Our Presence, Christmas 2011

She presses up next to me, nearly touching, her body turned as if about to embrace me from the side. She has a very welcoming energy and I frequently think she is going to talk to me as if we’re old friends. I’ve never seen her before, but a part of me seems to know her. She orders her food, having trouble hearing the person behind the counter, and again she moves as if about to touch me or make a comment, she turns her face to me and opens her mouth to speak, smiles, then closes it. She wears a wedding ring and rocks her hips side-to-side in the fashion of one who is used to holding a child there, comforting it. I get my order and move off, she stays close until I depart, smiling.

Certain people speak out to me, drawing out my intimate observations; some scream quietly to be written about.

It’s December 23 and my mind moves over the flow of people at the International Mall. A constant meter-spiking conversation-white background noise presses on the ears. Voices flower around me from bodies of every size, wrapped in colors that pull as well as poke one’s eyes.

There is no overall style, other than clothed, though a few push that. The variety of human shapes and sizes make challenging work for the clothiers, though egos often distort the designers intent - and sometimes outright kills it. Many of us are a testament to the engineering strength of cotton, though Santa has made even that fashionable; compassion, generosity, and love know no shape, so we all have potential.

It’s truly amazing when one thinks of the number of languages, dispositions, statements of “I”, colors, cultures, thoughts and beliefs, and that we come to one location like this to showcase, share, smile, complain, lust after, love, envy, dream, desire.

Most of us are not isolationists on the macro, and many have no concern about expressing themselves in some way. This is one of my ways; observations of people. And there are many to observe; from the young mother who engages her child with big smiles, while occasionally touching the bothersome silver piercing at her lower lip, to the surgeon who has difficulty hearing my soft-voiced reply describing just what it is I’m doing here with my notepad and small writing (seems everyone writes larger than I), he says he’s nearly deaf, and I notice the fine clear plastic slipping into his ear canal, but I am soft-spoken usually, which makes for an interesting struggle of lip-reading from him, to the child who finds himself on the other side of the tables, both hiding and trying to get his mother’s attention while being just careful enough not to fall off the chairs, to the number of fashionable mother-daughter pairs walking about, some nearly mirror images of each other - and not often in the mother’s favor - youth has its own look, regression stands out, to the woman next to me in purple t-shirt and matching headband who watches me write while chatting with her husband, her glances at my notepad turn into full head-on attempts at reading what I’ve written from an upside down perspective, I let her see it rather than cover it up, figuring she’d have a little challenge reading my word art anyway, to the haggard father who exemplifies the word “haggard”, pushing a stroller that seems built to hold up his faltering steps, weary, shadowed eyes under gray hair that seems to stand up due to a weak electrical charge; his wife, eight content, measured steps ahead of him, carries another child at her chest, wears a smile that seems to say "payback is so worth it".

There is so much inner and outer movement here, I spend nearly four hours this day watching and reading it all.

We are a world of people gently, boldly, secretively trying to express ourselves. The struggle is in holding ourselves in, and it is our crime against nature to do so. Share yourself this holiday, be true to your needs, your desires, your expression of your truth, your loves… and the world will move.

Merry Christmas

Of Mice and Men

A little about how I come to write this article first. I have a very good friend, Lissette, who keeps tabs on just how long it’s been since I’ve written my last blog, and with her little pokes at my subconscious I swipe my arms across my metaphorical table, knocking aside all my other projects I need to get done before life passes me by, and focus on easing the stress of her poking finger. It is a strong finger. I imagine she could break rock with the thing now.

I’ve had several topics that I want to write about flitting around in my head, so I wasn’t quite sure which to elaborate on. That’s kind of a problem with me, I have too many and often get weighed down by them and the notebooks filled with other writing ideas going back to my early high school. Yep, fifty hours a day would allow me time, I think. 

So, I sat down and opened my trusty Scrivener program for writing, my hands poised over the keyboard. A topic about youth and creativity had been with me for a few weeks and I thought for sure that would be what started to purge from my subconscious, but it had other ideas. I generally allow a moment of pause, a state of peace where I think of nothing and let the images in my mind take form, sometimes a phrase or word becomes prominent and that becomes the kernel for what I am about to write. 

This time, “of mice and men” came to the fore. Words appear as physically shaped objects in my mind, in this case “of mice and men” floated forward through a shifting image-cloud of impression of merging memories and extrapolated thought…its a rather rich field to see, and perhaps one day I’ll be able to work photoshop or aftereffects enough to get you a visual idea. So far words are my only palette and you’ll forgive me if I paint with colors you may not have seen before, but until I can more accurately convey what goes on in me, this is all I’m able. Another struggle of mine, this being able to communicate well enough. Ah well..

So, of mice and men. Many threads of experience and thought tie together for this one, not all of them pleasant, but all important.

Disclaimer: When I state facts or generalizations about men, it does not in any way include all men and it is clearly understood that there are women who share some of the same directives of thought and purpose/goals and understanding. This article does not preclude them, nor wish to downplay their unique strengths. My viewpoint is mine alone based on my experiences. And I just may use the male form of speech in my pronouns because I’m being lazy male.

So there. (You may imagine me sticking out my tongue here.)

When is a man a man?

Short answer: when he is true to himself.

This covers an incredible gamut in the experience of the individual, but is really quite simple. Men often get caught up in the extraneous directives laid down by their fathers or mentors and society as a whole. What they often lose sight of are the important things in life. 

When trying to conform their lives to those directives, something is lost; a connection to the threads that matter.

In my mid to later 20s I made a lot of money, I got caught up owning and working two businesses 7 days a week, which, except for the fact of the lack of sleep and stress from my ex at the time, I did enjoy the work. What I did lose connection to was my family, not my ex and step son, but my born-on-the-farm-siblings and associated relatives and friends; those people who mattered when everything else fell away.

And more than that, I lost connection to who I was. 

There were many factors that contributed to that, including an ex who didn’t want me to write because of her own overwhelming fears, but in the end it was that lost connection that put me in a teetering position that left little of me around to actually enjoy life. It became a process where in quite moments I would pull myself out of the grey and just say, “do the work”. It’s a mentality that exists with me today, but has an entirely different meaning. 

Back in those days “do the work” was a mentality I used to push aside that extreme emptiness I was feeling and to just continue day to day, to trudge through the grey and darker presence my life had become. I didn’t think about future, had merely enough to just get through the loss of self I was feeling.

Directly at the end of that marriage, and the sale of my businesses, I wrote a 139,000 word novel in three months. I had a lot to say. I was finally able to say it, and I was happy. I have continued saying it to this day, with new words, new stories and, though I have so much ahead of me, I have so much already written and in the books, as the saying goes.

The pursuit of money was never a goal of mine; doing good things true to myself was, and is. Men lose sight of that. They lose sight of themselves because of their accepted societal mien, which can at times be both inspiring and demoralizing, dispiriting. There is balance, but only if an individual understands his true desires and what brings his life meaning. 

Does going to a job you hate every day bring your life meaning? Does not taking the time to sit and chat with your sister, brother, cousins, friends, spouse, bring you meaning? They are a thread to welcome parts of you you may have forgotten.

With understanding there is meaning. 

What is it you don’t understand about yourself? With that understanding the superfluous falls away, or becomes recognized for what it is. 

Men as mice know nothing of meaning, they all become diminutive and very much the same. They get put in boxes, mazes, they get experimented on and are looked down upon. They eek out a living scrabbling for food, keeping ahead of predators, and scraping their teeth down to sharp nubs for the gain of a few more holes in the wall. With enough holes the wall falls down, and with it your house. What’s the condition of the house of your life?

As men who feel the need to support the weight of the world, we have to ask the question: what’s supporting us? 

Being true

When something is true in carpentry, it is straight. One can look down the end of a freshly planed board and see a line that would make your mother proud. 

Being true to ourselves is like that. There is a straight-line connection to that which makes us, us. It is a line we have to frequently look back to when our minds get caught up in all these pretty curves in the world. That connection to being who we are is essential and unique to the process of inspiring others. If that connection weakens we have to shore it up, and the best way to do that is through some creative endeavor and with time in nature. 

Planting seeds, nourishing them, and watching them grow is a creative endeavor, more so because it gets us in touch with nature - an important component of the creative process. Drawing, painting, singing, writing, building, sculpting, grappling, and the like are all creative expressions, especially where there are no bounds or rules, just pure expression driven from your straight-line connection that intrinsic desire within each of us.

Creative play is a hugely beneficial as well, physically or verbally. When was the last time you actually got down and dirty and just all out played. Being adult simply means that you should know when to play. And it’s more frequent than you think.

If you have always had a desire to do something, something that actually made it past the well-meaning, and not, critics of your childhood - and yourself - then you owe it to the world to do it. We are inspired through variety and we welcome you to the pool of the creative to move this world, no matter how small it is. Do it. Make the choices that will benefit you and those around you today. 

A wise uncle of mine would often say, ”tomorrow never comes”. 

The counter to that is, “I’ll do it tomorrow (or next week, or after I retire, ad infinitum)”.

How many dreams and potentially world-inspiring impulses have been killed by, “I’ll do it later”.

It matters.

Be true to yourself and you’ll have meaning.

Of Poets and Sculptors

I love the feel of clay. Something about the freedom of "pressing" creation, that imposing of my expression and having it retained in a physical form, is indescribably desirable, concrete, satisfying.

Around me, the joy of cooler weather and company of experienced individuals sharing that same drive, culminates in an excitable agitation which bleeds happiness. One cannot stand in their presence without succumbing to the bump in energy level. They are smiles and kindness and they know what's important in life. They share it and welcome each other's presence as any respectful family who have found each other after decades of trial and error in this life. And they welcome my similarity, patience, and individual spark. It's easy to create in their presence.

My fingers glide over the clay and I find that I move as I would when massaging tight muscles. The comparison only strikes me after having been working on the head (a head likeness of a dear friend of mine) for several weeks now. I find that interesting, that that little nugget of analysis has slipped by me so far, quite certain its awareness rose to the surface because of a massage I had recently given. 

It’s calming, the process of working clay, in that environment. I find it comforting to be given my own little space in the world, to be surrounded by such defined personalities who have seen and thought so much. The images and emotions they have played through their bodies over time is vast to embrace. A lifetime of wonder and dream, inspired thought from a rainbow or fresh cut grass, perhaps a diligent bumblebee to light the soul, children with illnesses, the presence of partners and family expressing deep love, or anger, pets who’ve warmed their feet and hearts, passing loved ones stirring sadness, joy of new birth and tiny strong fingers, laughter of every age touching their ears, squinting from sunrises, smiles to frame their eyes with line…

All of that is around me. I am honored among my sculpting mentors. They are all that. They are poem, some edited to concise refinement, some still being edited.

And they are poets, skilled fingers shaping thought for all to see. One doesn’t quite know what will come out of them, they have such a backlog of internal impression and some interesting pathways to the surface. They are also painters, sculptors of wood, actors, mothers and fathers to their creative impulse. They have earned this time, and quietly go about pressing their spirit into the clay of the world.

Sitting with me: writing at IKEA

I’m going to take you on a little sit down with me to IKEA, one of my haunts for this sort of thing; my observation of individuals and humanity. They are separate things.

I crutched my way though the warm parking lot, past people who were ever so curious about what I did to my foot (cuboid fracture). Little and sometimes not so little glances at the large black immobilization boot I choose instead of a cast. Perhaps they worried it was catchy, maybe a new style would emerge: green hair, body modifications and a large black boot to thump attention. 

Cool air inside and the sounds of people shuffling, sneakers squeaking on polished floors, voices reflecting off the same polish, sounding slightly tinny, metallic. The escalator looked at me with shiny metal teeth, and there was just a slight trepidation about stepping on them, having to adjust my position with the crutch so I wouldn’t stumble or get eaten by the thing. I survived to the top. 

For the most part people made way, the majority of them very generous with their space and any assistance they could offer if they saw potential need for it. That was a neat feeling, having helping hands and not expecting or desiring it; I like doing things on my own. We all do I think. Just that two-year old in us that got bigger. But I let people hold doors for me if they want, it does make it easier to get through the things - and you can actually see some people enjoy doing the task. A welcome smile and a sense of satisfaction comes across their features. I like seeing that.

I get my food and a little 4-wheeled cart to roll it with, making my way to a table farther away from the main group of observation-ites than I wished, but there were many people here today and I took what I could. And I sat, and ate, and then sat some more. People passed by looking at the man in the white shirt, as he looked at them. About three hours of it, eating my main course and finally easing into sipping my water and taking a nibble or two from my chocolate cake-covered fork - all the while, attending my notepad with my pen: fine, black ball point. I write in columns from the right to the left down the page, my poetry also. Been doing that for many many years, feels right, and my thoughts flow. The following is certainly not all I thought, but it’s what I wrote, just a little peering into my mind this day.

Does it fade? So many little happenings assail us, attach to us, wedge between us…is the connection only present when we pull ourselves from view ? When the night closes and we fatigue against one another? Perhaps starting something, perhaps only drifting off near the other’s embrace? Of all the people here, very few, omitting parent and child, touch – something I observe for long periods.

Perhaps it is my playful nature, my need to share on a physical level that makes me aware of this absence in others. The parents each attend a child, though not each other.

Ha! A man just touched me on the shoulder, "excuse me, can I borrow your salt and pepper?"

I reply, "sure" and slide them across the table. No doubt he had read my thoughts and wanted to prove me wrong.

Such bright color on such subdued persons, what wants to get out?

We are a quiet order, obeying the subtlety of civilization; dress this way, interact in this manner; be not outspoken unless you are a child, have a personal injustice to address, are rude, obnoxious, or inebriated; are on meds, off meds, or narcotics, bio-chemically over-emotional, distraught or traumatized… What was holding us together again? Oh yeah: we want to be next to each other. We want family. 

And by darn it, family just has to accept us.

My foot is telling me the weather. Just how does a bone break suddenly gain a degree in predictive meteorology? And accurate, too. Suppose the fact it tries to direct my thoughts is what bothers me; I like my thoughts going to far more creative pursuits, or coming from them. Not sure just how it all works up here, why mind flows from and to pathways I find interesting and need to put to paper. If only you could see what doesn't make it here. I have yet been able to accurately describe the "feel" of my thoughts, the imagery and “presence” of the “all-at-once”. Until I've created the words, I'll not be able to define it, but then would come the challenge of trying to articulate for you their meaning. Sometimes I think it's a silly pursuit, that and too exhaustive. How best does one create meaning? 

I might as well ask my foot.

I so enjoy color, shape, and movement. The color “laughter” conveys the delicate and hearty mechanism pathways to a freed heart. Eyes tell me the hidden, the desire, the soft that needs protecting. Deception is there too, anger, sadness and yes; life, so vibrant it's splashes about me inspired, bumping my thoughts, my body, to another energy level.

Shyness, boldness, sensuality, sexuality…I connect a little there. I like to immerse and explore that powerful presence/field/animal. It has its own movement, color, shape, is quite simply tied to my breath. Like laughter, I suppose. Conveys a freed heart...and body.

Home: Journey to Wisconsin

Home

Effortlessly slipping back in time, that’s what it was. Well, perhaps not effortlessly. It took three days and fifteen hundred miles to make that trip. What was effortless was transitioning through the pockets of values each state and population held on my way there. 

Big cities and small form around the practicing values held in the hearts and minds of individuals gathering in one place to form family. Agreed upon associations and presentation of like minds, the structure of law to prevent breakdown of ideology and also create some sort of equilibrium we call “fairness”; the family becomes society. 

Varying levels of home-like comfort, accepted values, draw individuals to specific societies. Whether these are wanted values, or established values, the end result is a need to fit in with those of like mind, attitude, presence.

The following stood out to me. 

Atlanta, as a city, was massive to me. As in having a weight, a bearing that seemed founded in squat, dense lodestone. I drove through the heart of it, pleasantly spending time in traffic that allowed me to observe its scope from the ground level. There was such movement, such flow of being that had some place to go, some place to get to now. Concrete, steel and glass formed by hand and machine, by creative minds taking time to imagine a presence, an interconnected flow and travel that would appease both function and form - as long as it didn’t get too high off the ground. And it was unmoving humid. Living in Florida I understand humidity, but Atlanta’s humidity was on a massive scale, no ocean breeze to move it along. 

Paducah Kentucky stood out to me as well. There was more a level of comfort there, homy-ness, than I expected. I loved the mountainous pocketing of it, nestled and hidden away, approachable through roads dotted with slow moving semi trucks cut in the rock earth. Sheer yellow and brown limestone walls topped with green…this was earthen massive, a surrounding panorama of backlit mountain and clouds with not enough lift, skirting them like vaporous frill. 

I took time sitting in a local mall, wanting to observe the people. Here’s what came of it:

Observation 8-2-11 Kentucky mall

A stork lady walked quickly past, her upper body lean and speed only emphasized her "escaping a predator" air, her head snapping side-to-side as she carried her bag in one folded "wing"

Everyone, a small group overall, seems to be in a hurry, many making an appearance repeatedly moving through the central crossing; it is not a big mall. One teen and his friends try to make a sale of a plastic bracelet with only his personality the marketing tool: rambunctious, too eager and pleading, yet sure of his smile. Hasn't sold it yet...I'm fairly sure he won't.

The mix of fashion here is an order of magnitude different from Tampa Intl. Mall, seems here is a lot less care about it, a home grown amalgam more closely tied with where they want to be, rather than what or who they want to look like.

Then there was the state of Illinois. It is a long state. There is a lot of corn. That was the majority of my seemingly endless trek through. Corn. Sky. Long, uninteresting roads. And it was seemingly endless. Cell phone service was out for thirty minutes at a time, not a pleasant thing when you are using the phone map feature to guide your way. 

And did I mention the corn and sky?

Northern Illinois was dotted with wind turbines, massive grey and white pinwheels forcing the air to servitude. As unattractive as they were on the horizon, and jutting up behind and around homesteads, it was certainly more interesting than…any guesses?

Next was Wisconsin. Wisconsin was felt in the air, a cooler, cleaner quality that allowed my body to feel rested just driving through. It was home. It was as if some genetic expression was being satisfied, some weight of the world was being removed. It was sturdy, green and gentle hills touched by four crisply distinct seasons. Family moved over it, on earth turned by plow. Through hardship, toil, the satisfaction of a days work behind them, a flavor of nature lovers living with the land, valuing it and the life abundant.

A family reunion, my grandma’s family on my mother’s side, brought me in touch with smiling, energetic faces and minds, some cousins I hadn’t seen since they were five or six or younger. Most had children of their own, which only added to the number of names I had tendency to forget. Throughout all my interactions with them, there was the unerring tilt toward witticism and humor, a distinct need for playfulness from the majority of them. A genetic trait? I found out later on the swings and climbing equipment that none of that was lost on the children, my younger brother (now forty) among them, as he walked backward on a rope with nearly the same balance skill he had had as a child. 

Impressive to not lose ones childhood talent with all that life throws at you. Home is where you get to flex it, to play…and they have to accept you.

Doomsayers or “Those propagating a negative view of the future”

This is written in response to the prevailing negative-laced oratory found on many radio stations recently, and by recently I mean since the radio was invented. Okay, maybe not that long, but it does underscore man’s lean toward the propagation and lingering on subjects based on negative patterns or negative events occurring in the world.

Doomsayers. The word evokes an image in my head of a ragged and somewhat filthy, long-haired man in tattered robes holding a sign saying the end is coming, or that the end is here.

 The only difference between what I see in my head regarding that word, and what’s going on today, is that the doomsayers of today tend toward harvesting a crop based on one’s fears - something they’re getting better at decade after decade, a fine-tuning of evoking the right emotional response from you. 

The crop in this particular case can be either financial wealth, shifting of political power, or both. One may say that this sort of thing is been going on for some time, but in light of the world’s financial strain and our awareness of tragedies occurring in the world, it seems to be getting more of a foothold. 

 And awareness is really where it’s at. Tragedies have existed throughout history, we are just now in a position, an age, where near-instantaneous transmission of events are readily placed before our eyes from “news” organizations, most of them having just a wee bit of desire to sensationalize for profit.

It’s interesting that our awareness doesn’t often extend toward ourselves. It seems we are so willing to become victims and be led down the path to our salvation by someone no less elevated than a greasy car salesman.

Now don’t you all get on me about how car salesmen aren’t in the slightest way like that… okay, I can’t even hold my laughter on that one. If your experience hasn’t been with a car salesman in that regard, then just pull up images of disreputable snake oil salesman from the 17 and 1800s. My apologies to those car salesmen out there who are honest.

(Smiling)

 My simple caveat: Beware the gloom and doomsayers, look in their back quarter and see what they are purveying, that they don't speak about. Many are out to sell using fear as a motivator, and their product, the answer to your fear.

It disturbs me that people are oh so willing to dehumanize those elements who are in power. We are all people, we all stretch out from the same base desires. Position in society, or placement in an organization does not instantly make one evil or inhuman.

Unless one is a sociopath, or has a genetic expression that is been tilted, or DNA that it's been damaged whereby gene expression goes awry, there are levels of understanding and empathy inherent in all of us. The only difference is in the level of attention and action toward others versus self, or self-preservation. And self-preservation is a powerful motivator for those selling product.

 There is a saying: power corrupts. In my experiences I have found to be true that if one is already corrupt, bringing them to power does nothing to reduce that corrupt base. Power itself doesn’t corrupt, it’s the individual power is placed upon that determines the expression. Which brings about another caveat: know the person you put in positions of power. Do the digging and take the time required to know and understand those you wish to elevate in society.

The problem with positions of power is that the people drawn to take those posts have somewhat of a craving for the benefits that life brings. Put in another way, and a little more dramatic I might add to make the point; dictators don’t rise to power because they are gentle and caring people with a great deal of empathy. People with those qualities don’t actively seek to step on others, or limit, or crush your liberty to see their goals achieved.  

I’ve had personal experience with some financial wealth hard work in my later 20s produced, and I have found people do change with the power that money brings. For myself, I simply became more of the person I was, and most people know me to be a fairly good person, with both empathy and ambition. But the position I was in, the wealth I had, didn’t alter my base, it didn’t pervert my ambition and it never, ever, caused me to look down on others or make me think I was better than anyone else or more deserving.

I won’t say that it wasn’t enjoyable having the president of the bank greet me every time I came in, or that every teller knew my name without ever having met me, or that other business owners in the area were all to happy to personally do business with me, a preferential treatment I neither desired nor sought out. 

People changed.

There were other people riding my financial success at the time, who also become more of what they were at their base. One particular person became more greedy, would look down on others and frequently voice that opinion, and so on. 

What you are at your base is what you will become, with or without money. If you are a miserable person, feel that the world owes you something, then that is only amplified when you have the power financial wealth allows. 

Financial wealth is just opportunity, it is a solvent for some doorways that would otherwise be closed to you. Being wealthy does not corrupt you. Not having cultivated a good  moral base, a clear understanding of who you are and importance of those around you, makes corruption an easier path.

 There is something twisted, though, I feel, in preying on other peoples fears merely for your financial success. When every aspect of an advertisement is geared to pluck at your fears, or to elevate your sense of anxiety about a subject (as in those using fear to gain political power), then do your homework and find out just why you are reacting to what they are saying, rather than to headlong fall onto the pathway of their promises.

 Seek solutions in yourself first, in your immediate life, and in those around you. Find ways to help others dealing with the same worries you have. The solutions you come up with, the actions you perform, can only help you in the long run, and it takes the focus off of wanting to become a victim, rather than an active participant in your life.

The doomsayer mentality, once accepted and replayed then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Pathways in the mind and body then are expressed toward that confined thought, and propagate outward. Rather than seeing opportunity and potential, and positiveness, one becomes locked in a cycle that regurgitates the fear the doomsayers are all to happy to play to your ears.

My morning

The alarm, a nice chirping sound clip from Star Trek the original series. Communicator opening I believe, something pleasant, yet persistent enough like the chirping of a cardinal to whisk away lingering dreams. 

And they do fade, not willingly, I was rich in them, whole body wrapped in an experience collected from bits of my experiences, loves, family, home. I flew the night previously, just leapt into the air and flew high, the land falling away beneath my feet as the mind and body screamed with freedom. 

Can’t fully recall this mornings’, home, again, someone close to me was touching me, speaking in a manner relaxed, open, giving. It was comfortable. I don’t fully recall because I didn’t take the time to. A minute or so of peace would have brought it all back, but another part of my mind decides it wants to turn off the alarm, get the day started.

I give in.

Predawn is spent at a measured pace, my morning ritual tending to the body’s needs and readying myself for close proximity to people later. A brief minute or two is spent looking and reading The Universe in a Nutshell by Hawking. I enjoy the diagrams relating the text, it’s how my mind sees. Color and shape are felt, images are brought to life in some creative stir inspired by words. I am beyond my room, flitting easily on the event horizon of a collapsed star as it pulls all light in. 

I close the book. Time to eat.

The kitchen light is automatic, turning on a the right hour so I don’t need to bother with the switch. Yes, I know, such an effort. It works for me. A daylight fluorescent bulb sitting in an upturned dish with a flexible stem attached to it, quite simply the same as the Pixar lamp in their movie intros. I like that little lamp. It’s got moxie. I was surprised, the fluorescents are normally terrible light, this one is dim to be sure, but its color is warm. It feels good.

Cereal comes out, boxes stuffed in the refrigerator, pull them out past the milk, the protein powder. It’s a little challenge not to knock anything over and I succeed. A little victory for fine motor movement. The bowl awaits and is soon filled with three different cereals, a Great Grains mix I have also fine tuned. Lethicin granules are next. I pour out a mentally measured amount, the teeny yellow balls hit the flakes and skitter-spill every which way, most nestling deep in the flaky layering. Whey protein follows, vanilla, gets to form a little mound atop the sharp flakes and dried blueberries. A good, but careful spoon weaving ensues, like rousing lettuce leaves for a salad, so that nothing finds its way outside the bowl. I am mostly successful. Milk melts the powder and lethicin together, gives the flakes something to settle into.

At my desk food goes in me. A quick check on google news just to make sure we haven’t been taken up in the ballyhooed rapture. Thought not. A sign of the times. 

Men are still men.

A little Frasier episode to pass the time of munching on protein powered cereal. I have to admit, it does taste good, and I enjoy the witty humor along with it. 

With the bowl set aside I start digging into emails, sending a big one to a cool aunt of mine. She asked for it. I liked being in her presence the last time I saw her, nearly a year ago now. She was open, curious about me, as we hadn’t seen each other in a very long time. I think she enjoyed that I smiled and laughed much, and probably wondered just what I was going to do or say next. I have to say, she caused some of that laughter, more than some I think. I like her.

My mind dances with other projects, including this blog. I won’t be able to write it until later. A short story comes to mind and I think about putting it here instead. I will save that. I return to my philosophy project, play with design of the website for it. Yesterday I had filled a page with my mind about it. It sits next to me as I type now, a big sketch book that does more than hold sketches it seems. A new poem made its way in there as well. That’s the thing about poetry, it doesn’t care in the slightest where it gets put down, so long as it’s put down. 

I digress.

I pull up movies of last week’s training. Brite Benning moved wonderfully, executing her hip movement naturally and prior to her relaxed punch to the man she had just turned over. I assemble a clip and slow the action down, do a voice over pointing it out, to post at a later date. Training for as long as I have you tend to see beauty in movements others may see as violent. I just shake my head, she has such a functional body, beautiful it moves like poetry. Pure physical poetry.

See…it doesn’t matter where it gets put down at all.

In my day...

She smiles, radiant, playful, unmistakable presence, a keen mind used to making a path if one isn’t available, and then pulling along all who wish to come. Confident, most assuredly. When in doubt a small child comes out, hesitant, curious, frustrated with herself for not getting something she knows she’s fully capable of getting, though her body seems to be taking its time with it, having its own way with her. “Educate me”, it says, driven, and she looks off to the side, letting pressure and resistance create imagery in her head, a path, something for her to grasp in a new way. She tests it, plays with its limits, and eases into new thought.

She grins, a little tilt to her head that says she is one-hundred percent mischievous in thought and will. She has an open honesty about her, sometimes direct and unabashed, though given to expression only to those she cares about, or doesn’t care about. Those in-between get a hesitance, an “I’m not sure where you ‘fit’ yet” stirring; externally it displays as a quick glance and thoughtful, almost “disinterested” poise. But internally, she’s working, filtering, analyzing in a way she may not even understand, but intuits accurately. Oh, she’s playful, a sputter of self-effacing laughter parts from her and then turns to cartoon curious, a light plaything to briefly rise above the stress she wholeheartedly put herself gleefully in.

He is loud, oh what an expression, volume limiter broken or never installed. He has a core of joy he can tap into at will, radiating through his body, through the stern sharpness of his experience and out to us as wit and self-humor that spills laughter from us - we simply cannot help it. He captures us, we wait for what he’s going to say next. He has that unique blend of “I am macho…but don’t hurt me.”

His is reserved contemplation, a whole mind full of wisdom-bits collected from the oddest places and then assembled in that mercurial mix of childish wonder and clarity. His gift is his patience, his empathy, his ability to communicate what he knows just how you need it. He is that humble, wise man on top of the mountain contemplating the universe…while watching Zatoichi: The The Blind Swordsman on DVD. 

She is clever as her smile, a warm beauty with a mind troubled by her experiences and steadfast faith that she is where she needs to be, though she may not fully care for it at times. She is dutiful to the cause, though flexes when I am around, something I take note of secretly and appreciate immensely. She has just the right amount of soft edge to prod me, challenge me, at times humor me, and most importantly, respect me, as she does others. Perhaps a little more. She gives of her time and hopes so for the best. She is that touch of care, a warm blanket given from afar…and she might, just might backhand you if you get that blanket dirty. 

These are just some of the important people in my life. My daily existence is populated by their grace and I am fortunate. When they read this, they will know I am have described them accurately, others meeting them, knowing them, will agree I have done them justice. I left out a lot in the descriptions, this is but a small part of their essence, but important, defining. Who wouldn’t want to know them, befriend them? I mention nothing pointless (in this context) like skin color, style of clothing, religion, position in society, wealth, weight. I have described who they are as it matters when we connect. 


It is their value that colors my world.

How to Inspire

How to inspire

Little else gets us moving positively in life than inspiration, whether that inspiration comes as a result of frustration with something that goes against your grain, or from something that completely meshes with it and lifts you to another level, one that clarifies or simplifies, or shows you a new way of looking at things. 

The following are ways, from my direct and observational experience, of having to inspire people for decades, pushing them past physical endurance limits as well as mental barriers that kept them in place, kept them bound to a plane they weren’t even aware they were on.

I am often dismayed by the number of women, specifically, who succumb to this “falling in place” and staying there. It’s often expected of men to push past things, to “man up”  and to leave the providence of physical matters to them, and all that hooey. Wonderful inspiration for those men who achieve it, wonderful for the male gender.

If you haven’t noticed (beyond the pleasant obvious), women have a physical structure, musculature, mind and spirit to carry them quite capably through this life - and certainly through yours. 

I knew this from early on in my childhood. My mom did the work of any man, and often had more endurance doing it. Not sure if that was just from determination, but it equaled out in the end either way. 

Are there physical difference in body size and gene expression? Absolutely. Differences in testosterone levels? Most assuredly. But you find this among the male of the species as well. Education, support, hard work and persistence level the playing field quite a bit regardless of gender. 

I know this personally; I have a chipped tooth from a powerful overhand jab from a female student of mine (trust me, you’d have no idea she could do it looking at her), as well as enough scrapes, bruises, joint hyperextensions and chokes to keep me sharp and on top of my game when I’m around the “weaker” sex. (In my twisted view, that’s inspiring)

Personally, I think the “weaker sex” identifies a person who lets ego and emotion trump logic, knowledge and experience. 

By example

Like in the examples above, people who surmount obstacles, or surpass accepted norms regardless of gender, catch our eyes, minds and spirits. Where it crosses boundaries, such as when women perform feats of physical skill (typically a male-dominated field), and in some cases mental, as in the sciences, men are inspired beyond their gender. The obverse is true, too. 

It often takes someone working within or breaching the fields of your possible and imagined abilities to catch your attention. When gender-crossing occurs like that, then it is inspiring regardless of the source. 

Having a physical personae demonstrate inspiring values, traits, or feats from a distance is inspiring all in itself, but having that person directly in your life, someone you can stand in the presence of, raises the inspiriting factor by an order of magnitude. Some of the men and women I train and have trained with literally stun, spark unabashed smiles, and otherwise elevate one’s mentality of what was accepted in life. 

And just so you know, regarding inspiration, age isn’t a factor.

By being honest

Being honest with and about yourself lays everything on the line and is terrifying for many due to the desire of wanting to be liked, loved, or simply accepted. Follow your path honestly. If you don’t know what that means, or haven’t found your path…well, I guess I’ll have to write about that sometime. Suffice it to say that everyone has one, a path driven by your own internal inspiration, something heard in the quiet of a park, or residing in your childhood dreams.

When you are honest you allow others to see the truth that is you, simple as that. People deny their truth for the examples given above, because of how it will make them seem to the people around you. The funny thing about that “need to fit in” mentality, it lessens with age and alcohol. 

Accept others

Accept others as they are so they can be honest expressing themselves - allowing a person to be themselves around and with you is inspiring. It helps remove that “need to be accepted” and puts it in the category that you are accepted.

By standing out

People along later on in life get to the realization that there is more behind them than there is ahead of them and through biological changes and experiential evaluation, one’s thought processes change. As we collect experience in life we tend (many of us) to discover just what is important, what matters. 

And when you look at the people of the world who are inspiring, or who stand out as figureheads, or examples of powerful personalities, you realize they aren’t in that position because they do their darndest to fit in. They stand out from the crowd because they stand out from the crowd! They follow their path regardless of how it looks or is accepted by those around them. They are honest to their truth no matter how the chips fall.

This differs from the mentality of one who wants to stand out for the purpose of standing out. That is something without foundation and the energy of which wanes easily. People stand out in life because they listen to that inner drive in them and follow it wherever it may take them.

Take satisfaction in the fact that you are completely unique.

It’s the commingling of individuals in a free environment that promotes growth in myriad form. The interaction of which supports, sustains, and elevates the human condition beyond the base of one. But it starts with one. One individual, unique to all in the world of billions, finding their truth, expressing their gifts and daring to stand out from the crowd. Its effect is like a flame passing among unlit candles, sometimes even just the spark of which is enough to ignite fully. 

Exercise your greatness - build your greatness

Having a mind and body that is refreshed, strong, and resilient only increases the effectiveness of your gifts, even if your gift is simply being the best greeter at Walmart - such a job is actually valuable. I’ve had my spirits lifted in my day by someone who greeted me with such enthusiasm and vibrance, it was hard to do otherwise. And the reverse it true as well.

Having a strong foundation physically, mentally or spiritually has a bleed-off effect of enriching your talent, your gifts, and their expression (it also helps you live longer). Like the greeter example, our energy, positive or negative, bleeds off onto other people and can be long lasting, coloring one’s day, and yes, even changing someone’s life.

Find new ways to better yourself, or old ways that you know work. If your talent is art-related, then take classes, or read up on and try new ways of expression in it, or try a different medium. Whatever your talent or drive, seek out ways to refine it, to improve upon it, increase the depth of your knowledge of it and exercise it. As in writing and finding your own voice, you have to write, write, write. Practice makes you.

Dare to dream - dare to pursue the dream

Going beyond what is accepted as norm requires vision and persistence. Persistence by itself is simply a rodent running in an exercise wheel. Vision, dreams, are a path to opportunity as unyet realized. Period. Coupled together you have things that inspire the world. Dare to dream, dare to pursue the dream. Put your well-meaning critics in the dustbin of the ordinary.

Poetry

Poetry is a subjective medium. I write it for myself and without regard to “catching” the most favor with readers. I express it based on spontaneous impulse, intuition, and/or the niggling little wordsmith in the back of my mind who absolutely must speak no matter what I happen to be doing at the moment.

I’ve been writing poetry seriously for over 20 years, being mentored early on by the late poet Ruby Shackleford, teacher for over 60 years, including at the college level. She authored seven books of poetry and was an accomplished artist exhibited throughout Wilson County, NC. 

I have to give credit to this kind woman, who took time out of her days to speak to me one-on-one, share her thoughts and poetry and to point out things that might make my own poetry better. I had the benefit of chauffeuring her around and we were never in a rush. She was such a value to me. On the technical end she never said, “do this”, rather, she would say something like, “think about another word for this one,” and would even simply cross out parts of my poems that didn’t need to be there. 

More than the technical aspects of our meetings, she would go on about the wonder of words and how she always had dictionaries about her house to pull from. It was a craft, it required research and a way to define that in you which wanted to speak out, and to do it as succinctly as possible while retaining the whole of the experience. There was never thought as to how others would view your work, only that you express it clearly. 

She also “forced” me to try styles, like haiku, cinquain, acrostic, etc., to see how I would work in an “confined” structure. I did well, but my own voice tended toward free form, though I have my own particular style in that.

I share an excerpt of a letter she wrote to me:

“…is to tell you quickly that your fine letter & the poem was one of my season’s best greetings. You are my miracle! No other “student” I’ve ever had has grown so rapidly from a 1st grader to a college grad! Your poetry “sparkles”. You are really moving on. Please try to reach newspaper, magazines or any other modern public communications.”

How can one not like, or want to continue to do their best, with positives such as those?

Finding one’s voice is a difficult thing, it requires time, patience, the ability to listen to yourself and others (constructive), and repeated expression. It helps to come back to your expression later on, look at it with the objective eye that time apart from the work gives, and then, if with written word, read it aloud to yourself. Listen to how it sounds, how it flows. And feel completely free to chop it up and refine that which isn’t refined. 

Anyone can tell you they don’t like your work, your expression, but does what they say have any basis in reality, or is it merely something they react to simply because of their own emotional state, opinion of you, or other perception not really having to do with the work? Having someone say,”I didn’t like that poem, it made me feel sad” isn’t necessarily a bad thing at all. They drew something from the experience that triggered an emotional response. Your expression will have that effect on people one way or the other. If you did well.

There are those whose comments are simply a self-serving reflection of their need to feel good about themselves, even if it makes you feel bad. Those are often easy to spot, as well as those who are afraid to tell you their truth because it may hurt your feelings, so they only exude positives. 

The really great ones, from my perspective, not only tell you they liked it, or had problems with it, but also told you why, as it pertained to their experience. I love knowing how my work affects people. It tells me something about them, and I love learning about people.

As with most criticism, look at the source. If you value the source, then honestly look at the constructive elements of their response, how it can make you better at what you do. Getting emotional or letting yourself shut down serves no purpose to you the individual. Let not your light dim! I cannot express that enough. Remember: your voice is something no one else has. Express it.

So without further ado, I present to you a breakdown of some of my poetry, from my own objective view and then from my personal view as I was writing it. I have done this for a couple of people (on more personal or intimate poems) and it opened up an understanding, and beauty, they weren’t aware was there. Some poems are far too personal, and would reveal too much about the object/person of the poem without their consent, so you won’t be seeing those (probably). Others would reveal a great deal about me…I’ll think about it. At any point, here’s one that doesn’t expose myself too intimately.

I write these breakdowns somewhat stream-of-conscious, so please bear with me as I minimally pay attention to punctuation or grammar during this process. That is the only caveat you get : )

Breakdown: it’s work

mini chimneys burning

themselves before me,

decaying amid the

night sky and lamplight

purpose forward, the

Grind, spark illicit

thought, desire of the

genome and age of

rending that which

constrains, forbids the

freedom of our

nature

Objectively

It’s work implies struggle, moving through difficulty, or with some exertion. Mini chimneys implies small sources of smoke, people, walking ahead of the author…decaying amid the night sky, brings image of not only smoke wafting upward, but parts of themselves disappearing into the night, darkness, toward end of life..lamplight indicates light that isn’t the best source of illumination, not bright, or only bright in patches… purpose forward is a goal toward something, a choice based not necessarily on desire, but other motivation…the Grind, capitalized, it stresses the goal and its importance, a job, grind implying being crushed, ground up, parts of you tearing away…spark illicit thought indicates the previous generates thought not accepted by society or others…desire of the genome is base genetic expression, food, sex, safety and doing whatever it takes to maintain/acquire those…age of rending that which constrains, speaks of time when base genetic expression dictated action, where rending/tearing free of that which is constraining, be it any who impose constraints, or nature itself…forbids the freedom of our nature, again nature is indicated as base nature here, our constraints of job or accepted social norm forbids/constrains our base nature…ties in with title it’s work, implies then that it is not merely work, but work to keep our natures contained.

Personally 

Walking from the parking lot to work early morning (before 5am) my mind had great impulse to write what I was witnessing, people walking and smoking in front of me, their breath, their lives being burned up in the exhaust they put in the air, mini chimneys, the smoke, their lives, drifting up into the night sky where there was nothing more of them to be seen/experienced. They were unhappy, their mind on each step in front of them, doing something they had to do, passing under the lamplights overhead illuminated this unhappiness. I could see in their movements, men whose physical structure was meant for more freedom, more challenge than what they were getting, things that put their own life in their hands, where they chose their path and pursued it, an inspiriting that their genetic makeup knew, but had long since forgotten. It was there though, in their movement, their purpose and drive…it was controlling and containing that energy and base desire that was the actual work in their day to day lives.

Now, here’s your task: I will break down two other poems (or more depending on how many responses I get and the time I have). I ask that you contact me and let me know which of my poems from writerscafe you would like me to do this with.  I will select from the requests, and then post them at the end of this blog when complete. 

Thank you.

(Contact me on facebook, or with the email link at the right of the page)