Fumagatin

Why is it that every mindless, spineless pusillanimous object capable of grasping hold of a pen or pencil deems itself a writer?

People might practice hour upon diligent hour at the piano for untold decades yet dare not deem themselves "pianists." No matter how many years of vocal coaching the aspiring soprano spends toiling to perfect her craft, she is not considered a "singer" until she can sing the song well. A mother who lovingly places a band-aid upon the abraded knee of a child does not think herself a doctor, no matter how miraculously she transforms tears to giggles...nor does the father who waltzes his daughter across the floor, her iny feet balanced upon his, declare himself a dancer, even if each step is perfectly synchronized.

Why is it, then, that everyone who keeps a journal or scribbles thoughts on paper announces to the world that he or she is a great artiste, ready at any moment to challenge poor Willie for his title of "The Bard"? Could it be that most people do not understand what "writing" truly is? Because they see so many volumes (most of questionable quality)by so many different authors lining so many shelves, others assume that anyone capable of thinking up a halfway decent metaphor has talent?

I think that the deception lies in the seamless lyrical uniformity that pulses the vibrant cadence of harmonized theme, place, personalities, and poesy of a truly great work. Like every talented artist, the true writer makes it all seem so easy. The hours, the years spend perfecting the craft (Maybe one day, I'll get there, huh!?) Take place behind closed doors, in secret, quiet corners, or in the odd oasis of color and sound tucked away in some hidden alcove of nature. Few really see the work that takes place or comprehend the slowly smoldering passion to create which fuels a writer on and on and on, even when she fervently prays for the ability to just walk away and be done with it.

For so many of us poor, unfortunate souls, to write is not a choice: it is an irrefutable facet of our underlying quintessence. To not write is to hold one's breath. There is only so long one can do so before instinct, nature, that person's general makeup forces him or her to inhale; and so it is with those who were "born" writers.

So many people just don't understand that.

What set off today's tirade?

A blog, of course.

An associate of mine has written two young adult books while completing at least one other novel and a screenplay. Though best known in the entertainment industry, he is (after many decades) publishing his first work. Does this bother me? No. Albeit he and I have parted company (repeatedly) on acrimonious (at least, on my part!) terms, the pieces themselves are viable works, unique in their vividly conceived settings and gripping senses of "place." Besides, even he does not pretend to be The Great Literary Find. He has always presented himself as a person who enjoys writing and has several interesting stories to tell: not the next Dickens.

The participants in his blog, however, are quite a different matter. I have read, cringing in horror, the attempts to outshine one another in hackneyed, grammatically and syntactically abhorrent prose. Each one is working on that novel. Offerings my fifteen-year-old would be mortified to turn in as rough drafts in an English class are presented with great relish and to the immediate cacophony of praise lavished by counterparts (usually fellow poetasters) grateful for the excuse to submit equally horrific casualties of the pen in kind. (Am I a literary snob? Heck yes! You should hear what I call my own "stuff," ya'll!) And, as always, part of me is fascinated.

Who told these poor, misguided fools they could write?

There are writers and there are storytellers. Not all talented writers are necessarily adept at the art of storytelling; and not all good storytellers are capable of quality writing. Still, there is a place for each; moreover, I think each can retain a degree of respect for the other.

But the screwed-up scribblings I encountered today?

Well,

They'll all be available at Amazon before long!

Keep writing ya'll!

Cave Canem

From this moment on, I never again want to see, hear, speak, or even think the name Paul Glaser as long as I live!

H&H levels be d--d.

I refuse to die.

I won't give him the satisfaction.

(Now watch me write, ya'll.)

Suffering Through the Moment

"Words have little meaning, their resonance in ideas."

A friend of mine wrote these words not long ago, when I was at a low point: enduring what seemed, at the time, unendurable pain. As I tried to put into perspective all that was happening to and around me, it was difficult not to ponder the significance of suffering in our world. Be it physical, mental, emotional, or psychological, the pain which can infiltrate mind, body, or soul is very real. And, at this very moment, as I concentrate on the carefully honed process of separating my mind--my Self--from the agony now (once again)wracking my body, I find myself praying that he was right: that if I am able to, as he advised, place myself apart from or outside of my discomfort, and "foster more curiosity than [I] ever thought [I]had," I might actually catch that glimmer of light or understanding, hope, Truth, or insight which will transform what seems to be needless physical suffering into some state, some place in which it is no longer some viciously, gnawing thing I have to endure...but rather that Being I can become, venturing into these sensations and then finding those spaces within myself that are not comprised of, consumed by the ravages of pain but defined by the very act of knowing that there is something to be learned, discovered by having explored the deeper implications of just recognizing how this has all defined me, in this moment, as this entity I am now but will never again be.

(Or maybe I'll just find out the Green-Eyed, Silver-Tongued Con Artist didn't know what the devil he was talking about!)

A Thought For the Day

Every Age will develop the language of apathy; every age will attempt to transcend that terminology in pursuit of enlightenment.

Thinking Thoreau

"The millions are awake from physical labor; but only one in a million is awake for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred million to a poetic and divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake."-- Henry David Thoreau



My middle daughter Ondrelique posted this quote on her Facebook profile;

How appropriate! How much more life is than this; the endless scramble for a roof over one’s head, a shinier new vehicle to drive, or a few more coins in one’s pocket! It is in essence about experiencing the sights, and scents, sounds and sensations around us—learning from and about ourselves and others, reveling in the surrounding beauty, even finding the significance of the “ugliness” we encounter in order to grow stronger, even wiser, from the lessons it all teaches us. Life is about love and joy. Laughter. Appreciating all that we discover. Reveling not only in sunshine, but taking hedonistic pleasure in the rain. This world, this universe was put together as a series of balances; plants emit the oxygen that human beings need as we exhale carbon dioxide for them; herbivores are nourished by the grass yet they are gone their decomposing shells are nourished by the grass. On and off we go in this marvelously delicate symbiosis which is far more valuable, far more wondrous than anything that we as human beings might obtain, reshape, or create by our own hands.

When did we lose it…

The joy and awe that results from beholding, in this being apart from this glorious spectacle we call existence? None of us can be certain of what lies beyond this dimension, this tier of supervening beings known as human life. In many cases, we think we know. We share notions or ideas which may or may not be correct; however, it is both arrogant and foolhardy to believe that within this finite scope of our current perceptions we can conceptualize “accurately” the Infinite.

Thus, what we have are the wonders abounding here and now; and those should be enough to feed the ravenous minds, to pique even the most sluggish imagination, and to sustain even the most battered of souls....

Why can’t we, as human beings, recognize that????

Rude Awakening

The delivery man from Schryver (a medical supply company) showed up unexpectedly at my room this morning to retrieve the oxygen equipment—equipment that I happened to be using at the time.



Naturally, no one from the hospice bothered to warn me.

Surprise surprise. This entire introduction to the “hospice system” has been an eye-opening one. From the outset it was made plain to me that I was not the typical patient. This was dpone in a rather accusatory fashion almost as though I had somehow offended them by not opting to die as they thought I should. Apparently I did not look sick, act sick, or respond to my sickness as was expected. It made the staff and administration quite unhappy.

Rather than a suitable alternative to traditional hospital care—as advertised—it is little more than a less comprehensive extension. Since my enrollment I have encountered the exact same bullying, the same condescension, the same arrogant disregard for the patient , prevalent, unfortunately, in the modern “medical” world (or health care arena), only within the hospice system these platitudes are couched within the myth of catering to the express desires of the patient. It is an oppressive world; one which those entrusted to serve and care for others instead seek n to control, manipulate or in some way to exercise dominance over them.

One never thinks about the preconceived notions applied to the sick and the dying. We each assume that the end of life will be treated with reverence, tenderness, and infinite care. I suppose the concept of another expecting one to die cooperatively and on terms acceptable to the caregiver is so abhorrent that it is never even considered; nonetheless, what I have, much to my outrage, bewilderment and frustration.

But then I stop to think about it….

Those who are terminally ill are usually the elderly or those too incapacitated to make decisions regarding their treatment and/or care. If not utterly alone, they are generally under the guardianship of harried loved ones struggling to not only come to terms with the death of someone dear to them but also with those pressures and stresses which result from providing daily care; that’s, in the typical “hospice situation”, the recipient of their services are usually all too willing to allow the “system” to dictate any and all procedures and decisions for them. Few question. Few complain. The administrators (and staff) maintain absolute autonomy with regards to every aspect of the patient’s final days.

Until someone raises an objection….

Then the delicate balance topples. The reins of power are no longer firmly in hand. Allowances must be made, questions addressed, suggestions heard, alternatives entertained, requests considered, needs met, and invariably, routines broken. And this is a situation that does not conform to the day-to-day process of providing “hospice services.” One can no longer--as an administrator, nurse, volunteer, or caregiver—operate under welcome familiarity of autopilot; and this is utterly unacceptable.

What a sad yet evocative statement regarding not only our society, but also our current health care system.

Would I be receiving my quietus at 3 this afternoon had I not questioned the before undisputed authority? Had I not pointed out the ways in which the actual system failed to conform to those standards and ideals promised, would now the same guidelines under which I initially qualified for hospice care suddenly exclude me? Had I just shut up and been a good, docile patient—unthinkingly, unequivocally, surrendering to the methods, procedures, and treatments prescribed me regardless of their effectiveness, without considering the specific needs and challenges of my individual situation, no matter how inappropriate they were under the circumstances—would Pike’s Peak Hospice (or other facilities like it) be quite so eager to “give me the beach.”

Would I still be “hospice qualified” or “a perfect fit” if “I only had [no] brain.”

Perhaps…

I shall never know.

Yet, for all intents and purposes, from all that I have seen, heard, and endured, it most certainly seems so!

Another Aubade

If but a single shaft of light
Pierces the blue-rinsed shadows of dawn
Is therein not cradled
Enough hope,
Enough beauty,
Enough radiant promise,
To see the solemnly suffering soul
Through the bleakest,
Blackest
Darkness?