This is what I saw at the fair today, in between spurts of lashing rain…
Category: Men
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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, Â 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.
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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 Â 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.
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When you can’t love yourself
and can’t seem to grasp
not the world at large
but the window before you-
find a safe little place
for some supernatural space
and wait for the appearance
of God.
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I submit to you that that are many people out there who do not love anyone, not even themselves.
Recently, I read a short news article reporting about the multiple rape of a thirteen year old girl by a posse of illegal immigrants. It sickened me…however, I did not have the full story- not until a friend sent me a video of Glenn Beck.
I’m not a conservative, nor a liberal, I am a follower of Christ. My main concerns are not political, they are spiritual, and because of that, social. In fact, I don’t agree with Glenn Beck’s religious views either.
But what Beck revealed was, as Paul Harvey used to say, “the rest of the story.” And that left me even more perplexed, because when you reflect on such a horrific act- a thirteen year old raped by fourteen men, it is nauseating.
But what is more nauseating is when I ponder on what has happened in this sin-sick country. Great numbers of individuals are living like animals, so driven by sin that evil is glorified, and wrong celebrated.
And while innocents are raped and abused, egocentric women, vacuous in their thinking, arrange for the death of innocent babies God ordained to be created…a great proportion of wives leave their husbands, flaunting the sacred covenant of marriage in God’s face, because they are sexually depraved, narcissistic in their “beauty”- as Lucifer was before his fall (satan), and reject God…
…and then there are men, without wisdom, driven to act unnaturally because they reject the will of God and in rebellion rise up against the things of God…men who long to be wicked, violent, embracing death as a friend, and seeking to control and strangle life, not to love…
…and yet, there is a remnant. A small remnant. A chorus of people who seek the good, not what is evil. A group seeking to serve God and serve men, women, and all God’s children.
Today is the day of Salvation. Choose this day whom you shall serve…life or death.
For, as the great Bob Dylan sang, “you’re gonna have to serve somebody.”
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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.
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I struggle with diabetes. Many years ago, I worked in a high stress, high performance, high profile career that contributed to a food and health lifestyle that lead to the development of that diabetes. It didn’t help that I made my own bread, pasta, and pancakes. Or started the morning with a mountain dew and a couple of candy bars.
When I came into the office in the morning, before we went out to work, everybody else was sleepy, waking up. I was zigging one liners, feeling totally off-the-wall. And, sometimes, I felt out of control, like I couldn’t stop being goofy. I had no idea I had high sugar levels. No one in the family had it…
I say all of this to say that this morning I have an A1C test, a particular blood sugar test diabetics would quickly recognize. I had been doing better, but a diet high in vegetables, low fat, and some fruit, with occasional forages with lean meat, is very difficult for a guy who grew up eating hamburgers, pasta, and potatoes nearly everyday for years.
So, I have listened to the doctor, studied on my own, and read the Word. It is the latter that I now know is the place to start in fighting this disease. The Word speaks of living a life that is not fast-paced, not high-stress, and requires vigilance.
It is not just what we eat that brings on diabetes. It is also how we think, how we live, where we live, what we do for work…so many factors effect health. In light of my present circumstances, I have more time to contemplate that Word. In essence, I am fighting diabetes, but also need to be sure of God’s direction- I am job searching.
How then shall we live?
What is required of us is  this: to do justice, love kindness (some versions say “mercy”), and walk humbly with God. (Micah 6:8)
*You cannot work in a high stressed job where people want you to manipulate people and “do justice.”
*Mercy (or kindness) does not include a job where we treat the poor with contempt. Being kind and merciful, walking humbly with God, would quickly bring a conflict there.
*A job that encourages senseless wealth accumulation at the expense of others cannot conform to this Word.
I would appreciate your thoughts, comments, and reflections.
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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-Â 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?Â
“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?Â
“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? Â
“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 Â XXXX Â 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…
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When sudden blossoms wilt and fade, and springtime withers under desperate suns, the common man may notice a shift in temperature within…or…may picture the autumn a promising season, in light of that terrible sun. It is in these times that our common man, armed with umbrella and concealed laptop, spends his mornings walking to the train station, pricked by ordinary thoughts like the flowering roses along his route.
“Good morning, George.”
“Good morning, Albert.
And a lovely day it is, although George is wearing his bright red shirt again…the one with the ever present black-as-death tie…
“Would you say it is a good morning, then?”
“Oh, I would indeed.”
And rather than smile back, the taller man, his black tie all too short, clips a rose from a bush and holds it askew.
“Rather pretty thing, that.”
Rather pretty my donkey’s rear, it is as sad a rose as I have ever seen…
“Could be another hot one.”
My God the man is dense…Next thing- you know- he’ll be asking about the train: ‘Will you be going on the train this morning, Albert?’ Oh, what a tedious little man. A tedious big man. Well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Can you imagine this big lumux of a creature with that little wife of his?
“How is that wife of yours?”
The tall man raked his thinning hair.
“She’s asleep.”
I’d be asleep too- must be miserable being married to-
“I’ll tell her you were asking.”
“Thanks, George. Always nice to know someone is looking out for her.”
And with that our common man left his common neighbor to do some common gardening…while the sun rose ever higher, the maze of streets seemed longer, and our train started boarding at Gate 2.
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I have written this little fiction clip in response to a recent blog written by Java Girl-
landofblogging.wordpress.com.
It is only a beginning, and- in the sluggishness of my heat-drugged mind- not my best description (I feel like I am telling too much, not showing enough). Do you agree? What do you think? Please comment. Should I continue with it?
(I retain all rights- other than posting, quoting, and commenting- however humble this piece may become.)
The Lost Kerryman 