Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, a saying attributed to Freud, my good friend tells me yesterday. Or he's not sure - it may have been Roy Rogers commenting about Freud.
I checked, just briefly, online. Consensus is no one seems to know, and I'll go with that. Why? Because it's just not all that important. (I'm not writing about plagiarism here, so don't take it that way.)
I'm going to talk about my people here, my bohemian family of creatives. We're all touchy. We react; sincerely, passionately, icy cold, burning hot. We don't hold the market on these feelings, but we all tend to lean this way. This is good for us in many ways; it breeds creativity. And it's bad for us in many ways; it harbors hurt, festers anger.
I don't fault anyone I know for passionate emotions. I myself wallow daily. In order to survive in the world though, I occasionally need to regulate, dial down a bit, step back.
Step back. And take a look at the big picture, my friend. My very dear friend; whom I hope does not unravel away a friendship we've had for years. Tightly knit and impervious, so far, to the emotional passions we both bring to it. I'm not dismissing what happened (or didn't happen) on the weekend. I am saying, I am asking, I am hoping you will look at the bigger picture.
Always loved you.
Always will.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Bicycle Man
The bicycle man
rides slowly by.
Painted frame
of his chariot,
lime green today,
carries his slightness
and all the weight
of his unconvention.
Pedals and pulleys and
gravity and gears
work the rise and fall
of the wings,
one on each side,
fashioned of wire frame
and feathers.
Trumpeting Victrola rides
royally on the back;
pumping feet provide
the revolutions needed
to release the melody.
Handlebar horns
and bells, all kinds,
honk and ring
in a symphony
of clownsong.
While we watch
from behind
our draperied window,
he stands,
one leg on the seat,
the other
extended out behind him
in a bicycle ballet.
My mother says he's crazy.
But I have seen his smile
and I don't think so.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/2/2002
rides slowly by.
Painted frame
of his chariot,
lime green today,
carries his slightness
and all the weight
of his unconvention.
Pedals and pulleys and
gravity and gears
work the rise and fall
of the wings,
one on each side,
fashioned of wire frame
and feathers.
Trumpeting Victrola rides
royally on the back;
pumping feet provide
the revolutions needed
to release the melody.
Handlebar horns
and bells, all kinds,
honk and ring
in a symphony
of clownsong.
While we watch
from behind
our draperied window,
he stands,
one leg on the seat,
the other
extended out behind him
in a bicycle ballet.
My mother says he's crazy.
But I have seen his smile
and I don't think so.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/2/2002
Monday, February 22, 2010
I like me some Villanelle once in a while. Maybe more than once in a while. I have written a few of my own, but the one shown below was written by Dylan Thomas, and is a widely used example of the Villanelle form.
* In case you always wanted to know:
A villanelle has 19 lines, consisting of five tercets and a concluding quatrain.
The rhyme scheme is aba, with the same end-rhyme for every first and last line of each tercet and the final two lines of the quatrain.
Two of the lines are repeated:
The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and the fourth stanzas, and as the second-to-last line in the concluding quatrain.
The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and the fifth stanzas, and as the last line in the concluding quatrain.
I have always loved this by Dylan Thomas:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There will eventually come a point in all of our lives when we're unable to do some of the things we were perfectly capable of in the past. I myself would like to skip that part of life and just keel over when I'm 99, healthy as a horse. But we don't get to make that choice.
Dad developed a condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia a couple years ago. It's a strange condition, that in his case, results in severe shock-type pains in his face. Because of this, he takes a great deal of medication. He's always been in relatively good health, so it's very hard to see him struggling with the effects of the meds; the main one being constant drowsiness, maybe lethargy. Beyond the actual drug effects I think he's simply depressed about it all, besides. He seems to have given up on life in a lot of ways. That is a very hard thing to watch your parent go through.
He used to go for walks, putter around with lawn and driveway chores on his lawn tractor, maintain his bird feeders, go fishing, read books... and every day, I mean EVERY day he would do the crossword from the paper.
He has given up most everything I listed above, now, except he does still get out to fill the bird feeders.
His driving skills are not what they used to be. He gets confused about meds, can't always remember if he's taken them or not. He's tired a lot, very tired, and sleeps much of the day sometimes. He told me last weekend he's given up the daily crossword puzzle. Of all these things, that struck me like a dagger to the heart. Because he sleeps all day, he often stays awake well into the night. He recently purchased something he saw on an info-mercial, late at night, with his credit card, and was taken advantage of by the sleazy-slick salesperson on the other end of the phone line, to the tune of a lot of money. He has never previously in his life made a credit card purchase from a tv info-mercial.
So, you're saying, it's a simple solution: he should not be driving, he should not have a credit card, blah blah.
I will disagree. There is a thing called dignity. Who would think there is a time in one's life when someone else can take that from you? My friend at work says when he's at the end of his life, he's going to sail off, far away, over the ocean and into a sea storm and let nature take it's course.
I would not like to mess with anyone's dignity. What I hope can happen is something more like this:
* We as a family should come up a plan to give my parents some help with the day to day stuff they might want a hand with; driving longer distances, yard chores, house chores. This could be as simple as each of us offering to help out, more than now and then - more like a scheduled volunteer time slot.
* I would hope that Dad, on his own, would conclude that while he can probably still drive to grocery/gas store near their house, maybe he should not be driving to Brainerd.
* I would also hope that he carefully considers whether or not he should be doing certain heavier yard chores and things like that, and ask for help if he needs it.
* I would hope that the family becomes more diligent about visiting mom and dad (and this includes me). They love company, they love to see the grandkids, there's no better time like the present. There's no better present than your time.
I love my Dad.
I do not want him to go gentle into that good night.
I will do everything I can to help him rage, rage against the dying of the light.
* In case you always wanted to know:
A villanelle has 19 lines, consisting of five tercets and a concluding quatrain.
The rhyme scheme is aba, with the same end-rhyme for every first and last line of each tercet and the final two lines of the quatrain.
Two of the lines are repeated:
The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and the fourth stanzas, and as the second-to-last line in the concluding quatrain.
The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and the fifth stanzas, and as the last line in the concluding quatrain.
I have always loved this by Dylan Thomas:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There will eventually come a point in all of our lives when we're unable to do some of the things we were perfectly capable of in the past. I myself would like to skip that part of life and just keel over when I'm 99, healthy as a horse. But we don't get to make that choice.
Dad developed a condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia a couple years ago. It's a strange condition, that in his case, results in severe shock-type pains in his face. Because of this, he takes a great deal of medication. He's always been in relatively good health, so it's very hard to see him struggling with the effects of the meds; the main one being constant drowsiness, maybe lethargy. Beyond the actual drug effects I think he's simply depressed about it all, besides. He seems to have given up on life in a lot of ways. That is a very hard thing to watch your parent go through.
He used to go for walks, putter around with lawn and driveway chores on his lawn tractor, maintain his bird feeders, go fishing, read books... and every day, I mean EVERY day he would do the crossword from the paper.
He has given up most everything I listed above, now, except he does still get out to fill the bird feeders.
His driving skills are not what they used to be. He gets confused about meds, can't always remember if he's taken them or not. He's tired a lot, very tired, and sleeps much of the day sometimes. He told me last weekend he's given up the daily crossword puzzle. Of all these things, that struck me like a dagger to the heart. Because he sleeps all day, he often stays awake well into the night. He recently purchased something he saw on an info-mercial, late at night, with his credit card, and was taken advantage of by the sleazy-slick salesperson on the other end of the phone line, to the tune of a lot of money. He has never previously in his life made a credit card purchase from a tv info-mercial.
So, you're saying, it's a simple solution: he should not be driving, he should not have a credit card, blah blah.
I will disagree. There is a thing called dignity. Who would think there is a time in one's life when someone else can take that from you? My friend at work says when he's at the end of his life, he's going to sail off, far away, over the ocean and into a sea storm and let nature take it's course.
I would not like to mess with anyone's dignity. What I hope can happen is something more like this:
* We as a family should come up a plan to give my parents some help with the day to day stuff they might want a hand with; driving longer distances, yard chores, house chores. This could be as simple as each of us offering to help out, more than now and then - more like a scheduled volunteer time slot.
* I would hope that Dad, on his own, would conclude that while he can probably still drive to grocery/gas store near their house, maybe he should not be driving to Brainerd.
* I would also hope that he carefully considers whether or not he should be doing certain heavier yard chores and things like that, and ask for help if he needs it.
* I would hope that the family becomes more diligent about visiting mom and dad (and this includes me). They love company, they love to see the grandkids, there's no better time like the present. There's no better present than your time.
I love my Dad.
I do not want him to go gentle into that good night.
I will do everything I can to help him rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I spent part of my day wandering the Galleria, a favorite place of mine. I had to go look for a reference toy at an upscale toy shop there. The girl behind the counter said she'd never heard of a hobby horse, when I inquired whether they carried any, and looked at me as if I were a hundred. Impertinent snippit. I wanted to poke my cane into an already teetering display of electronic whoopee cushions (which makes me wonder - why mess with a good toy? let's leave well enough alone...) just so she would have something to do later. Instead I wandered around, and came across a rack of marbles. How cool is that? Another timeless toy.
Anyway, I had some time to kill, and wandered back to Barnes & Noble to do some browsing there. I can spend a lot of time in a book store. My niece Meghan called me while I was there so I asked her if she wanted me to pick up something for her and her sister. She said yes, she wanted a mystery, maybe with a murder in it, or something. Or, she asked, can you get me 'Dear John' and tells me who wrote it. She's only 12, but she reads a lot, and is JUST at the point of starting to read adult books, maybe. I tried hard to find some books I thought she'd like in the kids/teen section, but every time I read the story synopsis to her, she seemed not especially excited. I kept looking.
In the meanwhile, I heard someone in the phone background: my sister wants me to look for newest Dan Brown novel, but she wants the paperback. I make a mental note.
In the other meanwhile, Kaitlyn, who's 14, says she would like The Guinness Book of World Records 2010. lol... Okay! Now I have a list! hahah... (And I remember poring over the Guinness Book of Records when we were growing up - so I totally get it! Just like Whoopee cushions and marbles, some things never change.)
More searching leads me to decide to get the following for Meghan:
* The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
My niece has never heard of this book, but it looks intriguing, and it's a thick book that I think she'll like. And it was in the kids/teen section (yay!) which made me feel much better buying the other two for her from the regular adult section:
* Dear John by Nicholas Sparks
* The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
I was excited to think of the Lovely Bones because it's well written, a good story, with a murder, yes, and the sort of book that makes a great read for teens to adults.
I had to disappoint Julie, because Dan Brown's newest is not out in paperback yet.
And Kaitlyn wil have to wait till I find the new Guinness Book.
But all in all, a fun day at the bookstore. When is it not? :) The kids novels are usually only $6 to $8, and they can pass them on to their friends or cousins when they're finished reading. $24 I spent on my niece today encourages a continued lifetime of reading and learning. Need I say - priceless?
Anyway, I had some time to kill, and wandered back to Barnes & Noble to do some browsing there. I can spend a lot of time in a book store. My niece Meghan called me while I was there so I asked her if she wanted me to pick up something for her and her sister. She said yes, she wanted a mystery, maybe with a murder in it, or something. Or, she asked, can you get me 'Dear John' and tells me who wrote it. She's only 12, but she reads a lot, and is JUST at the point of starting to read adult books, maybe. I tried hard to find some books I thought she'd like in the kids/teen section, but every time I read the story synopsis to her, she seemed not especially excited. I kept looking.
In the meanwhile, I heard someone in the phone background: my sister wants me to look for newest Dan Brown novel, but she wants the paperback. I make a mental note.
In the other meanwhile, Kaitlyn, who's 14, says she would like The Guinness Book of World Records 2010. lol... Okay! Now I have a list! hahah... (And I remember poring over the Guinness Book of Records when we were growing up - so I totally get it! Just like Whoopee cushions and marbles, some things never change.)
More searching leads me to decide to get the following for Meghan:
* The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
My niece has never heard of this book, but it looks intriguing, and it's a thick book that I think she'll like. And it was in the kids/teen section (yay!) which made me feel much better buying the other two for her from the regular adult section:
* Dear John by Nicholas Sparks
* The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
I was excited to think of the Lovely Bones because it's well written, a good story, with a murder, yes, and the sort of book that makes a great read for teens to adults.
I had to disappoint Julie, because Dan Brown's newest is not out in paperback yet.
And Kaitlyn wil have to wait till I find the new Guinness Book.
But all in all, a fun day at the bookstore. When is it not? :) The kids novels are usually only $6 to $8, and they can pass them on to their friends or cousins when they're finished reading. $24 I spent on my niece today encourages a continued lifetime of reading and learning. Need I say - priceless?
I've had a lot of action in my bedroom for the past few nights. Not the kind you were just thinking of.
While John is skiiing up on the Gunflint, I have Alf over here, as well as Miss Vegas Kitty. They both like to sleep in here with me, and although I don't let Alf up on the bed, Miss Vegas certainly has no qualms about sleeping where ever she damn well pleases, including sometimes on my head, where she's either pushed off gently or batted off not gently, depending on what phase of sleep/exasperation I'm in. Alf is allowed on most of the beds, among the households of my ex, me, and the cabin, but here he seems content enough to just lay on the floor beside the bed, on the rug.
My ex and I always had a dog. On one of our fist dates, John took me out to show me the log cabin he was building, and he spread out a blanket on the ground where we were going to sit and have some wine, and look at the gorgeous fall scenery. Tara, his new golden retriever puppy, promptly stepped up and peed all over the blanket, thus ruining the magic of the moment. Tara was a sweetheart, with a kind, gentle temperament. As she aged, she became grey around the eyes, and appeared to be wearing glasses, so we nicknamed her The Grandmother.
Our next dog was Cecil. She was brought to us very early one Saturday morning in the arms of a guy John worked with. He'd brought the puppy home, and his wife said either he or the puppy was not going to be residing there, his choice. Cecil was about the size and shape of a loaf of bread, waddling around, sniffing the corners of our kitchen. How do you say no to that? We had Cecil a long time, she was our baby, spoiled, fat and sassy, really sassy. She had a cat-like personality, rather disdainful toward others, but sweet and loving to John and me. We loved her dearly, as we had loved Tara. Cecil died unexpectedly and tragically, and while I don't want to write about it, suffice to say - when we were able to pull ourselves together enough to walk out of the Blue Cross Animal Hospital's surgical area - rumpled, in sorrow and in shock, every pet-loving face in the waiting room registered deep sympathy, empathy and understanding. Pet lovers know.
Then came Alf. We found him and adopted him from the AHS. He was brought to them by someone who discovered him, lost and injured. He had a mangled front leg and other injuries, and would have normally been put to sleep. However, they had a new doctor on duty that night, and she decided to amputate the bad leg. Then they kept him for about three months while he healed. He is Something. He's the kind of dog you meet and just want to take him home with you. If you've met him, you know what I'm saying. You know what a charmer he is.
The joy our pets have brought into our households is immeasurable. My ex and I share Alf; and Miss Vegas Kitty (aka social butterfly, the princess of snuggling) is welcomed at his house too, anytime. They both love to go to the lake of course. Did I just describe a three-ring circus? Maybe, but always - always, so worth it.
Our pets are pretty notoriously spoiled, but there is no way we can ever give them in return, all they give to us.
While John is skiiing up on the Gunflint, I have Alf over here, as well as Miss Vegas Kitty. They both like to sleep in here with me, and although I don't let Alf up on the bed, Miss Vegas certainly has no qualms about sleeping where ever she damn well pleases, including sometimes on my head, where she's either pushed off gently or batted off not gently, depending on what phase of sleep/exasperation I'm in. Alf is allowed on most of the beds, among the households of my ex, me, and the cabin, but here he seems content enough to just lay on the floor beside the bed, on the rug.
My ex and I always had a dog. On one of our fist dates, John took me out to show me the log cabin he was building, and he spread out a blanket on the ground where we were going to sit and have some wine, and look at the gorgeous fall scenery. Tara, his new golden retriever puppy, promptly stepped up and peed all over the blanket, thus ruining the magic of the moment. Tara was a sweetheart, with a kind, gentle temperament. As she aged, she became grey around the eyes, and appeared to be wearing glasses, so we nicknamed her The Grandmother.
Our next dog was Cecil. She was brought to us very early one Saturday morning in the arms of a guy John worked with. He'd brought the puppy home, and his wife said either he or the puppy was not going to be residing there, his choice. Cecil was about the size and shape of a loaf of bread, waddling around, sniffing the corners of our kitchen. How do you say no to that? We had Cecil a long time, she was our baby, spoiled, fat and sassy, really sassy. She had a cat-like personality, rather disdainful toward others, but sweet and loving to John and me. We loved her dearly, as we had loved Tara. Cecil died unexpectedly and tragically, and while I don't want to write about it, suffice to say - when we were able to pull ourselves together enough to walk out of the Blue Cross Animal Hospital's surgical area - rumpled, in sorrow and in shock, every pet-loving face in the waiting room registered deep sympathy, empathy and understanding. Pet lovers know.
Then came Alf. We found him and adopted him from the AHS. He was brought to them by someone who discovered him, lost and injured. He had a mangled front leg and other injuries, and would have normally been put to sleep. However, they had a new doctor on duty that night, and she decided to amputate the bad leg. Then they kept him for about three months while he healed. He is Something. He's the kind of dog you meet and just want to take him home with you. If you've met him, you know what I'm saying. You know what a charmer he is.
The joy our pets have brought into our households is immeasurable. My ex and I share Alf; and Miss Vegas Kitty (aka social butterfly, the princess of snuggling) is welcomed at his house too, anytime. They both love to go to the lake of course. Did I just describe a three-ring circus? Maybe, but always - always, so worth it.
Our pets are pretty notoriously spoiled, but there is no way we can ever give them in return, all they give to us.
The Vow
In pastel cocoons of tulle
and lace we huddle
in the closet of my
mother's sister while
the ladies sip cocktails
by the pool. Our tiny room
is filled with elegant gowns.
My aunt has worn each,
once, as a bridesmaid.
Deenie, peering from her
cage of lavender lace,
is pale purple in the soft
arc of her flashlight. We
nibble on mints and drink
air champagne from
dance slippers.
I place aqua heels,
that match the frock
I'm crouching under,
onto my hands,
and tap tap out from under
the hem in pigeon-toed steps.
The dresses are faintly scented
from perfume, cigarette smoke,
excitement of parties
long ago.
My mother's white
bridal dress, packed in a
special carton from the
cleaners and smelling of
mothballs, does not seem
related to these costumes at all.
Mother is cold and
untouchable, while
Aunt Belle is all hugs
and laughter. We know
it is the dresses
that have made them this way,
and before we leave our lovely
ruffled abodes,
we cross arms, clasp hands,
and make a pact:
Never, never, never.
The gowns hang,
frivolous and free,
bright beckoning balloons,
as we close the closet door.
Mary Ellen Seidel
6/22/2002
In pastel cocoons of tulle
and lace we huddle
in the closet of my
mother's sister while
the ladies sip cocktails
by the pool. Our tiny room
is filled with elegant gowns.
My aunt has worn each,
once, as a bridesmaid.
Deenie, peering from her
cage of lavender lace,
is pale purple in the soft
arc of her flashlight. We
nibble on mints and drink
air champagne from
dance slippers.
I place aqua heels,
that match the frock
I'm crouching under,
onto my hands,
and tap tap out from under
the hem in pigeon-toed steps.
The dresses are faintly scented
from perfume, cigarette smoke,
excitement of parties
long ago.
My mother's white
bridal dress, packed in a
special carton from the
cleaners and smelling of
mothballs, does not seem
related to these costumes at all.
Mother is cold and
untouchable, while
Aunt Belle is all hugs
and laughter. We know
it is the dresses
that have made them this way,
and before we leave our lovely
ruffled abodes,
we cross arms, clasp hands,
and make a pact:
Never, never, never.
The gowns hang,
frivolous and free,
bright beckoning balloons,
as we close the closet door.
Mary Ellen Seidel
6/22/2002
Jesterton Parade
The mayor
of the town
is leading the big parade
on horseback.
It is a slow parade as he
has chosen to ride
his horse
backwards,
his mount stepping
forward
ass first.
Onlookers wave flags and
cheer loudly, in appreciation
of the lovely rounded
equine derriere.
Jesterton is the only
place on earth, where,
when you are called a horse's ass,
you have just been
paid a giant compliment.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002
The mayor
of the town
is leading the big parade
on horseback.
It is a slow parade as he
has chosen to ride
his horse
backwards,
his mount stepping
forward
ass first.
Onlookers wave flags and
cheer loudly, in appreciation
of the lovely rounded
equine derriere.
Jesterton is the only
place on earth, where,
when you are called a horse's ass,
you have just been
paid a giant compliment.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002
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