention what I wanted for Christmas, the rule was that I
not get it. Presents were meant to be unmentionable opportunities for
others to surprise me with their thoughtfulness, love, and care for
me. The lesson was hard, though I learned it with only one painful
failure, the Christmas my younger brother got the walkie-talkie set I
had so wanted. The one time I had whispered what I wanted to my
mother in a moment of desire, a moment when I was <span style="font-weight: normal;">blinded
by my perceived need and the </span>excitement of getting.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And everyone was expected
to give everyone else a present, even if it took an 8-year-old all
year, and there was still only 30 cents saved to be divided between
two parents and three siblings. What thoughtful gift could I possibly
buy for 5 cents? But my father never set a rule that he didn't
enforce, and never let an obstacle keep anyone from discovering
options and opportunities. He sat down with me to make a list family
members and their presents, a list that ended up including various
kinds of penny-candy, each piece thoughtfully chosen because of my
knowledge of my brothers and sister. He was careful to excuse himself
when it came time for me to choose what to get him. He reminded me
that he wouldn't tell me what he wanted and he didn't want me to tell
him what I wanted to get him. He reminded me that one doesn't get
what one asks for, teaching me by his own example that rule of law
applied even to kings.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I went with my mother
to the A&P grocery store, where she filled our shopping cart to
overflowing with food for our family and visitors, our special
holiday meal, and the days before and after when shopping was not
possible. I carefully read my list of names paired with my thoughtful
choices of candy, and reminded my mother that I needed to pick them
out by myself, lest she see what I was getting, thereby breaking the
rule of don't tell. And once I was alone I checked off my list, candy
by candy, rechecking to make sure, because so many pieces of candy
for so many people was a complicated task for a child distracted by
his own imagining of what he might have bought for himself if it had
been 30 cents he could have spent without thinking of others. It was
then, at that very instant, when I was thinking what I would buy for
myself, that I had the idea, the radical idea, an idea so dangerous
that I looked over my shoulder to make sure my mother had not seen me
think of it. I put the candy back, all the thoughtfully chosen candy,
piece by piece, each into its own bin, until my bag was once again
empty. Looking around one last time to make sure the coast was clear,
I knew it was now or never, and I reached into the bin of bubble gum,
nervously counting out 30 pieces, afraid my mother might appear and
see what I was doing, her eyes growing round with amazement then
narrowing, followed by a slap on the back of my hand. I counted them
three times, 30 pieces of bubble gum, a candy not allowed in the
house, not allowed in our hands, and forbidden from our mouths. And I
closed that brown paper bag, rolling and crimping the top to lock its
contents from prying eyes.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I rejoined my mother
I smiled, keeping the bag behind me, lest she infer its contents from
the poking edges of the captured bubble gums, pressing their
signatures from inside, as if prisoners crying out to be released,
their message writ in recognizable patterns of crinkled brown bag,
visible to those on the outside. And she did try to look, especially
when I made it clear that I was hiding the bag from her. Determined
to keep the secret, I shifted to keep my body between her and my
quarry, as she cocked her head and leaned from one side to the other.
“No peeking!” I invoked, and she stood upright, taken aback, then
smiled, telling me I was right, turning her attention to the line of
full shopping carts ahead of her. And as we approached, the closer we
got, I realized that to get past the checker, I would have to expose
my contents, lay them out, 30 pieces of bubble gum spread and counted
for all to see. My secret Christmas gift plan would be, dare I say
it, out of the bag.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I thought about hiding the
bag, keeping it low, carrying it out of the store, stealing the candy
without paying for it. It wouldn't be the first time I had succumbed
to such a temptation, a single piece of candy, a pack of gum, my
biggest heist being a roll of Life Savers. But I was holding a
massive quantity of candy, 30 pieces of bubble gum, too much to stuff
in my pockets. I was at a loss, no ideas forthcoming, frozen in line,
caught between my mother in front and the mothers behind. I could do
nothing but watch. Each item in the shopping cart was put up on the
counter by my mother, carefully inspected and recorded by the
checker, and passed on to the bagger. When the last item was lifted
from the cart my mother turned and looked down at me. My face must
have shown my dread because it immediately brought a look of concern.
A question formed, then disappeared as she nodded and smiled. “My
son has a Christmas present he wants to buy without me seeing.” The
checker looked over the counter at me, smiled, nodded her approval. I
waited in wonder as the world unfolded right before my eyes. My
mother passed the cart to the bagger, who filled it with our
groceries. The checker told my mother the total, which was under $10
in those days. My mother opened her purse, pulled out her wallet,
paid the checker, counted and stored her change in the little side
pocket, returned her wallet to her purse, walked to the re-loaded
cart, and guided it towards the automatic sliding-glass door.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was suddenly aware of
the open path before me, and reminded of the patiently waiting
mothers behind me. The checker peered over, trying to see what I was
carrying, which prompted me to put the bag up on the counter. I
looked towards the door. My mother had stopped and was waiting for
me, her back carefully turned to the business at hand. Everything
went beautifully: the bubble gum made its appearance for a short
time, then was returned to its hiding place. I searched the line of
waiting mothers for potential informants, but was met with only
reassuring smiles and nods. I dug into my pocket and fished out the
30 cents, putting it up on the counter, never doubting or mistrusting
the checker with my year's worth of savings. She confirmed, in a
whisper, that the total was 30 cents, counted out the change, nodded,
tapped in the payment. The cash register rang as the money drawer
popped open. She dropped the appropriate coins in the appropriate
places, closed the drawer with a click, tore off the receipt, and
bent over to hand it to me. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a
smile.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I took the bag home, kept
it hidden from all prying eyes, until I could sequester myself in my
room with a roll of wrapping paper, Scotch tape, scissors, and the
want ads section of yesterday's newspaper. The unwritten tradition,
passed through the ages, was to wrap presents with the intention of
fooling the recipient. With a sense of pride I took a sheet of
newspaper, balled it around 5 pieces of bubble gum, and wrapped the
crumpled ball with Santa-red with green hollies Christmas paper. I
struggled with the round shapes, using a bit more tape than Santa
would, but securely enclosing and disguising the contents. I labeled
each with a small square of wrapping paper, folded over a name
carefully written in pencil. I hid the balls under my bed, preventing
any peremptory prying or poking.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And when the countdown
finally reached “1”, I moved my presents from my room to under
the Christmas tree. The next morning I watched with excitement, as my
younger brother unraveled the first ball. The five pieces of bubble
gum tumbled to the floor, followed by a scream of “BUBBLE GUM!”
The announcement brought my mother, and her careful inspection of the
gift, looking at me as if to decide if my intentions were good or
bad, finally smiling, deciding in favor of letting stand one rule
over another, and returning the bubble gum to its rightful owner.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My father was not so
pleased and glared at me as if I had lied to him. But my mother saw
it, too, and went to his side, whispered calming words that tempered
the creases in his forehead and softened his regard, though never
becoming a smile. It was my sister who next cried out, “Bubble
gum!” But her cry was more one of horror than happiness, she being
the oldest, the one who was so often told to take care of me and my
brothers, the one who always had to be right, was afraid of not being
right and doing the wrong thing. She, better than any of us boys, was
fluent in the letter of the law. She ran to our mother, her preferred
referee, complaining of an obvious foul, looking to get a penalty
issued. Instead she was rebuffed with the the illogic of
contradiction and the messy meting out of justice. A quick glance to
our father showed his agreement with the decision. Unable to find
resolution in their opinion, she waited for her chance, and at the
first distraction took it upon herself to quarantine the easily
identified unopened balls. Her mistake was to try to confiscate the
illegal bubble gum from my brother, whose cries of foul were taken
more seriously, and my sister was quickly pulled aside and instructed
to repatriate all presents, even if they were bubble gum.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later that morning, after
all the presents were opened and the floor was awash in shredded
strips of red and green, after the required rounds of thank-yous and
your-welcomes, when quiet reigned as each played with his new-found
favorite toy, my father came over, looked down at me with his hands
at his hips, deciding what to do with me. He asked in a gentle voice
that immediately warned of a trap, “I thought you were going to buy
hard candies?”, the implication of which was clear: that I had
bought unlawful bubble gum, sneaked it into the house under false
pretenses, and distributed it amongst all present. I looked up at the
towering figure, the giant that was my father, rule enforcer and king
of the house, and said, “It wasn't a surprise, you know, if you
knew.” His face softened and I imagined the rules colliding inside
his head. Still, his hands remained on his hips, so I launched
torpedo number two, “And I thought bubble gum was a more thoughtful
gift.” His eyes flared open, then narrowed, then he suddenly
laughed. “Yes, I suppose it was,” he conceded. “Merry
Christmas,” he said, reaching down to lift me, then deciding
instead to hold out his hand for a shake. I would have preferred the
hug, but was proud to receive the more adult shake.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I scanned the room,
thinking for a moment about the expressions on my brothers' faces,
upon their discovery of bubble gum successfully in their possession.
The moment was short, as I turned my attention to all the wonderful
stuff I got for Christmas. But the memory remained long, becoming one
of so many that decorate my tree.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6135734401187183272.post-83898141390166136892013-12-20T16:28:00.000-05:002014-01-11T14:31:02.910-05:00Memories and Rose-Colored Glasses<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I
lead a charmed life! I am infatuated like a man head-over-heals in
love. Every day I celebrate the wonderful things that happen to me. This
is because of my brain dysfunction. My neurons are awash with a surplus
of dopamine. You've heard the saying, "Every cloud has a silver
lining?" Well, I never see the clouds, only the silver. I turn
everything that happens to me into a positive experience.<br /><br />What does this have to do with memories?<br /><br />My
rosy view leaves me with no "bad" memories. I turn them into "good"
memories or forget them. You might think this is useful, might even wish
you had the same ability, but it does have some side-effects.<br /><br />For
example, it is easy for me to forgive (and forget). It makes me appear
very compassionate. I lent money to a man in need, even though two years
ago I had lent him money which he didn't pay back. I only knew he
borrowed the money two years ago because I have a book of the loans I
make. I found his previous loan when I was looking for a page to write
down his current loan.<br /><br />Another example, I am very trusting of
people, even if I don't know them. Luckily, in my experience, the vast
majority of all people deserve my trust. But it has also exposed me to
significant risk, times when those around me warn me to be more careful.
Like the old man who warned me that the young man walking behind him
had a gun. In that case, I chose to ignore the “cloud” and see only the
“silver”. Unfortunately, I was proven mistaken as the young man pulled
me into an alley and robbed me at gunpoint. Because of this, I
considered getting a gun to protect myself. But after a couple months I
felt safe without one once more.<br /><br />Even more disturbing was my
realization that most of my greatest epiphanies may not be so grand as I
imagined. As I survey the piles of papers towering from every
horizontal surface in my office, I see how my rose-colored glasses
combined with my active imagination have held me back. I have kept my
ideas as daydreams, which was safer than risking the judgment of the
rest of the world. There is no applause louder than the applause
imagined!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />After
59 years, including several recent years of clinical depression, I have
learned the world is much simpler than I thought it was. The mistaken
complexity comes from my perception, which is all in my head. Though
painfully humbling, my new-found understanding has freed me from
martyrdom. I have found peace in knowing that the world depends on all
of our actions, not just on my own.<br /><br />Still, I am wracked with
questions. Have I failed to meet my potential? Not given my best? Am I
protecting myself from my disappointment with my life? From the
insignificance of my death? I really don't know. But I do know I have
done a good job at being a human being. If I were to die today, I would
be satisfied with my life and the choices I have made. And others would
say, “He was a good man.” Or is this yet another example of the
conclusions of a selective memory?</span>The Prompt Responsehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16789069237997715924noreply@blogger.com0