Jenni and I joyfully stepped out of the house at twenty past seven for her afternoon walk (kudos to Jenni’s plumbing!).
By that hour it was already dark but for the jostling tree canopy’s flash bulb burst of the city’s ghoulish orange tints.
Our neighborhood Edgewater, enjoys its gentrification’s hushed family sounds which escape their kitchens through screened front doors. Unfortunately we’re squeezed between two struggling, sputtering overlooked or underfunded, dicey, SRO’s by eager developers looking for quick $400,000 condominium flips and the deceptive veil of unsubstantiated assurance that upscale retail would quickly stake their claims in ground-level build-outs the size of a bird cage. Aldermen often deny developments promising to turn-out now displaced single mothers barely able to keep her family safe in a rent-controlled, 1960’s, poorly planned, troublesome 10-story mid-rise, shoddily built, local drug lords staking claims or disagreements quickly and publicly resolved through an indiscriminate hail of gunfire. This hell hole is still better than the streets.
I guess what better place to plant the most beautiful blossom of our passing summer than in a place wholly absent of beauty. The Creative, the One that irresponsibly plants the most beautiful blossom in the world in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the world expresses an unconditonal affection for blossoms and beauty.
He can offer it. What we do with it is, well . . .
NOTE: I snapped this picture in total darkness
and absent of any flash device. I revisited
the sight this afternoon and the blossom
as well as the plant were gone.
(perhaps an angel’s first molt),
scout the coldest
of cold places where
snowflakes might make landfall
and swallow our feet like sand
at the ocean’s edge.
The first few dance like marionettes and,
like children, are delighted and distracted and
saddened, our cold clowns drafted
by the blizzard. More and more
and still more;
An avalanche of grated gray clouds
now spill like puzzle pieces
fashioning a flourishing, custardly-creamy, alabastrine tapestry imbued with tips of crystalline facets that wink at Ol’ Sol
as his hammer struck
and cleaved and chiseled through miles
of gray Merino wool.
avoid the silken strands of Alpaca wool to see its target:
the pudgy pink tongues
of pursuing schoolgirls and their
hope to catch a piece of heaven.
To the stakeholders (followers), curiously cautious pundits of search engines (visitors), and serendipitous Internet bumblebee’s (alighting upon blossoming websites) please accept my apology for my absence from this blog and, consequently, the lack of freshly baked posts.
I know that my apology may be a bit unusual and absolutely unnecessary; however, I favor civility and honest contrition when one, quite benignly, overlooks a deadline for regrets. Dignity and grace insist that a personal note (posted that day) asking for benevolence regarding the delinquency of my response; I regretfully decline their gracious invitation to which they respond (for themselves and the blogosphere-at-large) their disappointment and a standing invitation to return to the blogosphere lest I find myself hopelessly self-sequestered from the rest of the world.
As a rule rarely discussed, Writer’s digest life like British Alpinegoats level a pasture. But goats aren’t expected to till and reseed the pasture they’d recently leveled. Goats have no relation to the past. It’s “full speed ahead!” As they mow their way about the emerald green pastures of the lowlands! Goats are enlightened as they don’t drag hundreds of yesterdays when they move from pasture to pasture. Contented goats just chew and chew and chew.
Writers, on the other hand, focus on the recollection of their past, harvest the past of others, or imagine the past of a fictional character whose past is a combination of the amalgamation of the writers past, the “blood draw” of recalled confessing invitees to dinner parties or the stealthy concern of other’s problems. Writers live in the past because it is a plump menagerie of recollection; an account from which to draw and deposit; a cistern which never falls beneath the water line of suffering. To hell with future! The suffered past of unaware donors is where the writer lives. Suffering attracts readers like moths to a light.
Is it organic? Meaning it percolates within us, bubbling to the surface, and expressed through facial expression? Or is it environmental? Meaning it is outside of us, an experience we find pleasing and therefore are happy?
Is Happiness found in things? The greater the thing, the greater the Happiness. Where can Happiness be found?
From 1958-2008 I’d always had a fairly good idea of what would/could/should make/keep/prolong my idea of Happiness.
And yet its achievement was surely impossible: my Happiness hung inches out of reach like that carrot on a stick, the absence of it’s possession was goading, taunting, irritating; what was at first a quest for joy, soon curdled, and its promise soured.
The greek philosopher Epicurus emphasized that Happiness meant being untroubled and absent of pain.
Aristotle, the father of modern drama said of Happiness, “Happinessdepends upon ourselves.
The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer “The two enemies of human Happiness are pain and boredom.” He also said that humans have high expectations. Man should lower his expectations and remember to aim low.”
If Schopenhauer is correct, then depression is percolating cup after cup of Happiness!