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 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| Did you know there’s a theory that oil might not be a “fossil fuel” formed by the biological processes of decaying organic materials but instead, may be produced through an abiotic process that originates in the Earth’s core from deposits of hydrocarbons and seeps up through the layers of the Earth’s crust? And further, are you aware of the possibility that this abiotic process may be ongoing - meaning that oil is a renewable resource? No, you are probably like me and didn’t know about this because the science is settled and we won’t have any new theories, thank you very much. There’s so much political power and money now thrown into the solar and wind industries, that I doubt there will be any further research into abiotic oil production. However, I found this old article from USA Today which seems to have been published before Science locked the doors and put up a “CLOSED” sign. Abiotic Oil a Theory Worth Exploring  |
| When the grandson stays over, I sleep on the futon in the spare room where his bed is to keep him company. When I say sleep, I mean sleep in all its various forms like tossing and turning, curling up in pain and desperately willing myself to stay in bed until a decent hour. I managed until 3:47am, at which point I turned on the coffee pot, knowing it would not be brewed before 4:00. Drinking coffee before 4:00 would be indecent. When I was a kid, I could sleep anywhere. I slept outside on the ground, straight through until the sun in my eyes woke me up or the grasshoppers clambering about the dry August grass made too much noise. I slept on the concrete floor of my friend's basement. When my kids were young, I regularly got up at 4:00 to write for a few peaceful hours before work. Now I get up at 4:00am because sleeping too long is painful. But it's nearly 5:00 and that's late enough to blog. |
| Some people ought not to take to social media when they're upset. They make bad decisions. I just saw a video from some guy I've never heard of who apparently is in a band that I've never heard of and to my knowledge, he has never heard of me, either. Nevertheless, he is really upset with me and tells me I'm not allowed to go to his concert. Now normally, I only want to do things that people tell me not to. That’s why I never tell anyone when I am on a diet. If someone says “You’re not allowed to eat that cookie on your diet”, I have to eat ten of them. But, if this guy’s judgment is so bad that he actually aims to stop people from paying him money for his music or for tickets to his concert because they make different political choices to his own, then I'm not sure that he would even understand my coming as a protest. I don't know, maybe it's some strange marketing ploy? Maybe it's reverse psychology? Maybe he really wants lots of people to come but nobody knows who he is and the only way he can get any kind of publicity is to demand that people don’t come to see his band? Actually, I'm sure this is what it is. Because I don't think people from any political camp have ever heard of him. This way he might get some people coming out of spite and a whole lot of other people coming out in support of his ridiculous bigotry and hatred. I guess it's genius in a way. |
| I was readng an interesting post on Facebook this morning. It was about the baseball field that preceded the famous Fenway Park with its infamous "Green Monster" in Boston, MA. It was called the South End Grounds and it had some eye-catching architecture in the form of a few fairy-tale type towers. Rapunzel would have felt at home. The post, however, wasn't as interesting as the comments. I mean, I should have expected it, but still it surprised me that one commenter managed to blame the destruction of the South End Grounds and its "architecture" on a present-day elected official who hadn't even been born at the time. Fenway was opened in 1912, after all, and the Boston Braves were replaced by the Boston Red Sox. All of this happened a long time ago and although capitalism might have had something to do with it and it was a form of real estate development, it's a stretch to blame anyone not alive at the time for their relationships to those economic fields. It reminded me of a little poem I wrote about the results of bitterness. Resentment They say resentment is a poisonous drink. Your enemies mix it and somehow you think if you swallow it down, you will kill them all - but it will eat at your peace with bitter gall. Forgiveness seems unmerited, and so withheld. But grudges remain and build prison cells. Your life becomes centered on those you blame. But they have moved on and forgotten your name I dunno. Just my opinion. |
| It’s a grey morning. The clouds hang over the house like wet sheets, their bellies distended and low. They are pregnant with moisture and threaten to break open at any moment. There’s a current running between them, buzzing in the air, about to flash. I know a thunderstorm is due because the cat is skulking around the house, trying to maintain a low profile, getting her body as close to the floor as her legs will let her. She’s one of those animals who is afraid of thunder and hides in strange corners and overcrowded closets, trying to secrete herself where the danger cannot find her. My mother was nearly as cautious in thunderstorms as the cat. Having once been struck by lightning, she was apprehensive whenever a storm was near and as children, we were not allowed near doors or windows during a thunderstorm. No one could watch TV or talk on the phone. We were told to stay off the rug and forbidden to pet the dog. She saw everything in terms of its possible conductive qualities and warned us of hidden dangers. Which brings me to this little fact about June 10th. On this date in 1752, one crazy, inquisitive, Boston-born inventor decided to try to capture electricity in a jar during a wild thunder and lightning storm. My mother would never have allowed this. Benjamin Franklin’s mother obviously was never struck by lightning and so never warned Ben not to play outdoors in a storm. Of course, we all know that because of this, we eventually learned to create electricity and harness its power to illuminate our lives and charge our cell phones. The cat has no need of electricity and so is skulking off to the closet. |
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As usual your poetry is always a pleasure to read.
