who's the muse anyway

My daughter purchased this orchid for me a couple of years ago for father's day. Our cat after months of appreciating the beauty of this wonderful plant knocked it down and shattered the pot it was in. The orchid died shortly after I replanted it. And that's the end of the story. Not really. Because now I'm infused with more juice from the muse. There is a wonderful poem written by Kenneth Koch titled "taking a walk with you." (google it, read it, it's worthwhile if you enjoy poetry) Anyway, I've been thinking that I almost feel like blogging again. I did blog almost daily for three years. I enjoyed it, but the website where I blogged closed down and I lost the desire to start writing again in a new place and with new friends, so I just quit all together. So I've been thinking that it may be fun to write ...not so much for the comments and the audience, but just for the sheer joy of writing for writing sake. A rumi (nation) of playfulness directed towards the unseen beloved. I will include a snapshot and possibly a tune and see if I can post more frequently than not at all. The snapshot will be taken from my cellphone camera so there will be a few limitations and of course since I don't listen to well to my muse, there will be limitations there too. But, the vast majority of time there will be a love affair going on between me and the imaginary reader and over time I hope to get back into the groove of posting regularly and possibly sharing a chuckle.
I've been told my blogs are a pain in the ass to read because they are mostly a blob of words with seldom a paragraph to separate thoughts. But I will not make any excuses. For now, it's just me and Mary my muse and the woman Kenneth Koch wrote about in his long poem.

attraction

Isn't it weird how attraction works. One person may be attracted to buddha and the other may be attracted to thepower of crystals. I would love to think that I'm attracted unconditionally to everyone and everything but that's not always true. Some folks just carry with them an energy that my energy doesn't seem to want to get too close to. I think that happens for a reason. And when that happens, I seem to suspend my penchant towards this notion of unconditional love. But, suspension doesn't mean I'll totally block out love, it means, my love is always there, but held in abeyance until either my energy turns itself around or the others' turns itself around. A connection must be made. The chief operative for me is always love. And unfortunately I forget about it. But that's OK...because I always remember it too. And the beauty lately has been, that I have been forgetting less. Which is a switch because I would think that as I age, I would be forgetting more. But, it's become less of a chore to remember. I've become a well oiled champion of love. I can't say it's become effortless, but I'm getting close. And I love it.
I'm coming into my own. I'm getting more attractive as I age. And, none of this, has anything to do with me.

nothing to report

I love slow news days. It's when the whole fucking world turns into the national enquirer.People make up shit just to make it seem like it's news. This just in: Joe Blow died today in his nap. He finished eating his supper, went to his favorite chair, picked his nose a bit, watched the six o'clock news and snoozed while waiting to hear alex trebek's voice. For years he was an avid fan of vanna white but lately because of his health he was unable to wake from his nap to watch vanna flip the letters. His wife shirley said, "I knew once joe couldn't stay awake for vanna, it was the beginning to the end." She also said, "I was jealous of her. " But john, joe blow's best buddy had this to say,"joe loved shirley a lot, but damn, that changed after he thought she was paying more attention to dr. kildare than him." Whoa, wait a fucking minute. (flash on the screen) we interrupt this program...joe blow is not dead...14 vehicles with 40 of his volunteer firemen friends showed up at his home to perform some sort of mouth to mouth procedure on him & fucking aye, it worked. Lucky for joe and shirley that they discovered joe's problem all these last few years has been sleep apnea and not lack of interest in shirley. On the way out of the house all the volunteer firemen gave shirley a firm hug and they tucked their hoses back in the truck. It was quite an ordeal...later that night, joe called shirley...vanna. Maybe this shit shouldn't have been reported. Sorry.

why does this seem so irish

Because I made it so. But that's not really so because I'm ticklish. And polish too. So what. I agree.And I am glad that I agree because often times there is this struggle. But not today, or not now anyway. So, what gives? How's your soul during these lapses? I've heard that the best answer to give is always...I don't know. And yet I don't know if that is true or not. I like to know, I like to feel for sure, and yet, I'm never quite sure if that can be had. Never. Never if I have to ask myself over and over again. And yet again, it's not all that difficult. In a snap the answer is always there. It may not be true, but it's all that exists. At that moment. So, that was a long time ago. A lion jumps out at you and you have no sword. You swoon. Too soon. Lions are becoming extinct. How can that be. It's deep. It's as deep as the dream you had last night. Yeah, you're right, I can't remember. I think though I want to dream about the toads and the frogs that I no longer see at this time of year. And that ireland (which I have never seen) is still emerald.

even an open book doesn't tell the whole story

I've been keeping a personal journal for more than twenty years. Every so many years I think I may throw them in a camp fire, but that would be like throwing myself in a camp fire too...so I haven't...yet. The thing that fascinates me is the why...why did I start keeping a journal in my 30's and why did I continue with it. There was a year that I said fuck it and didn't keep a journal (excuse me while I go into the basement and find out the exact year) (it was 1995) and now I'm wondering what I was doing instead of keeping a journal. Maybe I was being a cross between Sarah Palin and Buddha where I would jot things down on my hand and then realize the next day after my bath that nothing is permanent. But actually I rather like this nag of writing. It's an obligation like marriage or bringing kids into the world. For me, it has become a commitment. Nag was a selfish word to use...wasn't it? My muse is a whore I can't help it. She prods me in the middle of the night and says things like...your wife is sound asleep, do you want to get up and write. And I say no thank you, I'll write in the morning. And she says....sure you will, but I'll bet that you'll forget about what I'm going to tell you....and on and on she goes...and of course I forgot most of the stuff by the morning...but at least I got to get some sleep. But in the morning as I rubbed my eyes I wondered what it was that I ate before I went to bed that gave me such a restless night. And then I realized that my muse was a salami and onion sandwich and a couple of beers.

what brought this on

I am sitting here enjoying a cup of earl grey tea and prepping my mind up for a walk in the cool wet day of today. One of the dogs is sitting just over my shoulder on the leather chair in the living room. The other dog is plopped on the bed in other room. It might be a good day to forgo the walk, but I'm not one to be imprisoned by the weather. I love to say this every once in awhile...don't let the weather decide whether or not you are going to go outside, let your heart decide. Which reminds me of yet another line from a Creeley poem. "to be in love is like going outside to see what kind of day it is." I think another one of our local poets (Carl Dennis) wrote this: "the old outdoors conspire with me." Don't quote him or me on this just google the poem if you get a chance...I think it was titled "the writer." Anyway, while thinking about all this, I thought about the song rainy days & mondays and I checked out the old reliable youtube and sure enough at my fingertips Karen Carpenter with her lovely voice and pretty ugly dress popped up in front of me. My wife from the other room asked, is that Karen Carpenter...and I said yes..and then she asked...what brought this on...and I said...probably the rain. And now, I'm done thinking about the walk...I'm just going to push myself away from this computer and ask...does anybody feel like taking a walk...and see if I get any takers.

dog eat dog

I love my morning walks in the park. I love taking the dogs off their leashes. I love my new cell phone with its qwerty & nifty 3 megapixel camera. And I love the idea that I carry this cell phone with me at all times just in case I fall and am dragged by two hungry dogs in mad pursuit of a rabbit or a fox and I can use it to call for help. And yet, I realize that it also has become a shackle too. Regardless...all I want to do tonight is see if I can post a picture and a video from youtube, like I always did before when I blogged on Zaadz/gaia. It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks...so this is just a test.

shit...I need to make the video smaller

making it new

I think I grow tensions like flowers...said Creeley in one of his poems. And posting this snapshot created a tension for me. I had no idea how to post it on this blog. When I learn something new there's sometimes a little frustration, until of course the blossom of understanding. And now, it's old hat. The snapshot is from last year. I have yet to see any crocuses this year. Although, this morning I did see a robin. It's official. The other day the sound wasn't enough but today the sight sealed the deal. For years I blogged on the Zaadz/Gaia site but they will be closing at the end of this month, so today...I am attempting a new site and new ways of doing things. I have no idea who will end up reading these words, but that's OK, often times when I sit down to reflect and write, it's not about an audience, it's about me and the interplay of the words that surface from a scrambled place of my mind. Often what I write is random and haphazard but on occasion even I am glad with what blossoms. So, here it goes, my first post in a new place. Off into cyberspace.