altered images of ourselves
“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” —Neil Gaiman, Coraline
1 Fractured Tales
adventures in verse
“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” —Mae West, vaudeville
1.1 Pawn to King’s Day
inventory enables adventure
Take the hurricane lamp and bamboo pole. It’s light outside, but you never know. An adventure crawl can quickly turn dark. The pole’s for fish or swishing at snarks.
A rose on the bush and trout from the lake, the inventory grows with so much to take. Into the satchel, all collectables tossed. Yet flowers and fish never seem squashed.
There’s surely a tree, a quick easy climb. Stow the loose branch for some other time. The limb is a clue, that much is plain. Look at its shape: like a club or a cane.
East to the drawbridge, of course it is raised; controlled by a troll, half-starved or crazed. Hunger, the fish, an easy clue catch. Given the trout, the troll’s dispatched.
Lower the bridge, then north not far. Into the castle, at least the courtyard. A burly guard with shiny chain-mail is wearing no helmet; not in this tale.
A key on the belt and a door to the tower. Strike with the rod or offer the flower? Neither for now, there’s an open stairwell. Down is the dungeon, you’d guess by smell.
Dark and dank with some awful breeze, foreshadowing ghosts or a nasty disease. On cue, a corpse shuffles this way. A crown on its head. The rest in decay.
Show it whatever you have in your satchel. That nothing works has you quite baffled. So up the stairs and back to the guard. Smack with the branch, but maybe not hard.
Taking the key, unlock the great hall. It’s a dining room and curiously small. Richly stocked, narratively neutral, save for a candle that’s bound to be useful.
Sticky and jaundiced, smelling of sulphur. You utter an oath, something quite vulgar. An archway extends to base of the tower. Saving a princess, but wanting a shower.
She turns from you — your looks or the reek. No matter the effort, m’lady won’t speak. Is there nothing here to sweeten her nose? In asking, you have it: offer the rose.
She takes it. Now chatty, regaling the tale. The king’s ghost haunts below in the jail. Whoever takes crown has claim to throne. Good knight, I wish you’d stronger cologne.
That’s it! The smell, sulphur that burns. Free the dead king. With that you adjourn. Down the tower and smallest great hall, toward the keep that smells like a stall.
The candle pops out in the stairwell breeze. Re-lit from the lamp just as you see the corpse with a crown crawling on knees. ‘End it’ you hear, then the word ‘please.’
The sulphur candle grants the king’s wish. You gather his ashes with crown as a dish. Back to the princess, ash to the winds. The crown’s now yours. Your reign begins.
1.2 Tinker Clever
invention transformation
Tinker clever inventor, long into the night. Steady pedalled bicycle, lifting into flight.
Shadows cast across the moon, wing and wheel by shape. Exploring new direction, upward in escape.
Healthful and renewable, exercise dependent. Capable of sonic speed, blissfully efficient.
Flocks of human commuters, daily in migration. Ever clever tinker made, travel transformation.
1.3 Soggy Cock
to care for others, take care of yourself
What rooster can’t rise in the morning, thought the frustrated rock game hen. There are eggs to gather, no matter the weather. Slightest rain and that foul sleeps in.
So the hen flew atop the sleepy cock, flopped in the barn past dawn. Enough I say, basta! This bird’s going gansta, donning bling with a big heart on.
That chic can cluck, agreed the livestock, aroused to the day from their dreams. Fresh cream from the cows. Happy squeals from the sows. King cock, replaced by a queen.
1.4 What I Wear
a heart of gold may stand on feet of clay
I pegged the neighbours as nudists, which is fine ’cause I’m not prudish, but rather than fresh air outdoors, they seem to enjoy each other more.
In my thinking, at pubescent best, we’re more glamorous when dressed. Only in poverty are we a spectacle, garments making one respectable.
Winnings from a life of pageants helped with family finances, but left me feeling I’m what I wear, otherwise nobody would care.
When cat-walking, I am invisible. Clothing makes me invincible, protecting me by deflecting chic while the child inside retreats.
I move to the music floating over, then peek to see if anyone’s sober. “Come outta the bush and dance with me.” I’m spotted for wearing too small a tree.
When the couple on welcome duty looked right at me, not through me, I was the one whose soul exposed more than theirs, yet they’re unclothed.
Apparently I’ve been a prude after all, hiding my hurt as if by default I refuse to be seen as whole, unbroken, willing to play, but not to be chosen.
Nobody asks why I still wear socks, the only thing I don’t take off. They remind me of a lesson, the way my heart is gold and feet are clay.
1.5 Castaways
what good comes of goods
Our chartered ship was sinking fast; the five of us aboard. Yet every one of us could live, with all the goods we stored.
❝ Rudderless, then cast adrift; the hull ripped on a reef. Our safety and our property were lost to coral thief.
I saw no shore, no desert isle. No rescue was at hand. But the first mate and professor, swam to distant land.
❝ The skipper buoyed between his men, eyes darting anxiously. He seemed to act with planned intent. In truth, unconsciously.
Create a fire once on the shore. Shelter and fetch water. Write SOS with weeds and rocks Salvation Or Slaughter.
❝ Keep calm, find food, and plan escape. No need for much shelter. We’ll not accept a lengthy stay. Escape is in our nature.
Still I drift upon the waves and cast no foot ashore. No strength to save all of our crates. Might rescue one, no more.
❝ I say we take compass and map, the chocolate and pistol. Bottles of rum are safely stored somewhere within the middle.
Please help me tow this crate ashore. Tarps, rope, knife, and mirror. Matches, dry clothes and old paper. All useful and familiar.
❝ Instead we took my crate to shore. The map and compass—useless. Chocolate’s hunger and rum’s anger made the pistol ruthless.
Dry and warm, we could have sheltered and waited for our rescue. But five becomes no one to save when pride is all that guides you.
1.6 Bear
that which comes naturally bears no malice
Light-caps ride ripples at low angle to the sun. Broken by you, friend trout, up to make a meal on the minions who bear me sanguine intent. For this I am grateful.
But not so much as not to ask. Dispatch as many clear the shore ( soft sleep would be lovely ), but not as deny the bellies of full-throated frogs. Their summer songs lull me.
I have no cool cave of quiet. Nor do I offer up the splendour of a log that lets my legs dangle, but exposes my bottom to those who natter in clusters.
Perhaps less so tonight. Perhaps less so by many factor, should you grant my prayer. In thanks, tomorrow we rise by the light-capped shore and breakfast together.
1.7 Howl
watch what you’re doing, especially when you can’t see what you’re doing
Dark as ink or maybe darker, hard to tell one colour from another. High winds, lines down, then power outage. I lit the fireplace for heat, though mostly it toasted my feet and warmed a glass of liquid courage.
Then on with my big winter parka, against the wind and rain out there. Time to ignite the barbecue. By the light of cellular phone, I managed to set it glowing; a techno-primitive task I do.
The neighbours have generators, but I had something even greater: connecting with the howl of night. True I had not hunted for beast and fire was push button easy, yet I managed to grill by battery light.
I am not saying it all went well, but few could see and none could tell I cooked my phone with radiant heat. Medium well, if I say so, it lost the last of its faint glow just as light came back on the street.
2 And Then, And Then
evolving expository
“All that is gold does not glitter. Not all those who wander are lost.” —J.R.R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring
2.1 Riffing on Pollack
freedom is another word for delivery
Drizzles of pretty paint-store colours left Norman Rockwell to wonder whether there is a picture in there, somewhere. And maybe he could see from the right angle what was so far obtuse, tangled in his mind of traditional symbols, where a brief case was business and a rolling pin or knowing smile said come share with me, sit a while we let punctuation guide oral pause because form alone is not content, the message on its own is the intent and freedom achieved by its delivery, like making a house on firm foundation not calling a brick pile emancipation, although it is interesting with all those mingling colours and shapes in there. But where the artist lives is made elsewhere.
2.2 Viking-ing
in victory is history
Hair and fingernails and the way home ache, almost as much as surrounding Cypress cleared by cudgels, from a pounding sky over water-stock reeking of iron and urine, matted in fear and collateral in every story, told by survivors around hasty campfires, unaware they’re victors by attrition to the work of Viking-ing, lying about it from afar or in a rice patty reeking of iron and urine, surviving to read the dead on marble slabs, for sure as the void, we will not be on theirs.
2.3 Shelter
little wheels, big hands
A sudden storm forces campers to enter an abandoned farmhouse that turns out to be no farmhouse, nor abandoned, as it is inhabited by a family under witness relocation, upset about the intruding campers, eager to win trust of the witnesses to secure shelter from the storm, for themselves and their children, playing oblivious to circumstances with the kids of the safe-house family, like little wheels in a wind-up watch, every bit as important as the big hands.
2.4 Balance
averaging weakness
The senior centre arranges matches for retirees organized by occupation, led by the league of hospital nurses, until ugh-nasty injury, hastily replaced by her sister’s exaggerated abilities, drove the team to a steam of defeats, they kindly arranged for her to switch to the real estate squad so she might balance their talents and the chains, making both teams one weak-link less.
2.5 Everybody’s Buddy
won by many, lost by one
A physician who practiced family medicine in a small town for twenty years was liked by everyone helping out in school sports, but yearned for the challenge that came when his daughter wed the regent’s son, naming him team doctor at the university, where he dispensed pockets of pain killers to pivotal playoff heroes among the players, who tested positive for banned substances, in the kind of scandal that ends careers when a reputation hard won by many acts is lost by one.
2.6 Gallery
art is in revealing what’s possible
The art gallery hosts walking tours that culminate in a canvas activity, for those who want to try their hand at painting from a lithograph model, showing two hands drawing each other, which one tourist artist attempted using farmer’s hands of earthy labour, ending up a fat fingered caricature, defeating the experimental intention, while succeeding in not reproducing, as much as making the original visible, in a representation of what’s possible.
2.7 Tomorrow I Mow
the air we share has more in there
The yard is filled with yellow weeds, the teeth of lions from copter seeds floated over from neighbouring yards, an infection borne upon breezy parts of the air all share—spores unexpected. By means of weeds, properties sexted.
3 Those in the Room
in character is destiny
“Real courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.” —Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
3.1 For Mr B
sometimes, the outside comes in to bring the inside out
Matthew “Thule” Hue dodged the world by hanging out in Mr. B’s typing class. He dodged University by taking the job of copy editor for the Spindrift Froth, the port town’s countertop broadsheet.
Thule could touch type at the speed of thought, but had few thoughts to share. Not since Mr B slid his short-bed loaded with split cedar into Lake Tarboosh on an icy Hallowe’en evening. Mr B’s fez rose with bubbles to mark the spot.
Awkwardly, the mayor asked Thule to be the town’s first poet laureate. Poetry is easy. Write about hockey. This is a hockey town. Put it in those little lines and make it rhyme. The mayor laughed. She wanted a laureate to negate bragging rights of their sister town. Besides, the job paid little but title.
Thule wrote about Mr B instead. He wrote it as one might imagine a copy editor would. And he cut it into those little lines. That’s not hockey, said the mayor. What we need here is a little feel good. Thule wrote about cedar trees. That’s better said the mayor. But next time, make it rhyme.
Thule wrote about not fitting in. He wrote about form and formalities. He wrote about titles and entitlement. The mayor thanked him for his service and retired the role without naming a replacement.
Thule could type at the speed of thought and now could think at the speed he felt. He thanked the mayor and after wondered whether one could laugh in rhyme.
( Hallowe’en 2021 )
3.2 Aroma Therapy
a ruse supports a relationship at the price of limiting it
Winter makes puffs of Dwight’s breath as he sits in his sedan. Cracking the window, a wall of snow falls over his name tag. Spirit. Not the right spirit today. Windshield rivulets remind Dwight of Fanny’s tears last night. She could always melt his resolve, even in December. Decem-burr, as she calls it.
Dwight glances in the rear-view, toward the parts department. Ms Fanny Belt is parts manager at Gus O’Lean’s Garage, now come to manage Dwight. But Fanny’s bumper-sticker committed to aroma therapy. Scents Make Sense. Odours to Order. Feel Well by Smell. Paint is less likely to induce a migraine.
That crack brought her tears, so he runs a ruse that his smeller is off due to paint spirits. Live the lie or give up Fanny. One Belt best kept tight, Gus had said. I could come clean, Dwight considers, unfocused on the melting snow. Confess I don’t believe the fragrance-enhances message, but for now we both dance to the ruse.
Windshield wipers sluice away melting Decem-burr snow. He kills the engine, exits the auto, and balls up his courage to apologize for what he holds true. And apologize to himself for not defusing the ruse that supports their relationship, but no less limits it. Dwight is glad snow has no smell.
3.3 Poetection
when form is the content, the tendency is obscurity
She was afraid of being wrong, but right answers eluded her, so she turned to obscurity. Green ideas sleeping furiously, Swiss cheese typography, and playing tennis without a net. Appearing to be anguished language, the parts make sense by structure, but never spoke with each other.
In this, her strategy was simply to lift the ramp of accessibility. Cryptic writ needs no answer. They can’t see whether she’s dressed or innocent as birth, so best to be mysterious and protected as genius.
3.4 Darrel
smiling, we’re known; frowning, we’re alone
Darrel’s red hair made a spectacle of itself. Sideburns mated to his orange moustache. The handlebars gave his long nose gravity. A man as a person, a clown’s personality.
This worked in his favour at the dealership, a sales rep known more friendly than slick. Quality products, he’d say by introduction, sell themselves without hype or persuasion.
They sold on pace to make down-payment; a home of their own, no renting a basement. Thoughts then turned to starting a family, but snug for them meant tight with a baby.
So Darrel resolved to improve his chances. He took out a loan and started night classes. He’d long desired to become a teacher, a role he admired and it suited his nature.
He engaged, praised, modelled, encouraged. Guide at their side, his pupils all flourished. His second year brought a cohort from hell. From fires to fights and threats if you tell.
End of the year, on overnight excursion, Darrel’s assigned dorm room supervision. A couple girls exit and laugh in the hall, inside they’re chugging a bottle of swill.
The bottle’s from home, one of them saying, but don’t go in—it’s a strip-drink game. In clear, firm voice announce your concern. Instead he burst in, worried about harm.
His exit, immediate, not soon enough. A couple of girls stood up, both in the buff. Parents focused fury to distract the fact of their unlocked liquor cabinets.
Investigation ensued and Darrel transferred. Now back selling cars, or so I have heard, Darrel’s red hair and his career, both gone. The clown now frowns, smile painted on.
3.5 Hoop
not all fishing is for catching
I ran into that couple we met on the dock, tying up after sail fishing, not that we caught anything, not that we intended to anyway, at least not me, must be a year ago.
I closed the laptop and walked to the sink. I poured out my cup of tea and took a seat.
She says they set up a bicycle shop, but not the kind that require a license, often insurance as well, and while motorized, electric, need no more than something safe for your head.
The lion circled. The crowd has hushed. The ringmaster held up hoop and pistol.
I asked how they were getting on, knowing he was seeing someone on the side, or so she suspected when it was just us girls and the two of you were swapping fish tales.
I knew she knew. I reached. She screamed. The muzzle flashed. I fell, stood, fell again.
( Hypotaxis: clauses successively linked in an evolution of ideas. Parataxis: a sequence of short, simple sentences. )
3.6 Singer
even champions have coaches
Child prodigy with global talent, seeking inspiration. Running madly, feigning balance, voice of a generation. Refuse to take all but the best, all-but is what’ll you get. For where you go is where you are, a place you might regret.
3.7 Snap
some pay with the pain they give
His witty bits of sarcasm snap like a rubber band on bare skin, like a mosquito feeds on a host too slow to swat the uninvited.
Affirm you’re the most clever in a room of sluggish buffoons, who give you benefit of doubt. Show them to think better of you.
The clever process so much faster than the magical thinking karma pack that crosses after the snapped finish tape flutters away in halves.
Yet is there never enough snap to un-numb your soul whole again, you regret of paternal ancestry, you amateur of family industry.
Sting seen among the grimaced is wince you yearn to feel, snap to atone for being clever by half, double-desperate for affirmation.
4 True to Ourselves
perils of parables
“Artists use lies to tell the truth. Yes, I created a lie. But because you believed it, you found something true about yourself.” —Alan Moore, V for Vendetta
4.1 Godiva’s Drive
the ride is smoother when we watch where we’re going
Lady Godiva, out for a drive with Henry Ford, soon longed for the gentle plodding of her faithful horse. Henry’s T hit every bump she could see on the road. Would have been fewer, were Ford looking where he was going. Instead, the rocking and bouncing, all the Lady could bear, had her wishing the time machine left her with longer hair.
4.2 Honk
in tools, are mirrors
With a goose honk of horn in the morning, old Henry Ford rises to memory. Black T chug chug. Even idling, moving. Mechanical pulse of a world changing. Mass production, hastened sprawling, until the morning rush takes a stand. Still. That’s the irony in Henry’s tool: not seeing what’s good for driving, must be driven by fools.
4.3 Missing Ava
was not lost and yet not found
The tour bus parked near the ice caves, behind a sleek resort. Ava slipped out to change her clothes. Something warm and less short. Gone for so long, declared missing, rescue appeared remote. Meanwhile Ava tucked in her hair beneath a full-length coat.
No one from the tour line noticed Ava enter the bus. Who they were all trying to find was lost to shouts and fuss. The town hunting a long-haired gal in shorts, but not yet named. Ava was searching for herself, or so it can be framed.
She was not lost and yet not found, though someone was missing. That it was her they hoped to find was what they’d find surprising. A head count as twilight set in showed all accounted for. Expecting there’d be one seat less, turns out there’s one soul more.
4.4 Unfuddled
nobody knows everything
Ichabod’s eyebrows narrowed to a squinting grimace, mouth pulled to a rictus reserved more for doubt than mirth. He rubbed his stubbled chin and read the sign out loud. Closed Until Yesterday. Then he repeated, declaring each word a sentence. Closed. Until. Yesterday.
Ichabod unfurled a long-fingered palm under the word Yesterday and shrugged. What do you make of this? he said to nobody in particular. Nobody was there to hear, which is fair for no one listens well.
When nobody answered, Ichabod began blinking. Rapidly. He wandered a distance from the door, hand again on chin, lips pursed white, then returned to the sign, stared at the preposition, and tilted his head to the right. Are you sure? he whispered.
A moment later his head jerked back as if he’d stepped on a cliché-sharp tack. Ichabod pulled himself to full height. He gathered his furled blue umbrella, and the parcel wrapped in kraft paper, tucking the latter under an arm, almost to the pit.
Then I shall have to return, he intoned with emphasis on Shall, and lifted the umbrella tip to Yesterday thrusting an accusatory jab that left little doubt he knew how.
I simply won’t be here Tomorrow.
4.5 Leslie’s Story
the profoundly original is, at first, ugly to us
Leslie likely isn’t his real name. Maybe Butch or Boris or something that sounds like a broken nose. A bulk like that could model orange jump-suits. A voice like that would make most suits jump.
Leslie cradles a Pomeranian in one palm under a blur of shears from the other. He’s worked pet stores and shelters, but prefers it at the clinic, cleaning and calming the furred. This was not a happy Pomeranian that came in, shivering. Alone.
The injured and abandoned, they place in hands that shelter from hurt beyond words. His groomer’s shampoo is nothing special. The scissors and brushes are secondhand tools. But the Pom calms as its coat turns pretty and inside made whole again.
Leslie’s ability is born of irony. Only he can tell the why of the story. The what comes from failing to ward off ‘one last chance, dad, he’ll be better this time.’ He held her, felt the warmth enter his fingers, felt his insides turn ugly and ugly’s not worthy.
But it was an incident offshore that informed Leslie his calling was more than enforcer. A man rowed out and tossed a sack over. A chain at his ankle, his head hit the gunwale. He was tugged to shore by the Sheltie, escaped from the sack. The dog went back.
Leslie bobbed in the lake and his dog went back. Not all positivity is toxic. That lame dog lived for years under hands that learned to hold, not toss away life. Leslie’s palms warm the Pom as they have so many companions since they warmed a Sheltie named Leslie.
4.6 Courage
dying with dignity is better than living without honour
The lion died with dignity. Its own and Frank’s. A novice hunter with a big-bore and small regard. Frank left the lion to languish in the brush. He and Margo ( whom he married above his station ), and their guide Robert ( as confident as he was handsome ).
At Frank’s insistence, the second kill would come from the safe distance of their safari car. The elephant raged. The men engaged. Gunpowder advancing against evolution’s resolve to survive.
Margo stood and fired a single shot from the vehicle. Taking down her husband. Claiming the game guide and acclaiming his courage under fire.
( nod to Hemingway )
4.7 Ivor’s Mansion
one turn deserves another
Uncle Ivor was my favourite when I was growing up. I had not seen him for quite a bit; therein lies the rub.
My cousins were not amused when Ivor’s will was read. They felt upset and much confused; their faces turning red.
Ivor’s mansion was left to me, provided I move there. Cousin Horace held up a key: “come get it, if you dare.”
The house was not as I recall; not kept in good repair. I’d need to have it overhauled, if I’m to move in there.
Poison ivy and barred windows; even suspicious traps. But I need not be a hero, with keys under the mat.
Pitch dark inside. I felt no switch, although there were strange lumps. One might turn on a light, but which? One must be more than bump.
I pushed a large and heavy door; it creaked like a cliché. Then the crackle of fire’s roar. I pushed the door halfway.
Peering inside at the fireplace; stoked, so someone’s here. But not behind any bookcase. How could they disappear?
One book leaned out from the shelf, I went to push it back. There was a shriek from someone else; dead silence after that.
A secret door! I pulled the book; a whooshing sound, then light. Of course I’d have to take a look—this offers some insight.
Servants used narrow corridors in generations past, so I slipped through the tiny door and felt a chilly draft.
I heard a tea cart rambling, and slipped into the shadows. The person pushing was grumbling “get his—come tomorrow.”
Cousin Horace, dressed as a maid, and cart of fancy cakes. Poison in a bottle displayed: one sip is all it takes.
Wish I’d read that before the tart; my head started to swim.I’d sneak it back onto the cart, but then the room went dim.
I found myself upon a rack, when consciousness returned. Someone wearing a hood of black; Horace had tied my arms.
A blade swinging above my head, a rack and pendulum. Stretched out upon a torture bed, I heard a buzz or hum.
“Aren’t you going to answer your phone and say your’re all tied up?” His snort cut short into a moan, by rack’s spoke-handle club.
It catches him across the chin, down and out for the count. The blade lands where the ropes had been; I find my own way out.
Cousin Horace now flips pancakes as part of social service. He’s seen the light, admits mistakes, so maybe he deserves this.
I tidied up Ivor’s mansion; it’s now a B and B. Horace serves brunch on odd weekends; a rack of sweet pastries.
5 Life’s Little Lessons
the test comes first
“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.” —Douglas Adams, Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
5.1 How of Happy
making moments matter most
Gratitude
Gratitude is best when expressed, so tell others how your life’s been blessed. If none are around, just write it all down and thank those to whom it’s addressed.
Optimism
The journey is life’s destination, so find the bright side of every situation. Much greater gains when optimism reins—make tomorrow today’s inspiration.
Contentment
Success isn’t whose grass is greener. Compare yourself only in demeanour. Not who has the best, instead use the test: how far have I come from beginner?
Kindness
Practice acts of kindness toward others. Generosity shows our true colours. Good will doesn’t end just with a friend. A stranger in need is a brother.
Connection
However your lives are entwined, nurture the ties that bind. Helping each other to go much further makes us more than sum combined.
Coping
Life has hurts, but there’s always hope for those who find ways to cope. To rise above, meet loss with love and keep the big picture in scope.
Forgiveness
To those who hurt or are adverse, don’t add revenge to make it worse. Forgive and be free; don’t stay angry. Make your peace with the universe.
Involvement
Immerse yourself in joyful tasks, absorbed in what the challenge asks. Giving service, finding purpose, facing life without a mask.
5.2 Satisficing
satisfactory is success
Wandering through the produce aisle, do you pick the orange on top the pile? Ripe and firm, hefty and fragrant; or set it aside, examine those adjacent? Compare them all for the perfect fruit, yours must be best beyond dispute.
Good enough will never do. You’ll have top prize before you’re through. Too bad about the time it takes or messy aisles dropped fruit makes. The orange you seek must be optimal, not second best—phenomenal!
But wait, might there be yet another; check all the markets to discover. And when the One is finally held, the golden orb, the orange excelled, there’s always doubt about success. ‘This one for sure?’ you second-guess.
Start with a goal, no matter what. Pick any orange that’s adequate. To slice, make juice, or on a platter. It suits the task, that’s what matters. Fills expectations, all that’s needed. Over-kill when they’re exceeded.
5.3 Dialogue
ten to attend to
Consider the consequences first. In other words, don’t make matters worse.
Prevent harm before it begins. If no other choice, pick the least of sins.
When possible, choose to refrain and don’t inflict gratuitous pain.
Respond in proportion against without violence, unless in defence.
Respect the autonomy of others. It’s their life after all, their “druthers.”
Do what you say, be worthy of trust. Don’t deceive or mislead. Be honest.
Keep commitments and confidences. Be loyal and faithful to promises.
Give what, in return, you’d expect: fair treatment and basic respect.
Treat no one as mere means or tool. They, like you, aren’t fools to use.
Act in the interest of those in your care. Before passing-desire put lasting welfare.
5.4 As I was Telling
be thankful for the good you have
As I was telling what I was feeling, there came upon you a sadness quite grim. Was then that I saw what you were shielding. Your heart is a house you locked from within.
❝ Your heart is a house you locked from within.
Alas, young love-lost you’ve paid the high cost of having shared all with little return. Yet better to lose than never to love. No pain no pleasure, a hard lesson learned.
❝ No pain no pleasure, a hard lesson learned.
No more is life fair than is the weather, so make the most of what falls to your lot. Don’t try to balance every poor measure. Be thankful for the good that you’ve got.
❝ Be thankful for the good things you’ve got.
5.5 Book of the Path
translation of imagination
The path with few obstacles likely leads nowhere interesting. The interesting path will be winding, rising, and falling.
Proceed with confidence, pilgrim, for resourcefulness is a bird that sings in the night: either unafraid to announce its presence or ignorant of the dangers.
Traverse by day, lest ye stumble, for nature takes no pity. Yet if thou should travel when it is dark, behold the stars and find patterns of personal meaning.
Take one branch; forgo the other. Every crossroad brings new options for success or new ways to fail.
When investigating the unknown, you do not know what you will find or even when you have found it. Such is the path.
The purpose of the path may be to find purpose along the path. The path you can understand is probably going backward. To ‘live’ backward is ‘evil.’
Prepare for the journey, for necessity never made a good bargain along its route. Bring sensible shoes and frequently check your equipment for flaws. Nature seems to side with the hidden flaw.
Best pack a peanut butter sandwich for sustenance along the path. A peanut butter sandwich is better than nothing and nothing is better than the path.
The path is littered with much that smells bad and is sticky. Try not to step in anything soft.
Pace yourself. Despite what you hear, nothing is as easy as it looks and everything will take longer than you think. Ultimately, nothing is ultimate.
Life is a series of changing scenes with recycled actors, yet the scenery is not itself the path. Regard those you meet along the path as passersby. We are all only passing by.
Know that those you meet advise you in their interest, not yours. Many will be makers, takers, or fakers. Against all these, guard what you share, for what you don’t say can’t hurt you.
Every traveller is eager to tell you a route inevitably circuitous or share a scheme that likewise led but back here.
Proceed with prudence. Almost everything is easier to get into than out of. The cynic is but an honourable person with experience.
Reason alone is not sufficient for finding meaning. One needs to will something to be of value. Find meaning in commitment to that which is of value.
Some will pass a message unknowingly. Content with meaning in your context. Such authoring is insight, finding your message in the bottle of their words or deeds.
Follow the path at its natural speed. Do not hasten the pace or place material between you and the path.
The less there is between you and the environment, the more shall ye appreciate the environment.
Appreciate that the conduct of others brings them satisfaction even if unseen and it may serve a purpose for the locale [obscure text, literal: the worms start multiplying when the chickens stop scratching].
Accept fruit from the trees as you pass, but don’t pick plumbs when hungry. A plumb is but a hydrated prune.
Find comfort in the brook. It slakes thirst, rinses hands, and gives reflection. Yet you’ll never seen your own face; only reflections.
There is no where that you can venture untouched. Maybe the earth on your soles. Maybe the air. But something or other is always pressing upon you.
You can never know for sure whether you feel the same way as somebody else. Can’t even know whether they feel at all, despite writhing or laughing that in you show pain or mirth.
You can never know for sure the limits of your imagination unless you try. Imagine a new colour. Imagine why you can’t imagine it.
( a loose translation )
5.6 Local Truth
that on which we rely is the truth of use to us
Hometown pride is a local truth of use to those who, by it, keep alive the myth of a world into which we may still step, and so better ourselves by the bootstraps.
A myth, no falsehood or deception, lays bare a basic understanding and is itself subject to reluctant revision when the presumptions of which it’s woven unravel against experience.
Such was the sit-com world, parsed to snippits, so every family member knows best and we can leave it to whoever, with names more colourful than Donna, Ozzie, Aunt Bea and John Boy.
Still we resist until the edges blur, whether living the dream or chasing the prototype. Until we are silent to admit our families live unlike those held up to us for better or worse.
Here, local truth come into play; value for the purpose at hand. A bright planet taken for the North Star guiding a ship safe to shore. Or advice, from a passerby who doesn’t drive.
Contingent truths scoped to a purpose; conviction for an ephemeral function. Bring me home. Start me up. Be all you can be. Local truths where we have what we lean into.
5.7 Bar Barista
decisions are easy when you know your goal
Jeff slides an espresso in front of the fellow with a palmtop, no sooner than Eileen screams ‘This cappuccino has milk—I expressly ordered cream,’ and everyone swivels to look.
Finally the guy with dilated eyes and lilliputian screen snaps closed the case and points beyond Jeff. ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ Jeff follows the vector of point to the coffee maker, where he’s surprised to hear himself whimper ‘are you sure?’
Second week of work and already demoted by a patron whose charm is the confidence of one who acts swiftly and pockets a palmtop.
It’s been a week of clogged equipment, the other employee calling in sick and now this slip up with Eileen.
His esteem is about to take a double shot, knowing he’s not making the impression that was the reason for taking a job around the corner, paces he measured to her door.
Mr Palmtop pulls a grin while turning a whoosh and swoosh into a cup of arabica with a topiary top. Jeff’s jaw drops, conceding he’s lost the girl of his dreams to meringue artwork, courtesy of the fat content in cream.
Cheer up, says Palmtop, the greatest mistake is giving up. But Jeff watches Eileen take a seat on the far side by the street.
Son, you’re interested as long as circumstance permits. When you commit you’ll accept no excuses. She stomps to the other side of the shoppe—so what! Nobody’s won or lost with a slather of froth. Ask yourself in this or any endeavour, without the ache of desire: do you still care.
Jeff works a bar not far from his old espresso haunt. Eileen cleans tables and dreams of becoming better. Achieving, she admits, starts with believing character is the author of her story.
6 Mostly Harmless
incidents of innocence
“It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.” —Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker
6.1 Outrigger
memory and imagination traverse time and space
The hill is swoopy and teases my mow cart’s centre of gravity. I lean counter and picture a copra canoe with an outrigger last seen in elementary school.
It’s an image in a primer, generations out of print. An image inked with happy memory and housed in childhood, that depository of perfect bindings.
It’s an idyllic impression of indigenous folk, tending a boat under a warm sun. All the time in the world, in a timeless world of artistic imagination.
Pushing arms like oars, I too ride low-slung. Zero-turn navigator in a dreamy diorama. Sun-brave sailor of fescue waves, slicing a swath through self-directed days.
6.2 Hunters
a vendor and customer make an art of making a sale
Bells clatter above the door as the shopkeeper kicks under a wedge of driftwood. A lone customer. Was she waiting long? Little else is open this edge of a long weekend.
The customer rises, unwinding a bow, all while peering through the window. All for ceremony.
Glancing from street to aging inventory, a smile creases the shopkeeper’s forehead. I will know this customer. As intimate as the family physician. As confidential as the town barber. As absently attentive as my auto mechanic.
The customer has her own knowledge. This is a shoppe of seasonal negotiations. A buyer’s market when winds blow cool. She picks out a driftwood walking stick and scowls at it, as one might a ladybug landing on her sandwich.
It’s on for both of them. Sale as kinetic art. Customer and vendor, both the hunter.
6.3 Holmes’ Poultice
a non-poultice purpose, indeed
Holmes had a blank stare. To be lost in thought was hardly unfamiliar territory for the great detective, but the focus of his gaze was close, as if on something read. Perhaps he was on to a clue.
His head pivoted, bringing the invisible text with him, fixing it upon my forehead.
❝ Perhaps a clue to a clue, Watson. I don’t suppose you have a pinch of gun powder in your pocket?
In my tweed, possibly, but I could see only tea leaves in this waist coat.
❝ Jasmine?
Rubbing crumbs between forefinger and thumb I conclude Earl Grey. At once, he dismissed the invisible text and looked directly at me.
❝ In that case, Watson, we shall need rolling paper in a hurry. Call to the cabbie — stop at the Apothecary.
Did he mean to smoke?
❝ Don’t be absurd, Watson. I have a headache and seek a poultice for my temple. A nitrate would be nice; caffeine will suffice.
Or perhaps we stop in the park for a bit of willow bark. Hippocrates, would be pleased to serve salicylic tea. I could hardly resist and for this Holmes paid a sliver of smile, so I pressed my case to insist on the mix by Gerhardt, a French chemist in my correspondence.
❝ Quite. But the paper has another purpose. To roll a small explosive for a lock that won’t pick.
Breaking in? What of the Inspector? And how might the police take to this?
❝ Not well, I would expect. We shall be breaking into his Station.
My turn to stare blankly and allow the silence to speak on my behalf. As the carriage turned onto Islington, he whispered …
❝ It is a troublesome lock, I confess, and a grievance better forgiven than denied.
6.4 Itchy
inventive imitation
Over my right shoulder there’s an itch I cannot reach. It’s niggling has me wiggling and grimacing without speech.
Then I remember my retriever doing a dance upon the grass. Upside down and twist around to what must pass as doggy jazz.
You’d think I’d head back to bed or stretch out on my sofa. But the itch had me twitching on the lawn ’til gone—or almost over.
The neighbour no doubt wondered if I was trying to find my mind ( doing a dance upon the grass ) and maybe I should be confined.
6.5 Spied Her
today is yesterday’s pupil
Spiders spin silent webs all year, but come autumn dew glisten appears. I didn’t take notice a couple days past, beside my car a new web cast across a corner of the carport. Walking distracted I headed for it, into crackling hair of disgusting floss.
Yesterday, sadly, was a repeat performance. I felt foolish twice failing to look. This morning I understood with empathy for the arachnid, web spun the other side of the shed. Humbled that we’d find the same solution at the same time.
6.6 Overcast Autumn
autumn offers a seasonal feast
Overcast autumn days pull shadows from trees, lending a weight of sobriety to the fruity colours of maples among pompous dogwood and tart viridescent apples.
The overcast day of boding rain prods after-work shoppers to hustle along efficient routes, with a sense this dimming day is almost spent—and yet there is much more to do by dinner.
Too warm for snow; too wet to mow. Maybe put away the garden hoses, bring in wicker furniture, or hunt down boxes of seasonal storage and lay out a succession of overlapping decorations.
Autumn is a tick to the sweet. A trick to the treat. Pies of thanks and umbrellas raised as leaves fall. Tomorrow we may diet, but first we feast on the hue of flavours around the corner from summer.
6.7 Dessert Friends
sweetness of innocence
When the women took off their tops, we stopped to admire their tits. Mature. Not flabby, like both the men’s bellies. Though they say they don’t mind a bit.
Baring it all to each other is another way of lowering walls. What matters is pleasure, not judging by measure, of the innocence young in us all.
Thus we dine on the deck in the buff. Room enough for dessert to come. The culinary theme, cherry pie with sweet cream, we eat ’till all lips are stuffed.
Evening lingers dancing on deck, under the speck of glowing full moon. Stay as long as you like and dance through the night, for dawn always comes too soon.
7 Not All Ends Well
precautionary tales
“You see, there are no pretty pink flowers in the woods at night.” —J.K. Franko, Eye for Eye
7.1 Cédric
we are ourselves in every moment
Cédric doesn’t trust himself, but not for lack of self-control. It isn’t yielding to temptation, that picks away at Cédric’s soul.
I’ve reason to believe a dæmon is stealing my forgotten thoughts, then reconstructs my history: same story—at least the plot.
The I that I am is, in effect, being rebuilt from memories. So to my async self they seem in the present and being me.
Async Cédric is a minute behind, or so I have this premonition. I fear what lies in front of me is my self and I’m the repetition.
7.2 9 17
love lost is inscribed on our hearts
Edna my love 9 17, reads the slender gold band dropped from the slot of a machine, warming in the palm of Major’s hand.
Edna lost it, fingers reaching under, but if not abandonment why is it here and I wonder why not report the incident.
From a flight jacket pocket, the pilot takes his band of dreams. If she says yes and I ship out, it’s agony of worry and years of doubt.
Love lost to timing leaves an ache of wonder. No one knows what’s coming, but I have a mission beyond here and beyond her.
Lost to Edna, lost to timing, Major pockets the ring and aches for his brother out there somewhere among the stars.
7.3 After the Iceberg
by any other name, danger remains the same
Her wooden tub rocked side to side, like a politician dodging a question. Riding whitecaps wasn’t in the plan. Yet here she was, looping a rope around the wrist.
“Never enough to knot and hold on,” voiced waves of her sea-cold mother. The fob on the rope bore the name of the ship. Most of the name. The rest payed out into splinters.
So that’s it, then. To be orphaned on the frothy mouth of a medium that would tolerate a mistake no more than bear her weight.
Still, she had the spindrift box. And she had Metonymy, her Jack Russell, where he needed to be. His ears, smeared with salt water, were red and dripping. Above them, the canvas cover bled.
( Metonymy: referring to someone or something by an associated idea. )
7.4 Faux Pause
ugly is evil by another spelling
Lotta Cash declines repayment for her nephew Owen’s tuition. Instead she wants a winter coat, cost covered by Owen’s contrition.
Seal that’s real or fur that’s fake, it’s sacrifice she finds compelling. He can’t stop hunts or ugly images. Ugly is evil by another spelling.
Warm is good; does good. Reluctant Owen repaid his debt. Clubbed fur coats for winter warmth to those with cash, but few regrets.
7.5 Flood Gate
lessons unlearned repeat
The flood gate has jammed with tree debris, someone must go down there to kick it free.
I’d say something smart about tenacity, but truth is: that some one won’t be me.
The waters are murky, everything slippery. And the old dam has taken two lives already.
Learn from losing improves upon history, but council forgets when the surge recedes.
7.6 Contribution
every cause has a cost
Radio snagged, response waiting, she orders the rookie to enter. Search and Rescue. Rare we’re gonna die reluctance registers against midnight sky. Time is short, she rattles her mantra: Roll with the Risks Serve and Protect. The rookie rolls into the lost hallway of hell and fire crews shout at something in the night. In morning light, his widow weighs cause against contribution her options.
7.7 Seeds
some know better, some know worse
Alan eases into a plastic chair not quite dry from disinfectant. Ready in 15 or the next pizza’s free—we’ll see—and checks the time on the screen tuned to local news. The sound is mute, but the protestors look loud. Anti-vaxers at the hospital. Police, according to the caption crawler, are standing by.
Wait, I recognize her, the lady with the balloons. She’s double vaxed. We chatted in queue. A hair dresser, maybe a barber; something like that. Kinda hypocritical to be protesting.
Writing. She is writing on her balloons with a Sharpie. Voice and Choice. The twins of freedom dangle; they don’t float. More signs raised. More mouthing of shouting. Then she stabs the balloons with her Sharpie. No voice. No choice. No helium in them. She blows a kiss like a child might cast dandelion seeds.
Ready before 15; no freebie. Alan slides the pizza in the back seat and snaps off his mask, his barrier against the bug. Next the latex gloves. Take no chances.
By morning the news is all about a new strain. More deadly. More contagious. More like the virus of a century ago. By the end of the week, it is the Dawn-to-Dusk virus. Catch it at dawn, bite the dust by dusk.
At the epicentre is the hospital. D-to-D ripped through the hospital. Alan, who wears a mask in his living room, recalls balloons that don’t float, filled by lungs. Filled by someone who knew better, for worse.
