how can I share what air cannot reveal,
what eyes cannot reach,
what words cannot contain?
though the wind whisper it,
my ears cannot translate for you,
only these lips that speak without thought
like a treasure crying out inside a padlocked chest,
the thoughts as a vapor rising from the soil.
Is anyone else tired of chicken? Not just any chicken, the plain chicken you get in the grocery store that you have to take home and put in the refrigerator. That chicken. That kind of food.
I’m tired of tasteless. My taste buds aren’t 95 years old. I’m not gumming my food. And my cultural inclination- when eating meat- is to embellish it, with or without sauce…
Or seven herbs and spices, the kind the colonel makes. The colonel used to make. The colonel used to have his workers make. After all, he’s dead, and so is his chicken…tortured or untortured…thrown against the wall or not thrown against the wall…Kentucky Fried Chicken, the eighth wonder of the world.
Maybe, in my longing for small, controlled plastic sealed mashed potatoes and gravy, I feel a certain affinity with the rest of the USA. That would make sense, as this Irish boy does not feel at home- some of the time- in this polyglot nation of fast food giants,
Which would make you cook at home most of the time. Which I do. Which is why I am eating fresh ingredients from my refrigerator’s vast domain. Which is why I am getting tired of eating yummy things that are healthy for me. Which is why I drool passing by the aroma of freshly frying chicken. Which is another reason for writing in phrases, breaking all the rules of standard English in one paragraph.
Perhaps, though, there is some truth to those fringe elements, those who have made documentaries of horrific tales of chemical additive addiction. And not just those who religiously read The Weekly world News, but a vast contingent of average, law-abiding citizens.
People like this man….
who claim the colonel adds an addictive chemical making you “cleave fortnightly.” (Mike Myers, So I Married An Axe Murderer)
Nevertheless, I am determined…yes, I have pledged…to drive forty-five minutes to partake in the juicy-seared-goodness of the colonel’s chicken- regardless of that poor chicken’s previous treatment in captivity before succombing to the plucker, the freezer, and trip to the restaurant.
I shall be away for awhile, enjoying my plastic tub of mashed potatoes and gravy, but I shall return soon to eat dinner at home, with or without sauce.
where have all the unabridged dictionaries gone
long time a passin
where have all the unabridged dictionaries gone
long time ago
where have all the unabridged dictionaries gone
gone to dumpsters every one
when will they ever learn?
when will they ever learn?
When I was in school, the unabridged dictionary sat like an alien death weapon on a podium too small for the monstrosity. Most of the boys and girls in my class were afraid to even touch it. The librarian treated it like some kind of ancient relic from Remulac.
Then, one day, it disappeared. It was piled in a gargantuan book-pyramid with numerous other dishonored lonely books. The speckled-faced librarian gathered them in a wheelbarrow and positioned them behind a hideously wide red truck.
In the morning, as I walked to school, I saw the red truck parked haphazardly upon the mound beyond the northern end of the school building. I walked over, peered into the bed. Below the truck bed, a few pieces of browned paper lay scattered about, I reached down and found they crumpled into dust when touched.
The unabridged dictionary- along with other notable books- met their death that day…before I found the remnants of ash-like fragments.
I confess today that I do not own an unabridged dictionary. Some day, I will buy one….in secret. But for now, it has become a problem.
It is because I get words stuck in my head and often have to search to find their meaning. So many times I cannot find it in any of the mamby-pamby dictionaries online or any in the public library.
In fact, while I was writing my last post, I got a word stuck in my head. Not like a song stuck in my head, but an “unknown” (for best effects, please pronounce with a Scottish accent) word. I flung open my dictionaries, scavanged the online dictionary venues, to no avail. I nearly flailed myself upon a piece of plastic to buy a subscription to the unabridged dictionary…OK, I am exaggerating…but repented when I did some cost analysis.
The word was…
parsipitous
Yes, that’s right. Not precipitous. Not parsimony. It probably has something to do with “to parse” I imagine. But I do not know.
But surely I would know if I could just find an unabridged dictionary…somewhere.
We face a growing problem in The West. An increasingly disturbing range of bulging behemoths spend reckless days before computerized game devices, munching on the joys of high fructose corn syrup, powdered sugar, and genetically modified substances.
Even the United States Military is awash in an epidemic of mastodon-sized munchkins trying to get inside the lean, mean, fighting machine. If recruiters are having trouble finding fit individuals among the epidemic of rotundity, the nation that once thought of itself as “the leaders of the free world,” might just become the leaders of the largest obesity bloc in the world.
Recently, a publication insisted that recent data from reliable sources, claims that Mexico is now the mas grande gordo nation on earth. I’m a bit skeptical about that, but if true, it would prove that exports from the United States do have some effect on the wonderful people of Mexico. Alas, it must also mean that the donut invasion of Mexico is complete, with remarkable success.
I have personally experienced the wonders of overindulgence in the powdery realm (There is nothing like working in a donut factory and getting to take all-you-can-carry bags of day old donuts home for the freezer, and the rest of the growing clann). So, in remembrance of those days, and in honor of the mastodonian growth of our local populace, I have penned a most wonderfully bad bit of poetry for the occasion.
O, how do I love thee?
Let me count the glaze…
waft so gently, waft so softly
O, waft, stuffed filled
with creme,
through the air, through the store
with a grand passion supreme-
O Donut, Sweet Donut,
For thee, I do declare
I owe you my happiness
for the dark chocolate eclair.
In your wax paper bags
In your cardboard boxes galore
you tempt me so tenderly
like waves crashing on the shore
let me drown’d in your aroma
let me dance on floured floor
O Donut, Sweet Donut,
Tis only you I adore.
I didn’t have it on my “bucket list.” I had no idea he would be there. But when I walked into the art gallery this evening, my favorite living artist stood near my favorite painting in the whole wide world. What are the chances of that?
He wanted to talk baseball, I wanted to talk artistic process.
“Who are the Pirates playing? Are they playing tonight? What happened to them last night?”
And splattered out in all their glory, the most amazing paintings in the world stood before me. I longed to touch the mudding-like texture, the thick glaze of rhododendron and laurel leaf, layered pink petals smashed onto the canvas, the passion of the thin and the thick, the trowel-icing slashes.
Then he told me his story- how he experimented with the trowel and opened a door to a career as an innovative contemporary painter. His journey reminded me of the point when, after four years of not writing any fiction, I discovered my own particular experimental fiction style. But he is a professional making a living from it, while I struggle to pay the bills, with most pay from “my other skills.”
Perhaps one day, this kindred spirit and I shall both look back and see where each discovery took us. For now, I will enjoy his paintings, and pray someday my own experimental works will see publication and an audience will be touched by the passion of that word imagery.
I am blessed to have been in the presence of greatness, and to remember that the spark within my own works of poetic fiction may touch the heart of someone someday. For as the faithful, we are all called. What gift we are given comes from God. I cannot, I will not, withhold the words or images of that gift any more.
Go to http://www.coopergallery.com/LynnBoggess/LynnBoggessPage.asp for more information, including some photos of the paintings at Cooper Gallery.
Today I met two frenchman and a french woman at a convenience store. They were outside, huddled over a map of West-By-God-Virginia, while I stared up at the rocky crown of Snowshoe’s neighboring mountain. (Snowshoe is a famous ski resort) The gentlemen were staring so fiercely at the map, machine-gun-rattling french, that I assumed they must be confused or lost. I was wrong.
But I did not want them to feel lost. Maybe you have been a stranger in a strange land- I have, and it is sometimes frustrating. I had been inside the store and watched the clerk try to speak with them en francais, but no avail. I felt like helping, but realized my french has nearly disappeared from memory. I am a bit sad, because french is such a fun language to speak.
I returned home to find a blog visit from France. It must be French in West Virginia Day. I am celebrating with the only pseudo-french item in my house- a generous helping of Leseur petit peas, sauteed in rich kerrygold butter. Magnifique!
So- to all you francophiles, I wish you bonne soir (and hopefully I didn’t get it mixed up with Portugese, Hititite, or Romulan- so it does read “Good evening.”)
Return to me, and I will return to you. That is the message in the first part of Malachi 3.
Way before the Lord speaks about the tithe in the latter part of Malachai 3, the Word speaks of Christ coming. This Messiah does not seem to be all cuddly here. In fact, it states quite plainly that He will refine, purify, those who seek to offer sacrifices so that they will be righteous before God.
When this happens, it states that God will act. But you have to go back to Isaiah 58 to understand how to get into this acceptable place of acceptable sacrifice.
True fasting is found in Isaiah 58. The definition of fasting has been obscured by traditions of men- just as God revealed through the prophet Isaiah. God desired that each of us walk humbly with God, and:
* Repent of sin (turn away from being in any state that keeps us from a close relationship with God. “God, I am sorry. I want to do things your way.”)
The next action requires complete submission to God as you need to be willing to be a spiritual warrior (if you are a follower of Christ, you will know what I mean).
* Loosen the bonds of wickedness (Now “wicked” is not good, it is cruel evil- when someone is attacked by a cruel evil, we are to help that person under attack. In fact, God tells us so many times not to be wicked. If you follow Christ, you are to do what you can – in action and in prayer. This is part of an acceptable sacrifice, part of an active fast)
*Break every bondage (Bondage is anything that has a hold on you- it might be drugs or another kind of addiction, but it may also be emotional bondage- baggage- or even mental bondage.)
*Free the oppressed.
*Divide your food with the hungry.
*Bring the homeless poor into the house. In fact, if you are homeless and your relatives ignore you, Isaiah 58 insinuates that your family members who turned you away are totally out of touch with God, therefore, in sin.
*Clothe the naked.
*Be available to family- do not turn them away. See above.
*Do not accuse anyone. If you accuse, you are doing the same thing that satan does. So, stop it. Yes, we are to reveal the works of evil…but not be an accuser.
*Satisfy the need of the afflicted.
So, it seems to me from this passage that we have a lot of work to do. If you say you are a Christian or a Messianic Jew, and you believe you have no time to act like this as you live out your daily life, check your pulse. You are alive. God gave you life again today. Are you ready to walk humbly with your God?
And now for something so different, so amazingly useful…that you will never ever get writer’s block ever ever again!
Ten Ways to Defeat The Evil “Writer’s Block:”
10. Step away from the laptop. Next, put on some “outdoor clothes,” get your keys, and go out to the car or truck. Open the door. start the vehicle. Drive. Do not plan on where you are going (take a cooler and any emergency essentials, of course). See where you go. The world outside is an open book, full of characters, action, settings…
9. Again, step away from the computer. Pick one of your characters from your story. Now, go through your clothes and try to find something this character would wear. Find the character’s ideal outfit from your “collection.” You should be able to get a better picture of the character. This should help you to write. It may also help you find clothes to give away.
8. Get out all your old printed pictures (photos). Look at how scrawny or beastly you were years ago. Then, go look in the mirror. Go back and write. Tell me if this actually works.
7. Eat a plate full of raw broccoli. It will move you to…to do something, at least.
6. Watch a horrible movie- with really bad acting. When finished, reflect on it. If you don’t find yourself thinking “I can write a whole lot better than that,” then you need to just…go back to being a mathematician, chemist, or sheetrock worker.
5. (Males) Put on a classy black or grey suit (preferrably Italian), go next door (or down the road) and knock on your closest neighbor’s door. Ask your neighbor to tango…on the wood deck, the patio, the parking lot, or in front of the police station. Well, maybe not the last one. 🙂 (Females) Open the door for the guy in the suit. Make sure you are not across from the police station.
4. Go bowling by yourself. Pretend you are bowling against “Fred The Magic Dog.” When someone asks you where your partner is, respond by saying “Oh, he’s over there- he has a cloaking device.” After that, I am SURE you will have something to write about…when you eventually get home….
3. Stimulate your brain by listening to the classics- Beethoven, Bach, Couperin, Davy, the Monkees, and Tub Ring singing “Bite the Wax Tadpole.”
2. Eat carrots. Drink carrot juice. Wear orange. Pretend you are a Giant Carrot invading your story setting. If this doesn’t help the plot, start a children’s story.
1. Go climb a mountain naked. Best thing to cure you of anything crazy.
In the meantime of the day, when the clock just doesn’t quite strike a primary number, Albert assumed a cup of Java into his routine. It sat before him, it sat beside him. It even sat between his legs. But when the clock struck four, the cup sat empty, save for a few charred remains of the day.
And so our common man took his common seat among the passengers aboard the yellow train for the north. And here, as he fiddled with his laptop zipper, our little man counted. Three, four, five…six- fields filled with a ripe brown that reminded him of his cereal.
New Forever Flakes…crispy even with a bowl of milk. The finest breakfast you’ll ever have…
“I say, do you mind?” a voice insisted, leaning forward.
“I do not.” And with that, Albert handed over a section resembling the Financial Times. He smoothed the front page, then folded it aright.
“Thank you.”
“No. Please don’t mention it.”
They stared and he stared back. He fiddled with the zipper, flipped his wrist- still not Five. A tray came forward, launched somewhere behind him, rolling.
“I say, a cup of that,” the voice demanded.
Stop the bleedin’ cart! Stop the bleedin’
“And you, sir?”
“The orange fizzy- you know.”
But before she could gather his euros, Albert twisted the bottle and drank a gulp. It burned with satisfaction, wiping away the dry coffee within his mouth…
“Best pay…”
“Yes. Thank you,” he managed.
Albert sat with his nose downward.
An unintelligible mumble squawked through the dingy speakers.
They’re drunk again. I swear it…I’ll tell Izzy. She’ll tell her brother, and then-
“Nice day?”
And who are you, you little thing? Can’t be more than twenty. Pretty though. If I were your father, I wouldn’t be letting you on trains-
“I didn’t want to bother you- but, you look sad.”
What a deduction! She’s a genius. Sad? I had my Lucozade, why would I be sad? Would you be sad if you had your Lucozade every workday on the train home?
“Sorry…”
“No…it’s all right,” Albert managed. “I’m quite happy. Brilliant in fact.”
And then, this dark eyed female actually smiled. I know, I know. She’s but twenty or twenty one I’d say, but…
“I’m Tessa.”
“Al…Albert,” he creaked.
I hate to admit it, but she reminded me of someone. Now you may as well know that I enjoyed her company, just as I enjoy your company as you read this. But- and this is a serious but- she meant nothing to me. Alive in her presence- yes, but not a few sods burning the night away. I may think of you, dear reader, and ponder, what do you think of me?
“Savage!
All pretense lost, she launched out like a submarine. Her vocabulary was attrocious. Simply attrocious.
“Like you’re a real one, aren’t ya?”
She took a breath. Did I hear a wheeze?
“Real what?”
“Sexy beast. What- God, you must be forty. But- my mam, she’d kill for a look at you.”
I swear I felt my-
“Do you mind? I’m trying to sleep!”
The Voice, interrupting this precious girl. Can you imagine? And, he smelled of brie. I know. I know- brie- is there any worse smell than that? A toilet perhaps?
“Yer a devil of a man,” Albert fumed. “You might sit elsewhere.”
The Voice rose to meet him. He reeked as his breath approached. But as he leaned forward to step out into the corridor…he saw it. A single old photo. Fallen on the floor. His shoe went to cover it, but Albert had seen it. The Voice shrugged, then scooted the picture farther back under the table.
“Your girl?”
He looked away. There was no more need to quiet him. He stared out the window.
I reached under the table with my own limb and pulled it backward. Reaching down, I held it firmly in my grasp…but not soon enough. Not when the dark eyed girl saw the image…
XXX XXXX XXX
I withheld part 2, as it is brewing in Museland, like a peppermint tea- strong but purposeful. I confess this is great fun, but I fear it is more serious an endeavour than I intended. Now it means something to me.
Again, I’d like your comments, insight, reactions, philosophies…
The Lost Kerryman 