On the Hook

 

on the hook

for partial art

at hallway’s end

cabinet top

***

Too Far from the Sun

 

 

Artemis II, what to do?

You’ve left me behind

at the farthest point 

beyond the moon.

I’m floating in space

with ambient sounds

all around to sooth me

but even so, so lonely.

I need to connect to 

something beyond 

myself, a proven need

easier said than done.

Artemis III, where are thee?

Returning for a lunar landing,

they’ve left me standing

too far from the sun.

***

A Dog on a Beautiful Morning

 

It’s a dog thinking her thoughts

on this particularly beautiful morning.

She sees the squirrels and jogging girls

but heeds my annoying warning.

Look, don’t touch, and most assuredly

do not run after what you see.

It’s just a time to take it in 

and let what will be, be. 

***

Conditional Love

Conditional love is a peculiar thing.

There is no argument there should 

be reasonable expectations, but it 

is the controlling aspects that are  

troublesome and then there is the 

sad reality that these conditions  

seem to be so rarely met without

sacrificing a needed sense of self.

And so, you see, there is no love.

***

Apologia Contra Arial

 

I was eating breakfast with my 15 year old daughter yesterday in Nashville at our hotel.  We got onto the topic of the upcoming event at Orleans Public Library to discuss the collection of stories from my childhood growing up there - Flowers from the Dirt.  She has been concerned that I’m using the Arial font for all my books and “everyone hates Arial”.  That struck me as a bit forceful if not exaggerated, but she assured me that that was the consensus amongst her classmates and English teacher.  I explained that I liked the simplicity of it but she insisted, “Dad, it’s too basic.  It’s like being in a room that has nothing but white walls.”   

She went on to explain about ornamentation and the importance of letters being pleasing to the eye to facilitate reading.  She pulled up fonts on her phone to illustrate what she was saying.  She talked about Times New Roman as the standard of sorts and scrolled through others to include Cambria and Garamond to show me their stylings.  I described my short story collection (Tales of the Strange & Wondrous) as having a kind of pulp fiction feel and she suggested Courier to give it an old-timey typewriter look.  For Flowers from the Dirt she thought Cambria might look nice.  And for Hear Me with its poetry and prose she thought “maybe Lexend?  I don’t know.”  

It was a fascinating conversation because I really hadn’t put much thought into the font for these books.  My focus had been on organizing the stories, designing the covers, and writing the blurbs on the back.  Fonts just hadn’t figured into the creative calculus until this moment of sitting across a two-person table watching her eat waffles.  

She’s a creative kid and I thanked her for her input, though she informed me her interests lie mostly in music.  This checks out as her 10 year old self wrote me a lovely melancholy tune on her ukulele called “Take My Hand” and I hear her sometimes in the basement working out songs on guitar from some of her favorite singer-songwriters.  “I’m not into the visual arts so much” she confided, but I reminded her of the beautiful abstracts she created with paints and a butter knife during the first summer of the Pandemic.  

And then I felt my mind wandering and wondering - where did this captivating young lady come from?  How is it she’s schooling me on the importance and place of fonts in improving the reading experience?  It’s like having a 15 year old literary agent.  I told her I’ve read a lot over the years, but the mystery of fonts had not been fully revealed to me.  The font had to be pretty outlandish to distract me and pull my notice.  In my mind the letters have simply been teeth on a cogwheel and as long as the information is being transferred in the machinery of my brain, I hadn’t noticed the shape so much.  

But “everyone hates Arial” don’t you know?  I’ll have to keep that in mind moving forward and be more mindful of my font choices.

____________

For full disclosure, pretty much my entire blog is in Arial including this post.

***

Son - Daughter

 

A Night at the Museum

A lovely evening was spent at the Columbus Museum of Art with my psychiatric colleagues.  To start, a staff member from the CMA ran us through a 3-minute creative exercise where we were given random materials to be combined in whatever way we saw fit.  These materials included some tin foil, wooden stir sticks, coffee filters, and garbage bag ties.  When the time was up each of us were asked to explain what we’d made.  Some went the abstract route with underlying meanings and forms while some, like me, went the concrete route which was more on the surface.  The beautiful evening and warm temperatures outside had me thinking of dancing ladies in skirts with floppy sun hats.

From there we were led into the museum proper to two different paintings - one quite large and one much smaller with very different looks and tones.  Time was given to take them in before the staff member asked us questions about what stood out to us, what we were feeling, and what certain things might mean.  Standing in a half-circle around each we offered our answers drawn from our different life experiences and emotional makeup.  On some level it seemed to be a group Rorschach test that provided us an opportunity to plumb the depths of our minds and emotions a bit.

We then moved on to a larger gallery and each of us was given a word and asked to answer the question “what does it look like?” in regards to any particular piece we might choose.  She encouraged us to pick something that would not be obviously connected to the word to force us to really dig deep and fully exercise our creative muscles and imaginations.

My word was “Listening” and my eye was drawn to a collage of seemingly random objects affixed in a circle that included several sets of protruding eyes pushed outwards towards the observer.  The impression I had was that they were straining in some creepy way trying to “listen” to me.  As I am wont to do, I started writing down this impression in a poem to process the experience:

Straining eyes want to hear,

but struggle and fracture in doing so.

They see my lips moving and

want to know what I am saying.

They anticipate self-incrimination

to draw me into their present nightmare…

a love of shiny things affixed to the surface.

As part of this process we were advised not to look at the placard next to the art that gives information about it.  I glimpsed mine after the fact and simply saw the title: Halcyon.  What a strange name for this work!  The extreme contrast between the art piece and its name would have likely unduly influenced what I thought I was seeing, but maybe not.  Chaos, trauma, denial, and inhumanity all seemed to be in the mix (dare I say “demonic”).

All of us had a go at explaining how we found our word in the art piece we chose - more Rorschachy stuff it would seem.  I hope I didn’t reveal too much of my deeper self.  Some of that can be disquieting - yet to be fully dealt with.  Thank goodness we are psychiatrists and have a category for that kind of necessary work.

***

The Trauma Clown

 

Retained trauma 

is like a Jack-in-the-Box,

the music of life

in the cranking of a handle

until BOOM!

the trauma clown explodes 

from the box,

a jump scare of unexpected

terror and pain,

the response disproportional

to the situation.

___________________

John & Paul

 

Three songs in succession.

John-John-John

then 

Paul-Paul-Paul

then 

a glorious ringing John-Paul

echoes of individuals

leading to sublimation

Strawberry Fields

then 

Penny Lane

then 

A Day in the Life

Within a matter of months!

The whole greater than

the sum of its significant parts.

***

The Transcendent Train

 

The traditional Orthodox prayer rope consists of black wool knots tied and fashioned into a circle.  The larger ropes typically have 100 knots and the smaller ones have 33 knots to signify the number of years Jesus spent walking the earth from his birth to his “death”.

I am most interested in this smaller one because it is easily carried around by way of your wrist.  It is unobtrusive in size and color which matches the proper spiritual tone of humility and modesty.

What does one do with a prayer rope you may ask?  It is for saying The Jesus Prayer which in its most common form is “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner” repeated at each knot in succession to engender said humility.

In my mind it is like the circular railroad track that I had as a child.  The railroad ties are evenly spaced and provide the “beat” of the prayer.  When I am riding on this train I imagine the interior of the track encircles a beautiful garden with all that entails: fragrant flowers, singing birds, cool springs, and shade trees in full sun.  The outside of the track is dark, desolate, monotonous, and dry.  It is Paradise versus Sheol.

When I am on the train I can take in the sight of the garden and breathe it in through the slightly cracked windows, but frequently by my own poor choices I am thrown from the train into that outer darkness.  I find myself in the dirt and a bit bloodied by the fall.  The train sits still and expectant as I stand up and brush myself off.  Do I walk in this outer world or get back on the train?  Lost in disordered thoughts and passions I start walking - nay limping - and the train follows apace ready for re-boarding.

Today it was a consolation of sorts to think of it in this way - that the prayer rope remains accessible and can bring my mind back onto the right track when utilized - that it can connect me to something beautiful - that paradise can be glimpsed even now in the whispering of words.

***

Strange Little Room

 

Strange little room 

where I can store 

the things most essential to me.  

It is much bigger inside than outside

though who would know?

A cold and indifferent world

seeks entrance for the sake of destruction.

The door used to stand ajar

until indiscriminate intruders 

chose to trample precious objects

with boots dirtied by selfish concerns.

Time has fashioned a lock. 

It has transformed me into 

a more discerning curator of

these things of fragile beauty.

Strange little room 

where I can store 

the things most essential to me.

***

Waiting for Faith

Waiting, waiting, waiting 

for things to make sense. 

I’m trying to do the right 

things, to be patient, but 

it seems like I’m always 

waiting with answers or 

resolutions somewhere 

out there but not anywhere 

in my realm of knowing 

to the point I have to laugh 

at myself, at how absurd 

yet how essential faith is.

***