Waning

Φ

Pale in Forgiveness

Hemorrhaging Faith

Staining the shadows binding

in Despair

φ

 

 

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AAAAAHHHHHRRRRRGGG!

∞

My daughter is telling me all about which boys she likes the most at school.  She’s nine.  NINE!  I can’t tell which is worse.  The fact that she, like my Wife, thinks smelly, hairy boys (well men for the Wife) are a good thing.  Or, that at nine the part of her brain that makes you girls like smelly, hairy, loud, obnoxious boys is pumping it’s venom into her blood stream.  Don’t you know that we smell our drawers to see if they’re good for one more day!.  Don’t you know we depend on you to know better?  HOW does my perfect, beautiful, intelligent, & light filled daughter look at a pile of loutish little mud heathens and think,”Oh boy!”?  How do any of you do that?  Do you have any idea how many guns I need to buy now?  And some barbed wire..and some alligators…. Guard dogs.  Big ones.  Like twenty feet tall or something.

Sigh!

∞

Hang on to your Emotions

Θ

Laurie Anderson & Lou Reed

They are my all time favorite couple.  I would love to experience Lou’s New York City and have a conversation about anything with Laurie.

Amen.

Θ

Stalked by Anger

◊

Climbing a mountain high

Loose stones fall

In the bright blinding Sun

The stones become hot

Dust and sharp fragments

Choke     Bruise     Distract

Uncertain of footing

I  wander from the path

To a most familiar predator

On this ground I am prey

My heart begins to race

As it crawls near

My eyes wrestle it’s silhouette

From behind splintered stone

A face so vermin like

With red matted hair

Like a chameleon

In it’s holocaustic terrain

A living sore

In a blasted volcanic world

Infinitesimal

But sensing my awareness

Our roles then reverse

It cannot strike fear

Into what it cannot surprise

And in the light of day

It’s smallness is laughable

I look it in the eye

Show that I’m not afraid

I’m not so lost

That I cannot find my path

Yet spitting acidic vitriol

That stains then burns

Attacking in it’s retreat

Scurrying back into hiding

I cup the wound and rinse it

In clear cool water

Only a momentary flinch

Leaving not even a mark

I have avoided it’s bite

And weathered the poison

Looking over my shoulder

I see back to my path

The creature and I

Will soon dance again

For it ever tracts me

Always in my shadow

◊

Price of Pride

◊

Calling my bluff

That moment of fear

I use an adding machine

To tally the pain

I

Put on the robe

& Light the candle

Stand on the alter

& Spread the shroud

Insert the dagger

& Burn the Heart

My heart, my alter, me

Always

Always

◊

Chaos

The quick & dirty for this weekend goes like this.

The Wife and I are painting the foyer. Late Saturday night Kid One trips over the bucket of paint sending it down the stairs. The stairs, banister, & floor are unpainted wood, or were. Not only did the paint splatter the woodwork but it seeped through some backboards and ran down the basements stairs too. Coming to rest in a pool on the downstairs rug. Unfortunately, as if the previous wasn’t unfortunate enough, the foyer is adjacent to the living room we had a new floor put in a week ago. While I was desperately toweling the paint off of the new living room floor I realized I had not yet replaced all of the table lamps. Meanwhile the paint is seeping into the joints, permanently like. I desperately need enough light to fill the room so I can see all the spots. I yell at Kid One to ‘get me a light fast’. Two minutes later he shows up with a small flashlight.

>BOOOOM!<

Any rationality I had left…Left. I went off like a bomb. I over reacted. The poor kid. He’s a klutz. Just like me. The wife said I sounded like my father but not in the good way. More like ‘this guy needs an intervention or medication or both’ kind of way. I don’t go by the moniker of Polar because I like the cold folks. What an ugly scene. There is nothing good about a gallon of paint cascading through one’s house. But it’s worse, I think now, to down dress your kid for doing it accidentally. essentially I made the situation much worse for everybody in earshot. Yeah, yeah, it was a unusual paint in that one MUST maintain a wet edge while painting or the job goes to hell. Which means one cannot just stop halfway through a wall for an hour to clean a spill. But once the can went down the stairs all that became moot anyway.

I wish that I had said something like ‘Um, your supposed to play Kick The Can with an empty outside in the yard.’

I wish that I had made like a foreman on a Exxon Valdez clean up crew calmly pointing out missed spots and issuing towels. letting Kid One learn how to clean up paint.

I wish that I had made this a lesson instead of a catastrophe.

I wish that I had laughed instead of panicked.

The real mistake here was not made by Kid One but by me.

The real damage here was not done to the house but to the relationship between Kid One & myself, Dad Zero.

Can’t take it back

◊

At the speed of sound

Are words etched in this moment

Forever branded

◊

Unreasonable & Yelling

◊

I’m assigning blame

To common imperfections

Hand picked illusion

◊

T.V.

◊

With absolute power

Reality is altered

Fitting the desire

◊

Valentine’s Day or Where’s my bullet proof vest

My daughter’s school was closed on Valentines Day because of snow. Which means she won’t be receiving any valentines from her class mates. Being Dad, it falls on me to get her the only valentine she will receive today. On the way home from work I stop at the store to do some shopping. I find a sweet little heart shaped balloon which will be worth more to her than all the gold in the world. Its cost is two dollars. So, at a quarter past five in the afternoon on Valentines day I buy an “I love you” balloon for two bucks at the supermarket. At sixteen past five in the afternoon on Valentines day I get the “I hope she kills you in your sleep” look from the cashier at the supermarket. Well at least I made my daughters day…

I’m such a puttz!

Winter Mood

It occurs to me that I lose touch with my Soul when I am away from it to long. This statement may sound obvious but the recent holidays and guests, however enjoyable, are far from routine. I am a creature of habit. I have working tolerances to my daily grind. When I exceed my specifications for a long duration problems arise. Namely, I become sullen and withdrawn. The so called Winter Mood. The time when I seem numbed from the loss of connectedness.

There are other times during the year when this malady can strike. Its onset requires a substantial diversion of focus from myself or inner peace (IP in Lady Sorrow terms). To hold the bond with my soul I must maintain a constant level of attentiveness towards it. Seemingly any lasting event can trigger the Mood. Though other than family vacation nothing seems to last long during Spring, Summer, and Fall. However, mid-November through mid-January are fraught with distraction. We all know what they are so I will not list them. Hence I suffer from a weakness of presence during this period.

Yet I know those who flourish in the season, reveling in the many chores. I notice that they act through a rehearsed plan from year to year. Apparently due to something called Tradition. They have slowly worked throughout the year towards these series of events. They then pique in the accomplishment of the multitude of labors. Labors that exceed the proportional load limit of stress during the time frame. Yet they truly feel gloom when it is all over and they must return to normal daily activities. Until next year of course.

Allow me to mention that I have celebrated this holiday period in a different fashion every year since the mid-eighties. I am unaccustomed to anything resembling tradition in dealing with the change of pace. Might I suffer from the disruption of Habit? Habit and tradition are different to me. The order that we dress ourselves each day may be considered habit. While eating Christmas dinner at two in the afternoon is more like a tradition. Many habits fall to the needs of the holiday season. Yet, as mentioned, since I’m without tradition I have only habit around which my day may be ordered. Can I then say that my gloom must come not from a departure OF tradition, as with those who plan for it, but a departure FROM tradition, as with someone who lives by habit.

What is it about tradition that helps us past the angst? I believe one facet of tradition is a possible mechanism for allowing us to behave outside of the norm. Tradition is a cultural positive and an accepted social pattern. Yet traditional activities are almost exclusively outside of normal daily behavior. Evident by a house normally occupied by two senior adults becoming billeted by the latter plus all their adult children, their children, the new baby, and 5 dogs; for two weeks. Where every transgression of protocol is dismissed as “hey it’s Christmas, we only do this once a year”. When under the umbrella of tradition are we not appeased by the alien actions & avalanching stress loads? Are we not permitted to call the unique, normal? Yes we are.

All of this begs the question. Can we assuage stress by planning chaos and making it traditional? This can, of course, lead one into the pitfall of expectations. The other landmine of the season. Yet if I spent the next eleven months planning for the holidays would I not centralize around prime activities. Though they would be odd for any other time of the year they could be a catalyst for focusing energy. The kind of energy that makes people smile instead of grit their teeth. If this is true then I should plan on starting a new tradition in the Polar house. Next year I myself will cut the Roast Beast; while wearing my Santa suit singing Deck the Halls and standing on my head. Did you catch that transition? I’m now anxious for next season to come. I had better start practicing.

I am sorry for making you read all of that just to hear me say, “Man is it hectic around the holidays”. The real reason for these statements is that this year my winter mood was dismissed after only a brief visit. Due mostly to the fact that I realized that my despair was caused by the acute absence of self. After that I had only to invite the awareness of my soul back into my house. Then “BAM” I was where I was before it had all started. I needed to understand my reaction to distraction on scales larger than daily habits allotted for. Once I did I was able to adjust for it.

Of course it will happen again next year if no changes are made. For how can I fully steel myself against these Yule usurpations of being? Considering the above I move towards a traditional remedy. Tradition. I will not create static plans but broad objectives instead. The Santa suit is a winner plus several more simple ones should do. These will not make the problems go away. If I can, however, perceive them as mere stepping stones towards my goals then I hope they will pass easily. Therefore allowing me a Silent Night.

The Scorpions Sting

A man

Who never acknowledges insults

That they may fade

Powerless

Yet before leaving

They sting him

With venom that burns

Leaving always a scar

The Soul can not mend

His reaction always aggressive

But he is civilized

He can not say a discouraging word

So his pride he must swallow

Again

Again

Until intoxicated

With doubt

Depression

Pouring

Pouring rain

Rain on the streets

The streets of my mind

My mind drained of its Soul

Its Soul that never sleeps

Never sleeps in the dark

The dark that shrouds the life

The life that stalks wisdom

Stalks wisdom

Like Prey

Praying I might feed the hunger

The hunger of fear

Fear that pours on me

Pours on me like rain

The Kitchen

An antique is
Old
UselessAnd showy
Serving no purpose
That is my aunt’s kitchen

Cooking here is minimal
But style is at a maximum
Old oak floors
And a tin ceiling hung with fans

Antique glass on each cupboard
Displays urns of hand dried
Noodles and herbs
Like a mausoleum

All of which clashes with the
Stainless steel
Digital
LED display
Of the most modern
Double oven

Framed in worm bored antique wood paneling

We are visiting, my wife and I
I am talking with my aunt
My wife goes to the kitchen
Looking for something to drink

She finds the fridge in a recessed corner
It is an old fridge
My aunt thinks it’s ugly
She hides it

My wife opens it
She does not see drinks
She does not see food
Only condiments
Ketchup can make anything taste good

What once was food is now
A governmental experiment
Wrapped in cellophane
Green, red, & brown
Frigid, toxic rainbow

Ten minutes later
My wife hands me my coat
Her stern eyes glare into mine
She says
“It’s time to go”

 

MISS HARLEY QUINN’S
Take on Her Kitchen
________________________

An Antique is
Old
Lovely
And full of memories
This is my kitchen

Cooking here is a constant
Style a vain hope
New sticky tab tile flooring
And an old ceiling with flourescent lighting.

A 23rd coat of paint on each cupboard
Keeping safe hand picked herbs
Like a magician’s hat

All of which comes together with
witch dolls on high
cats on counters
candles that flicker

If you were to visit, your wife and you
You’d have no room to gather or stand

If your wife went to the ever so small kitchen
Looking for something to drink

She coudn’t help but find the fridge
I think it serves its purpose
And it can’t hide

If your wife opened it
She would see drinks
She would see food
And condiments
Feta and truffle oil make everything grand

The food thats there,
made with love and care
Is kept in lead free containers just waiting to be enjoyed

Yummy, savory, a culinary rainbow.

10 minutes later
Your wife hands you her coat and says,
“Please hang this up…we’re staying to sup.”

This is my kitchen. 🙂

Something Good!

Today was a righteously fine day. To start with my sister & clan showed up on Saturday on a stop over from their family vacation. I have not seen her and hers’ for some time so the visit was readily welcomed and enjoyed. The Wife and I and my sister and brother-in-law talked well into the evening while all the kids ran around the house ’till they turned into butter. Classic evening. Then we all woke up early to a repeat performance until late morning when they needed to hit the road. Good-bye’s, hugs, and my two kids chased along side of their car as they departed. Alright, great morning.

So the wife and I needed to run one quick errand. We left Kid 1 and Kid 2 at home to play Monopoly and we hit the road. Did I mention that today was a divine autumn day? While driving I asked the wife if there’s anything particular she wanted to do today. All she said was “Go canoing”. I mentioned that I could build some picture frames in the garage when we got back home. She then stuck out her bottom lip and hit me with that “I thought you loved me” pout. So we went canoing. On a mountain lake. On a sunny autumn day. With the kids and the dog. Off the lake before sundown with lots of awesome pictures. Then in the truck and home. Heading home every one was calm, quiet, and relaxed. Nearing the house I noticed a column black smoke coming from the direction of the house. This makes me think about the roast in the crock-pot. Begin slight uneasy feeling. Then the wife sees the column and says “Don’t we live over there?”. Begin moderate uneasy feeling. A few moments later Kid 2 piped up in the back with “Mommy, Daddy’s going fast again”. Ahem… Anyway a couple of hundred feet before I am to turn onto my road we see some neighbors burning a brush pile in their yard. And there we have the origin of the column of smoke. AAHHhhhh… That’s a lot better than what I was thinking. I eased off the accelerator. Coasted the rest of the way. Good air in, bad air out. Repeat. “Oh look kids there’s our house!”. “Doesn’t it look great!” So everybody got out. Grab this grab that. Up the steps. Turned the key. Opened the door…

SMOKE!

Billowing out from the door.

Parents race in,

To the kitchen

Kid 1 grabs Kid 2,

Races out to lawn.

Parents to crock-pot,

Crock-pot to deck.

Kids from lawn

Now at door,

Calling out.

Impromptu sit-rep on front porch

Unanimous decision

Chinese!

SooOO, the wife takes the kids into town to grab some take-out. While I stay home to vent the house. (Oh, not enough water in the damn pot) We eventually eat dinner, vent the house, wash the kids, vent the house, and put them to bed, while venting the house. Well it’s time for me and the wife to kick back and smell the house, no, relax (not that we haven’t been relaxing all day anyway. But, hey, why not?). I get ready to write my post for tonight. She puts on a movie she rented. Tells me it’s a chick flick and viewing is not mandatory for me. So I sit back and begin to center my thoughts. I want very much to write something tonight that will be up-lifting and positive. She turns on the movie and POW!

…”What is this?!”

“It’s a movie I rented. It’s supposed to be very good.”

…”These clips are real. How is this a movie?!”

“Just watch then.”

…”What’s it called?”

“God Grew Tired of Us.”

…”What’s it about?”

“Some Sudanese refugees that come to America from a refugee camp.”

Complete attention! This is one of the better movies I’ve ever seen. I will be showing this to Kid 1 directly. It is a documentary about these Sudanese guys coming to America to restart their lives after war and starvation as children. None of them have seen their families for years and wonder whether they ever will. They push themselves because to them failure is not an option. You get to watch as these guys spend 3 years in America struggling to embrace their culture while succeeding in another. As much as I wanted to write something that was uplifting, I could not hold a candle to this. Not even a flaming pot-roast. So the point of my post is to recommend the movie “God Grew Tired of Us“. You will not be wasting your time. You will be better off for indulging into this delight. If you’re emotional it will get you, but worry not. They film 3 guys all of which do well. Great endings. Great movie.

Dobre Den.

The Dump

In the Backyard
Digging holes
Into each an item dropped
Something to be buried
Like the occasional dagger
Thrown upon the lawn
Carelessly from a passer by
Intentionally from a passer by
Maliciously from a passer by
Cluttering up the yard
My yard
With sticks & stones
Yet I do not throw them back
Back at my detractors
I never liked throwing daggers
So I never learned how
My penance then
To pick them up
And to bury each one
Where it won’t be seen
Like it was never thrown
Into my yard
Into my face
So no one can see them
And if I don’t look
Neither will I

The Clutch

Again the Creature has come.

Standing before me licking its teeth.

A Wraith of a Griffin.

Lean of sinew.

Rigid and sharp.

Quills not feathers.

Malicious not loyal.

Colored in flame.

Smelling of acid.

Bony spined arms

Uncoiling from the Mantis-like chest.

Ending each in a claw of nine unbending talons.

Long fingers like the shards of lightning struck wood.

Click…click…clicking as they sniff out anxiety.

My anxiety.

From yet another failed expectation.

The failed expectation that calls to this demon.

This Wraith to which I am bound.

Tied with a chain too short.

Never have I evaded its grasp.

Condemned always to its ill embrace.

With a single hungry claw

The Wraith captures the whole of my gut.

I stand trembling in its grasp.

Living now moment to moment

As the closing grip spews vitriol from me.

The talons move closer together

Slowly shredding my insides.

Anxiety, though, does not render like flesh.

And so collapses toward the center of itself…

No!…Myself.

Forming a black sphere of Doubt, Need, & Panic.

Tighter and tighter does the fell Griffin squeeze.

Blacker and purer does the sphere become.

Until I gestate with Feebleness and Regret.

I fear my stress reaved body

Will not survive the birth.