Let The Ripples Take Me

I wasn’t sure what had happened. One moment I had been in the middle of a loud, cheerful party, full of celebration and cheerful talk, and then I’d been in the middle of a dark, crowded scramble for escape-from what and to where, nobody was quite sure. I felt as though I were liable to be trampled in the press, even though I was a tall, heavily-built person who should have been able to command the people around me in an anxious moment like this, if I hadn’t been so timid.

I heard a voice call out across the mob. It was Mark Ripple, a man who was much less of an imposing figure than I was, but it was his yard we were standing in, and he was just married, which I suppose gave him more standing.

“Now come on, folks, calm down! The lights have gone out, that’s not big deal. We were planning to douse the lights for a bit of celestial entertainment anyway!”

People did gradually stop shoving one another quite so riotously. From the angle his voice seemed to be coming from, I had a feeling that he was standing on a table. A moment later, Mark’s bridegroom, Teddy Walker, who was now a Ripple also, became visible, carrying a peculiar-looking penlight which had a plastic cup stuck onto it so that its light illuminated it, making it look like a candle burning inside a cup. He handed it up to his husband and reached into the box under his arm and turned on another one and handed it to a guest nearby and spoke to her softly. She took the light and moved away through the crowd.

Gradually, the light spread, and the party became softly lit instead of dark.

 

The Magic Eight-Ball says: Phttps://condofire.com/2019/12/11/poem-of-the-week-canoe-by-alison-luterman-via-poetry-mistress-alison-mcghee/

A Goulash Stew

 

Jeremy pulled a bag of tomatoes out of the refrigerator and handed it to me.

“Cut these up into small bits, okay? Don’t put them in, um…put them in a bowl, so I can put them in later, you know?”

I took the bag over to the counter, took down a cutting board from where it leaned against the backsplash, and asked, “How many?”

“Um, cut up a couple and show me how much they make.”

He went back to the fridge, looking at what was in it. He cackled with delight and puled out the jar of pickled cocktail onions.

“Oh, Golly, I’ll have to put all of these in!”

“Oh, yeah! They’ll be, like, eyeballs!”

“I’ll put them in at the last minute, too, like the tomatoes.”

“Maybe it should just be a cold soup, like, uh…I forget what they call it, but there are some kinds of soup where they make it up cold, and don’t cook it at all”

Jeremy looked thoughtful. The “ghoul-ash” we were preparing for the Halloween party was going to be based mainly on V-8 juice and beef bouillon, so we knew it couldn’t be cooked very much anyway.

“Yeah, let’s. Cold soul will be kind of ghoulish by itself.”

The only thing we wound up cooking was a couple of chicken thighs that we boned and then baked and chopped up. We made a small pot of “Ghast-ash (Vegetarian)” to put on the buffet table as well, with no chicken and vegetable bouillon.

Prepping that meal in Jeremy’s mother’s kitchen turned out to be the happiest Halloween I ever had. Just before we finished, he kissed me. I hadn’t even been sure he liked me that much, or that he was even gay.

 

https://www.madisonpubliclibrary.org/poetry/when-i-am-among-trees

[Because at the last minute, the host decided the poem about goulash was too much of a downer.]

The Intricate Pattern In The Years

 

“I’m always going back to foolish, embarrassing or shameful things I did long ago and dwelling on them endlessly, even if they’re things no-one but me remembers.”

“Ugh, I know just what you mean. I used to see a therapist who tried to turn that perversity of my memory back against itself, told me to invent false memories in which I did the right thing. I balked at the idea of intentionally falsifying my memories, I pointed out that I was hardly anything but the sum total of my memories, so if my memories were false, what was I? His counterargument was that since nobody but me remembered that moment, what was the harm in changing how I remembered it?”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, soon after I had to stop seeing him for completely unrelated reasons, but I think I would have had to stop seeing him on account of that issue. The idea of intentionally creating false memories, even if they were sitting in a drawer labelled ‘Comforting False Memories’, just kind of creeps me out.”

“I don’t know. I think we all have that drawer. I think we all fantasize about rewriting our past lives to make them come out better, even if it’s only through reading stories about people who have better childhoods or more successful college days than we do.”

“Well, maybe so. But there’s a point right there: when it’s a story about someone else’s life, it’s enough like your life that you can identify with the character, but it’s different enough from your own life that you’re not in danger of starting to believe that what happens to the character is what happened to you.”

“I’ve read stories in which people read overinflated hagiographic books about them and begin to believe that’s what happened to them.”

“Ohhh, that’s creepy.”

“Well, it’s usually played for laughs.”

“Yeah, but the sort of person who gets books like that written about them is usually someone in a position of power. So if, say, a combat veteran rides fame in war to political office, and comes to believe that his inflated heroism is real, his ego could run out of control, and lead to crazy risk-taking in Congress, or the White House. Creepy.”

“Good point. I also recall a story in which a General was constantly narrating everything he did in purple prose to a stenographer who hurriedly wrote it all down.”

“Eek.”

The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Slowly, he tapped away at his keyboard...."

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/150045/the-gentle-art-of-shabby-dressing

Hopscotch and Jumprope

 

I walked out onto the playground, seeing the kids playing individually and in groups. The sawdust underfoot was frozen into a solid mass, the chunks on the surface frosted decoratively where they hadn’t been stepped on. The sky was a perfectly even gray, the Sun a white disk that you could look directly at. I imagined a flag, like the Japanese flag, but white on gray.

I looked around. A group of boys were throwing a football. I didn’t like football, or playing catch. Boys and girls were on the swings, but there weren’t any swings empty. The jungle gym was crowded. On the asphalt patch, groups of girls were playing hopscotch and jumprope and that weird game where one of them crouched down in the center and they formed a circle around her and sang a song while she stood up. Actually, maybe there was more than one game like that. I had a feeling I’d heard more than one song, anyway.

I didn’t like being on the asphalt during recess. I thought of playing on asphalt as an opportunity to fall down and tear your pants and gouge your hands. Still, I’d always wondered about the games girls played. I’d already learned that boys’ games were magic, and could take you to far-off places and allow you to live other lives, almost as well as books could, if you observed the rituals and didn’t mess with them. It was easy to mess up the magic, of course. What sort of magic did girls use, though? I decided I’d like to find out.

I walked over to where the girls were jumping rope. I saw that two girls were twirling the rope, and the girl in the middle was not watching for it – she was actually not facing towards it, and couldn’t see it coming. She was dancing in time to the rope’s swing, dancing with the rope, as its partner. So . . . .

I watched two girls playing Hopscotch. That was trickier, and finally I asked them to explain it. They were annoyed at being asked to explain, but tried to be polite. They even invited me to try it, but when I tossed the stick they were using, it landed outside of a square, and when I skipped down the squares, I didn’t land inside them, and wrong-footed, and didn’t understand their explanation of what I had done wrong, and went away annoyed.

I didn’t even try with the circle of singing girls.

And so I never did learn the secret of girl magic.

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47247/in-just

On My Way To Yes

 

“Did Joe Biden win the 2020 election?”

He bit his lip and stammered and finally smiled and said, “Well, clearly, Joe Biden is the President, so-”

“Please, that’s not what I asked you. The question is-”

“Look, he was sworn in on the 20^th of January, everybody saw it, so-.”

“Again, that’s not what I asked.”

“Are you trying to tangle me up in some kind of conspiracy theory?”

“With respect, Sir, I’m trying to disentangle you from a conspiracy theory. I’m asking you to formally renounce-.”

“Look, we all know who the President is, so can we move on from-”

“I’d really like to. So, can we settle the question: who won the 2020 election?”

“Look, the election is over and done with. Joe Biden was sworn in as President and that’s all finished, there’s no taking it back now.”

“But did Joe Biden win the 2020 election, yes or no?”

“I already told you he’s the President, what more do you want me to say? Can we move on?”

“We’re almost done here. The question is, who was the legitimate winner of the 2020-”

“What difference does it make who I think-”

“If you’re harboring secret reservations, I think it makes a great deal of difference in your ability to work with our President. So please give us an honest answer: is Joe Biden the legitimate winner of the 2020 election?

“Sir?

“Well, I think this is the first time a member of Congress has walked off our set in the middle of an interview. Coming up next . . . .”

 

https://www.seafarerpress.com/works/finally-on-my-way-to-yes

Bless This Land, From The Top Of Its Head To The Bottom Of Its Feet

 

I got up, early in the morning, before the rest of my family. I couldn’t tell time by the clock yet, but I could tell by the light that it was just after Sunrise, earlier than I usually got up. I put my hands to my chest and then spread them wide, as I’d seen people do in cartoons after rising in the morning. Yes, it did feel good to do that. I walked around the living room in my pajamas, wondering what I would do next.

I had a strange feeling, something I couldn’t remember having before, as though I ought to give a hug and a kiss to my brothers, and to Mommy and Daddy, and then to all of the neighbors, and then to everybody else in town, and then to everybody else in the country. I pictured myself reaching out with some kind of magic to touch all of those people and tell them I liked them all and they were good people and tell them to be good. I wanted to tell all of them they should be happy and not to cry. It was a strange feeling I had never had before.

My brother came in and found me sitting on the couch staring at the wall.

“What are you doing?”

“Ummm…I’m playing that I’m Santa Claus taking toys to everybody.”

“But you’re just sitting there.”

“I’m playing it inside my head.”     

The Magic Eight-Ball says: "Have a good day. No, a really good day."

Toward a New Unknown

I walked into the Rexall and passed by shelves of products for conditions I had never had, or hoped never to have, or – I blushed – never could have – to the section of magazines. Here I had a similar problem: all of these magazines I had no use for, and among them the handful I had come in to look among.

Transorbital: last month’s, I already had it . . . Tales of Mystery and Imagination: already bought this issue, and shouldn’t have bothered – when will I learn? . . .  Contemplate: might buy it yet, if I get desperate – better decide quickly, there are only three copies left . . .Toward a New Unknown: that’s a new title, haven’t read it yet.

I pulled a copy of the first issue of Toward a New Unknown from the rack, trying to find one in perfect condition in case it might be worth money some day, paid my quarter for it and took it home. By the time I’d finished reading the stories in it, it was quite well-worn, of course, just like every other science fiction and fantasy magazine I bought when I was twelve, but that was all to the good. A book or magazine that came into my possession when I was twelve that wasn’t worn is one I didn’t read.

 

 

https://www.ststephensrva.org/download_file/view/1791/

Don't Show Your Breasts

 

It’s a nuisance, I know. You’d feel empowered and free, in the moment. You’d enjoy sharing that connection with another person that comes from sending a picture. And of course, you’re so certain that the person you’re sending it to will keep your picture secure, will never be careless with it, will never show it to anyone else, will never have a falling out with you, or if the two of you do have a falling out, will delete your pictures. Of course, you want that to be true. You presume, here and now, that it will be true. You can’t be certain that it will be true.

Remember that celebrities who can afford high-grade security on their images and their text files have had them stolen.

Even if you were to go the old-fashioned route, with hard copies, with Polaroids, those can be copied. Heck, they can be scanned on a printer and then boom, they’re on the Internet anyway.

In the fullness of time, this nonsense is going to run its course. There will come a day when every prominent woman in politics and the arts and letters has a bathroom selfie or a Mardi Gras photo or a beach shot, or if they don’t, they’ll have a deepfake that is so well done it’s difficult to plausibly deny. At that point, it really will be no big deal. Waving nude photos of someone will be a big so-what, and if they reflect badly on anyone, it will be on the clod who waves them around, just as it should be. But that day is not yet.

It’s a terrible shame, it’s a huge injustice, it absolutely shouldn’t be a big deal. I know all of that, but for the sake of your safety and peace of mind, I urge you most earnestly: don’t show your breasts.

 The Magic Eight-Ball says, "This isn't justice, it's just what is."

https://pollycastor.com/2018/10/05/be-a-lady-they-said-quote-by-camille-rainville

As The Legend Tells It

 

It can be frustrating- the way messy reality can turn into elegant legend so quickly. There is always the temptation to tweak events to fit into a narrative. Humans are story-telling creatures, and we see stories in human events the same way we see pictures in cracks in a ceiling.

But perhaps it’s better to go along with the legend. The saying is, when facts conflict with the legend, print the legend. This is usually cast as cynicism, to go with what sells, but perhaps it actually is better to inhabit the legend. What we call “objectivity” is just another way of interpreting events, after all – it could be that there is an advantage in taking a legendary approach, in saying, as Jung does, that even the most ordinary life is worthy of mythology, in casting every person as a character in an epic. Why not?

Why shouldn’t your marriage be one of the great loves of history? Why shouldn’t your country be a great nation, in ways that don’t do harm to its neighbors? What’s the harm in being a legend in your own mind?

 The Magic Eight-Ball says: "Yes, but actually...."

https://allpoetry.com/When-a-Woman-Feels-Alone

Some Words Are Messengers

 

“Did you hear about the new probe that’s just been launched toward Mercury?” I asked Ms. Messenger as I massaged the back of her thigh.

“No, I haven’t. I do usually follow news about space exploration, but I hadn’t heard about it. Who has launched it?”

“It was NASA. I thought you’d be interested, in particular, since its name is MESSENGER.”

“Hah. Well, that’s appropriate, for going to Mercury.”

“Just so. It’s an acronym, describing the kinds of instruments it’s going to be carrying, the things it’s going to be looking for. I forget what-all it’s doing. I believe one thing it will be doing is looking for ice.”

“Ice? Really?”

“Well, at the poles, in deep craters, there are shadowed places where the Sun never shines, so the temperature remains extremely low. Almost as cold as people imagined the back side of Mercury would be, when we thought it was tidally locked and always kept one face toward the Sun.”

I folded the sheet back over her leg and moved around to the head to fold it down to uncover her back. I tucked it into the waistband of her underpants to make sure they were protected and spread oil across her back.

“People thought that? I never heard that.”

“Yes, until the 1960s. The way the Moon is tidally locked to the Sun.”

“Whoa. If that happened, then the night side would never see the Sun at all…it would be so cold…whoa.”

“Yes. Colder than Pluto, which at least gets a tiny bit of Sunlight. It would be the coldest place in the Solar System.”

“Spooky.”

“I’d been meaning to ask you about your name. Do you know where it comes from?”

“I don’t. I only know my ancestry back about four generations, all in this country. I’ve been married twice, and kept it both times, because I couldn’t give it up.”

“Hey, if I married a woman named Messenger, I’d take her name.”

“Good for you.”

“Did you ever see that movie, The List of Adrian Messenger?”

“No, heard of it. That’s the one where a bunch of people turn out at the end to have been wearing heavy makeup to disguise themselves?”

“Yes. A weird gimmick. They didn’t quite have the technology to pull it off back then, you could pretty easily tell who the actors were, most of the time, but it was a fun movie anyway. One of those grisly murder comedies where a large number of people are killed in grotesque ways.”

“People are weird sometimes.”

I went on rubbing down her back.

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/91108/words-are-birds

Self-Reflection

I turned away from the keyboard to consider my options. In taking my wife’s half-finished manuscript, I wanted to carry out one final collaboration with her, to infuse her words with my own. I wanted to do this to feel closer to her. I thought I would feel that way, especially since the main characters in the story were obvious stand-ins for the two of us. In a way, it was already her own love letter to the two of us.

To do that, though, I had to wrestle with my own priorities, my own interests, and above all, my own viewpoint. I had to find my own way of looking at it. For instance, I was thinking that instead of writing it in third person as she had been doing it, I would write it in first person as Jack, my stand-in. Or maybe I should write it in alternating viewpoints, as Jack and also as Kate?

The one would require a good deal of self-reflection. The other would be…simply beyond my ability, I was sure. I was married to her for longer than I had been not-married to her, but I hadn’t been married to her for longer than she had been not-married to me. I had raised four children with her, but she had raised five children without me.

Besides that, though, another purpose of finishing The Lodge was to learn more about myself, as Kathe’s husband and as myself. I must learn more about myself as a being apart from Kathe, since that is who and what I am and shall be from now on. After more than a year of widowhood, I am still learning how to do it, how to be a widower, how to live my own life.

I saw a therapist for over a year. She was so good. I wish I were seeing one now. I talk with one occasionally, but we don’t connect as well. I’m not going to blame her, but we don’t make the kind of connections that I did with my previous counselor. So, I shall have to rely primarily upon my own reflections on my thoughts.

And finish The Lodge.

And finish Frankenstein’s World and post it for sale.

And get started on An American Victory.

And when I’m done with that, get started on The Black Coast.

I really do have a lot to do.

 

The Blue Nightgown by Toi Dericotte https://poets.org/poem/blue-nightgown