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Archive for the ‘Creativity’ Category

22 Nov 1963
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04 Apr 1968
06 Jun 1968
27 Nov 1978
06 Oct 1981
28 Jan 1986
09 Nov 1989
19 Apr 1995
11 Sep 2001
15 Jul 2020
06 Jan 2021

JFK
Mom
MLK
RFK
Milk/Moscone
Sadat
Challenger
Berlin Wall
OK City
9/11
Brother
America

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breathe deep the morning’s mist
taste the chill stony silence
invite the soul of winter’s patience
into a warm, life-loving heart
and be at peace

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By the full moon’s light
I read
of times long past
of a distant village

where limestone cliffs
as blue as the moon itself
rise high enough
to split the sky

where the mountain springs
murmur liquid life

where the townsfolk
hard and resinous
as turpentine trees
keep secrets
break hearts
learn lessons
(or do not, until too late)

and while their setting sun
reddens the pale scarps
above their heads

my sun rises
blanching the sky
behind my setting moon

I close the final page
and return home

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As I mentioned a while ago, my mind is once again calm enough to allow me the enjoyment of reading fiction. In fact, I’ve read four novels in the past few weeks, which is about three more than I read in all of 2019.

Seriously. It was that bad.

The first books had been in my TBR pile for a while, but this latest one was a recent arrival, and it was a serious break from the “literary” works I’ve been reading. Written by Tim Lebbon, Generations is not only science fiction, but (gasp!) a television “tie-in” novel, the fourth novel set in the Firefly ‘verse.

The previous titles in this series, all written by a different author, were (to put it mildly) a tremendous disappointment. I reviewed the first two (here and here), but frankly, I didn’t see the point in bothering you with a review of the third one, so I read it and tossed it aside.

Seriously, they were that bad. (more…)

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Respect

A dry drum.
Steady rain.
Measured footsteps.
Taps.
Distant thunder.

Sounds from Arlington
11Nov2020

 

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SQL for SCOTUS*

SELECT
     Intelligence,
     Knowledge_of_Law,
     Dignity,
     Determination AS GRIT,
     Strength      AS RESOLVE,
     Empathy,
     Insight
FROM
     SCOTUS_Requirements
INNER JOIN
     Virtues
LEFT JOIN
     Womens_Rights
LEFT JOIN
     Equal_Treatment
WHERE
    Moniker  = 'Notorious'
AND Initials = 'RGB';

 

 

 


*Yes, yes, I know this isn’t strict SQL.
Poetic license and all.

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Grief is not a constant thing.

Grief is the unwanted houseguest, the itinerant acquaintance who shows up without notice or invitation, steamer trunk standing behind him as he smiles, his obvious intention: to settle in for an extended stay.

When he arrives, I cannot send him away, much as I want to. He is here, and he will stay. So I make up the bed in the spare room, put out fresh linens, and prepare myself to meet daily the constant sadness that has taken up residence in my home.

But it is not constant, this sadness, this Grief.

In the mornings, Grief, still in his dressing gown of paisleyed silk, shuffles into the room, inclines his head discreetly in my direction, moves to an unoccupied chair, and unfolds the day’s newspaper, sipping creamed coffee as he reads.

In the afternoons, Grief wanders the house, inspecting artwork, photographs, the spines of books, the memorabilia of my life. If the weather is fine, he might venture out for a turn in the garden or to sun himself on the porch.

In the evenings, Grief may enjoy a cognac and a pipe near the hearth, or take a book and a glass of port over to the chair beneath the reading lamp.

Grief is like this much of the time. Quiet, unobtrusive, there are spans when I almost forget that he is there, when life seems normal, but then the rustle of his broadsheet or the sandy whisper of a turned page reminds me: Grief still haunts these rooms.

But Grief is not always so reserved.

On occasion, Grief will clear his throat, breaking the silence between us. The paper will fold, the book’s page will be marked, the teacup will clink home in its saucer, and Grief will turn and look at me with an intensity that demands my attention.

“Remember when . . . ?” he might start, or “I wonder why . . .” he’ll begin, and to that he will attach an anecdote about the one who has passed, the death that brought him to my doorstep. The memory he relates might be a happy one, albeit scorched by loss, or it might be of an angry moment that I would rather forget. It might even be a hidden truth, now unveiled, that reveals unknown realities that add confusion to my pain. Insistent, Grief relates these thoughts to me, whether I want to hear them or not, and in so doing, he brings into razor-edged focus the unhealed wound, the lacuna that can never be repaired.

Grief acknowledges the pain he causes. He furrows his brow and nods as if in sympathy, but ultimately he is unaffected by my anguish, unmoved by my feelings. Day or night, at random moments, consistently inconstant, Grief interrupts my thoughts, my work, my dreams, with reminders of loss and recollections of a life extinguished.

But Grief has visited here before.

As with previous visits, I know that, in time, Grief will begin to leave me alone. His strolls out on the grounds will lengthen. He will take meals in his room. He may even enjoy the occasional trip to the countryside.

As the days and weeks that form the months pass by, the timbre of his recollections will change as well, softening as the seasons dilute and cleanse our discourse of its harsher notes, leaving me with memories that are infused with less pain and greater fondness.

Eventually, Grief will find a place of his own and move out, perhaps across town. He will continue to pop in for a quick visit, around a birthday or the holidays, and we will chat and reminisce and raise a glass to the loved one I lost.

And thus we will continue, Grief and I, until I myself am at an end, when Grief will pack up his steamer trunk and take memories of me to someone new.

. . .

 

 

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