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Archive for the ‘Creativity’ Category

crocus blooms explode
blue/gold beneath grey spectra
the sun remains hid

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I need a new word
for the conflict that
rages within me

I need a word
for the feeling that hits
when I see
a response to force
so primal
so basic
so innately human
yet
so brave
so admirable
so worthy of honor
that
I become a forge
a crucible filled with
heart and spleen
love for the spirit
hatred for the reason

This alloy of
love and anger
horror and awe
this reactive nexus to
the best
and worst
of humanity
surely deserves
a word of its own

k

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Spent

Poetry does not exist within me today. It has been kicked to the back, pinned down by too, too many wounds, beaten and thrashed into a retreat of survivalist discretion.

My heart is an acrobat, flip-flopping moment by moment, from anger to joy, admiration to revulsion, breaking open and healing up, as the world pinballs from crisis to crisis.

I am out of patience, with so many things: with the insecurity of the powerful, with those who only know how to rise by standing atop the bodies of others, with those who decry anything good because it is not perfect.

My brain bounces between gratitude and guilt over what I have when others struggle just to survive, and it seethes—not with envy, but with outrage—at those who have more than nations but for whom even that is not enough.

I am at a loss to understand how, with intellect enough to see planets circling the motes of distant stars, we cannot see the dangers in our own backyard, how we allow ourselves to be consumed by manufactured fears than respond to actual, physical, and undeniable threats. I don’t know how we can be so smart and yet so stupid at the same time.

We are still too close to the savannah that birthed us, seeing dangers beyond the light of our fires, the mouth of our caves, still viewing the world as a zero-sum game where, if you get more, that must mean I have less. We still find it so much easier to hate and fear than to love and support, are still so eager to let the sins of the past continue rather than to change one iota of our imagined realities.

I am spent, wrung out, despairing of the human race, all while sitting here in front of my laptop, in my heated home, with its running water, and its fridge full of food. 

By all accounts and predictions, this will be a difficult weekend for the world, a difficult few days in a difficult season in a difficult year in a difficult decade that has only just begun.

I suspect I’m not alone in this. But from that suspicion comes a shred of hope.

I do not have all the answers, and even if I did, the world would not listen any more than it has in the past. However, I can do something small, something that might lift the spirits of one person, maybe two. I can acknowledge your anguish along with my own. I can find the person I love most and hold them for a minute longer than normal. I can help a friend or a stranger, without thought of recompense or thanks, just because it will make their day the tiniest bit brighter. I can encourage others to do something similar. I can encourage us all to do better.

So, let’s do better, eh?

Can’t hurt to try.

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from beyond our horizon
comes the sound
    tympanic booms
    savage rumbling
    the faraway growl
        of stomachs hungry for
        power
        control
        more

so we fret
with brows furrowed
    in cultivated concern
    whilst
we mumble apologia and
    with clucking tongues
serve imported tea
    at finely-set tables

but that thrum
    that urgent pulsation
to our distant friends
is the pounding of fists
    on skins stretched taut
a percussive temblor
    shaking hearts and lands
a crescendo of chaos
    building
        to the cymbal’s crash
        to rimshot snares
        to the xylophonic dance of bones

once was a time
this selfsame song
danced upon the breeze
    a faint and subtle rhythm
we listened and
    with pallid interest
chose to admire
    the musician’s technique
rather than critique
    the tune

but the cacophony spread
and others took up the noise
until the world shrieked
    through those bloody measures
and millions vanished
    beneath the grinding treads
        of war

in time
we wrote a coda
    to the obscene chorale
having learned
    that for some
    more
    is never
    enough

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My first first date was a disaster.

I was a sophomore in high school and wasn’t old enough to drive, so Mark and Julie (my upperclassmen friends) agreed to a double-date. It was going to be great. Mark had an ancient, rusty, squeak-shocked Austin-Healey sedan. He and Julie would get me and then Lori (my date), and drive the four of us to Sausalito for dinner at the Alta Mira. From there, we’d go into the City where we had tickets to see an off-Broadway production of a play. We’d be home late, but not too late.

I was terribly nervous. I should note at the outset that Lori and I were barely friends. Beyond saying “hey” in the halls, pretty much the first conversation we’d had was my stuttering invitation, asking her out. The fact that she had agreed was, in itself, a victory (in my book, anyway), so my nervousness had a large helping of anticipation added to the basic impression of doom. But I wanted it to be a special night, so Mark and Julie and I planned the itinerary well in advance. What could go wrong?

Not being able to find Lori’s house was the first thing to go wrong. She lived on a narrow hillside side street, and the house was set back from the road, up a juniper-covered slope, accessible only by a twisting, shadowed stairway lit by a dim lamp up at the house. We must have driven past it five times before we noticed it.

Despite being late for our reservation, dinner wasn’t bad. The Alta Mira was a legend where I grew up. A grand old hotel tucked up in the fog-blanketed hills above Sausalito, it had a fancy restaurant and it was famously difficult to find (locals had had T-shirts printed up that said “No, I can’t tell you how to get to the Alta Mira.”). Driving up to this fancy-schmancy place in Mark’s rust-bucket drew sniggers from the valets, but we shrugged it off. We were having dinner at the Alta Mira!

We then drove across the Golden Gate and into the City, down to a tiny theater situated in an ill-lit corner of the Mission District. I wasn’t much of a theater-buff, so I knew nothing about the play we were going to see: Norman . . . Is That You? It was a relatively new play—this was 1973 and it had only premiered in ’70 (to middling reviews)—so I was going in blind. The play, we quickly learned, dealt with a young man coming out to his parents. As I said, this was ’73, so the general attitude toward LGBTQ+ folks was decidedly unfriendly, and it was definitely not a given that everyone was comfortable with the topic of homosexuality. Suffice it to say that my date did not seem comfortable with the topic.

Leaving the theater, our conversation was three-sided, with Lori maintaining a sentinel-like silence as we walked back to the car.

Which wasn’t where we had parked it.

Stolen? Couldn’t be. Who would steal a rust-laced, barely-functional junker like that? Then we saw the sign: No Parking 11PM–5AM, All Vehicles Will Be Towed.

It was 11:10 PM.

At the bottom of the sign, a phone number for the impound lot was printed, so the next task was walking to find a phone booth (remember, kids, mobile phones weren’t even a twinkle in Steve Jobs’ eye at this point). We found one a few blocks away, via which we learned that the impound lot was a fair distance, too far to walk, especially in the heels Lori had chosen. Mark and Julie and I pooled our cash; we probably had enough to get the car out of impound, but we weren’t sure, so paying for a cab was out of the question; even the streetcar was an iffy proposition. We decided our best way to get at all close to the lot was to do a hop-on/hop-off run on cable car. In the late hours, they weren’t so strict about payment if you were just on for a few blocks.

Eventually, we made it to the lot, had enough for the fine, and sprung Mark’s car from the hoosegow. By this time, Lori’s silence had become so intense that it had a gravitational field. When we finally rattled our way up her street and Mark stopped in front of the long, dark stairway, Lori was out of the car before I could round the vehicle to open her door. She was halfway up the flight by the time I reached the foot of the stairs. She never looked back.

Frankly, I do not blame her one tiny little bit.

We never went out again. We never actually spoke again. It was a long time before my next first date.

My last first date, on the other hand, was better. I’d learned a lot in the intervening years. Still, though, I did manage to break the First Rule of First Dates as, over our lunch of enchiladas and tamales, I told her we were going to get married and have a great time growing old together. (I’d known her all of two weeks, and to be honest, it had taken a lot of discipline not to tell her that when we first met.)

Despite this obvious faux pas, on Monday (Valentine’s Day 2022) we celebrated the fortieth anniversary of that last first date, and had our forty-first Valentine’s Day meal of Mexican food to commemorate it.

So, yeah, the last one went a bit better.

k

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These past few weeks, a large cadre of Americans has been decrying the “cancel culture” that is coming down like a ton of bricks on Joe Rogan and Spotify, whilst simultaneously applauding the RNC’s censure of politicians with whom they disagree. In addition, this tranche of the conservative mind-bank is paving the way for suing teachers and school districts, should they have the temerity to teach kids about social issues, as well as—surprise surprise—continuing to indulge in its penchant for banning books.

Frankly, I was surprised that the RNC was so stupid as to believe they wouldn’t get any blowback for characterizing the January 6th riot as “legitimate political discourse,” but it definitely did not surprise me that conservatives are still into banning books.

Banning books—banning any type of artistic expression, really—is the worst way to control said expression. Know why I went to see The Last Temptation of Christ? Because of the furore raised by the so-called “religious right.” Know why I read Lolita? Because someone believed it would scar me for life. Know why, this week, I bought a copy of Maus: A Survivor’s Tale? Because a Tennessee school district banned it and I’m too old to have had the opportunity to read it in school. (In fact, in the weeks since Maus was banned, it has risen to the top of bestseller lists, and I’m pretty sure some of those purchases were made by families who specifically wanted to get it into their children’s hands. So, not a great model for successful social engineering.)

This all got me thinking about the practice of banning books. Who does it, and why? At the outset, it’s clear that books have been challenged by factions on both sides of the political spectrum. The left has challenged books here and there, for use of the n-word and for racial stereotypes, but by far these actions trend more heavily to the conservative side.

The American Library Association has for decades tracked the most challenged/banned books, and has compiled lists of the Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books, by decade, since the ’90s. The reasons books have been banned break out as follows (multiple reasons can be given for a single title, so the percentages total more than 100%.)

  • 92.5% — Sexual content
  • 61.5% — Offensive language
  • 49% — Unsuitable for age group
  • 26% — Religious viewpoint
  • 23.5% — LGBTQIA+ content
  • 19% — Violence
  • 16.5% —Racism
  • 12.5% —Drug, alcohol, and tobacco use
  • 7% —”Anti-family” content
  • 6.5% — Political viewpoint

I researched some of these more deeply and found that of those deemed unsuitable for an age group, the books were intended for juvenile and/or young adult readers. I also found that for books tagged with the “political viewpoint” reason, many of the complaints were not about the political views put forth in the book, but were in regards to the personal views of the author. One book, The Grapes of Wrath, was banned—and I’m not kidding—because it portrayed Kern County, California in a negative light.

Yesterday, I went around the house, pulling banned books off my stacks and gathering them together. I found about two dozen, from the Holy Bible to Jack London to Stephen King to George Orwell. While some of them are still TBR, I’ve read most of them, including many that I read when I was in school. Banning them, taking The Great Gatsby or Flowers for Algernon or To Kill a Mockingbird off the shelves at my school would have done nothing to further my education. And good luck keeping me from reading The Lord of the Rings.

Sheltering our youth from ideas in the name of education is both a folly and a disservice. It’s also a fruitless exercise because kids will find a way, and banning a book is a sure-fire motivation for a curious youth. I mean, do you think I was over 18 when I saw my first Playboy? Do you think I was 13 when I saw my first PG-13 movie? Do you think I was 21 when I had my first beer? Hehe . . . no, to all of the above.

Now, I do not think that all art is appropriate for all ages. Some books, due to their themes or topics, should be introduced with curation and context by someone familiar with the age group and the subject, someone like, oh, I don’t know, maybe a teacher. But what one particular 15-year old may find disturbing, a different child of thirteen might handle fine, especially when supported by teachers and family.

I once met an 8-year old girl who told me she loved my Fallen Cloud Saga. I actually winced when I heard her say that, because I really did not intend those books—with their occasional scenes of violence and sex and themes of prejudice and racial hatred—for a prepubescent audience. But the girl’s mother was standing right behind her, beaming over her child’s precocious intellect and, talking further with them both, I had to admit that the mom’s decision to let her daughter read my books was fine. For her daughter.

And there’s the rub. Not all kids are alike, not in any way. There are all sorts of ways to tailor curricula to address specific parents’ concerns and fulfill individual students’ needs, all without banning certain books for all students.

Banning books is stupid and does not advance the intended goal. One wonders why they even bother anymore.

k

PS. If you’re wondering where I come down on the Joe Rogan/Spotify fracas, I dropped my Spotify membership. And if you’re now wondering why I’m okay with “banning” Rogan but not okay with banning books, consider that:
(a) I’m not banning Rogan; I’m merely refusing to support him and his exclusive carrier, and
(b) there’s a big difference between banning a book because it has uncomfortable truths in it, and refusing to support Rogan’s continued pattern of providing a platform to spread lies and misinformation.
—k

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purple-robed dawn creeps
past evergreens cloaked in fog,
lifting night’s dark veil

sleeping birds awake,
unfurl dew-draped wings and sing
the morning to life

a cat on the sill
chitters, a phantom huntress
prowling her grey world

k

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