Grief Journal: Stages of Grief

I was recently reminded that I read Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' On Death and Dying for a book report in high school.  My step-mother would die about a year later, and I would learn the emotional responses to grief fit this schema as well.  Some years later, Kubler-Ross' interviews and research substantiated this intuition.  After all, the death of a near friend or loved one means the death of the relationship; a death, if you will, of the person you were in relation to the deceased.

The following is based on the stages of dying; I have not yet read her book On Grief and Grieving.  I've put it on hold at the local library.

Denial

My brother maintained a practice of emailing several articles a day.  Somehow, he had created custom lists of topics different people were interested in, and would send links related to those topics - sort of a bespoke Brain Pickings.  The last email I received, on Saturday, February 25,  included a link to this article.  I responded, which is rare, and my brother thought my response missed the point.  It took the rest of the day to form an answer, which I sent about 7:30 Sunday morning.

As it turns out, he was probably in the hospital by this time.

Monday came, Tuesday went, and I began to wonder why I hadn't received any articles.  Now, there had been a previous break in my brother's emails - when he had suffered a heart attack on Tuesday, November 29 - which he referred to as "a bit of a bother" a week later.  So, I let it go.

Then, around 9:00 Wednesday morning, March 1, the thought occurred to me: "I wonder if he's gone?"  Later that morning, a mutual friend called with the news that my brother was in the hospital and was not expected to recover.

So: I began a process of denying that reality.  I thought he'd get better.  After all, he survived the heart attack.  But he died around 3:45 that same afternoon.

For the first few days after that, I couldn't shake the notion it was a bad dream.  I was weepy, crying in my sleep, as I've said elsewhere.  I found myself mourning the loss one moment, then considering practical matters the next.  Then, chiding myself for worrying about practical matters. 

Anger

I get enraged more easily.  I'm annoyed by the chatter of my co-workers - how dare they enjoy life while I mourn the loss of my brother!  I identify with the words of Auden's “Funeral Blues”: “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone ....”  I want the world to stop; I want to proclaim the tragic news from the mountain top, or in skywriting.

Last week, I released a stream of profane words, featuring the "F" word, because a co-worker was not performing a task exactly as I would.  Happily, I had the office to myself at the time.

Saturday evening, I came home to find a large pick-up truck using my drive to turn around.  Now this is a pet peeve in the best of times.  I felt the rage burning through me.  I was just this side of fisty-cuffs.  Happily, I restrained myself.

For the most part, I think I'm restraining my anger when appropriate, and venting it when safe.  I hope it's not leaking out at the sides, as can often happen with repressed rage.  If it does, I hope people will take it in the context of my loss.   There is, as I've mentioned, a "get out of jail" bonus to grief.  I pray I don't abuse it.

Bargaining

I have not offered to trade my life for my brother's.  It likely helps that I don't think the G-d of my (lack of) understanding works that way.

Instead, I rehearse various wishes and regrets: I wish I had visited him late last year, as I was encouraged to do.  I regret the years we lost between Padre's death and when we reconnected.  I wish I could share this article, or YouTube video with him.  I regret that I had not recorded my two latest songs on YouTube, so he could have heard them before he died.

I've been a bit more profligate in spending since my brother's death.  I haven't spent myself into debt, but it's something I know I need to keep an eye on.  Many times when I'm tempted, I ask myself: do I really believe this object will bring my brother back?  Or: do I really want this object cluttering my house?

I find myself spending money in my brother's name: I threw money in a busker's hat at the Farmer's Market on Saturday. I bought Girl Scout cookies, in honor of the affection he had for his granddaughter.  Admittedly, I don't know if she was a Campfire Girl (she's 18 now); but it was a misty chilly morning, and somehow I thought he would feel the same compassion I did.

I'm considering donating to public broadcasting (both TV and Radio), thinking he might have done the same.

Depression

Richard Fariña wrote a book titled Been Down So Long, It Looks Like Up to Me; I've never read it, but I've always loved that title.  Although this novel addresses the myth of the 60s, the title seems like a good description of depression. 

What are some signs of depression? 

• Distrubance in sleep patterns.
  Check.
• Lack of appetite. 
  Debatable.  Since I primary eat out of boxes, I take little pleasure in my normal repast.  I eat to prevent low blood sugar events.  That anger I mentioned earlier?  Would be even worse if blood sugar dips too low.  I know, just like the Snickers' commercial.
• Loss of interest or pleasure in your activities
  Well, I enjoyed jamming with friends last night, but keeping this journal is becoming a chore.  Toss-up.
• Feelings restless and agitated, or else very sluggish and slowed down physically or mentally
  Honestly, I've had my manic moments and my weary moments.  About 50/50, I guess
• Feeling worthless or guilty
  Not totally.  Or, no more than normal.
• Trouble concentrating or making decisions
  Though I sometimes attribute that to my disturbed sleeps patterns
• Thoughts of suicide
  
Nope.  Well, not since the first couple of days. 
There have been a few times I've been tempted to drink full-potency alcohol.  Friends in the AA Program would suggest that's the same as feeling suicidal.  However, I have not so much as gone into a liquor store.

And - what am I doing about it?

• Taking St. John's Wort, although I've been told it can take a while to be effective.  I've learned that if I give it time, my mood does improve.
• Walking outside, weather permitting
• Getting out of the house more.  Thus, I went to a concert the week of my brother's death with my friend MT.  I walked the Live! On the Plaza event this past Friday.  I jammed with friends Sunday evening.  Going to grief counseling this Thursday, and possibly a different group next week.  I'm likely to go to a concert this Friday.
• When home, I don't allow myself much space to brood.  I read, listen to music, surf the web, or watch TV.  TV has long been my drug of choice, and - on the whole - is less self-destructive than alcohol or other options.
• I'll be going back to work tomorrow.  But I'll also allow myself to leave early, or take additional time, as seems fit.  That one, I'm playing by ear.

Acceptance

Kubler-Ross made clear that these stages are not something a person works through sequentially.  And, even if the person finds a moment of Acceptance, s/he may quickly find him/herself back at Bargaining or Depression.  So, there are moments when I accept this is my new reality: I live in a world that no longer has my brother on it.

And, I get teary typing that sentence.

---

One thing I've learned from previous losses is that grief comes on in waves.  The first month or so, the waves are especially intense.  Then, over time, their power diminishes.  It took me about a year to feel fully recovered after Padre died.  I imagine this process will be similar.

Grief is never gone, not entirely.  There are days I still miss Padre, although the ache is less intense than it was the months after he died.

The best I can do is keep on walking.  The shore may seem endless, but it's a shore I've walked before.  I know I can survive this.  It may never get better; I'll have to learn to live without a brother, as I learned to live without a father.  But it is survivable.

Notes on The Tibetan Book of the Dead

The following are some notes I took while watching the documentary The Tibetan Book of the Dead, narrated by the late Leonard Cohen. These notes are no particular order or format - they were spread between two notebooks and the back of an envelope.  I bought a copy of the translation used in the documentary on my way home from Hal's funeral.

Tibetan Buddhists believe the transition from life to death lasts 49 days.

---

You come into this world
this world of illusion
through a small white room
before you knew your name.
And now you leave this world
this suffering world
through another white room
and you're drawn to the light.
May you recognize there a kindred spirit.
May you be received as a beloved child.

May the hungry ghosts find liberation.

Recognize the peaceful deities as projections of your own mind, or else they will transform into the wrathful ones.
Recognize your innate weakness, and you will be liberated.
May your loved ones release their attachment to you.

These meager offerings represent everything that is desirable, virtuous & sustaining in this world
this foreign world.
The body you once wore becomes indistinct to you.
Your new body awaits.
You are anxious for your new life.

Perhaps the form you choose will be a great bird of the plains - an eagle or a hawk.  If so, I have seen your kinsman sailing the wind above the land of Chief Roman Nose.

Listen without distraction:
May you find a fortunate birth.
You will one day recognize your own true nature,
where you will become endless possibility, free
from attachment and fear.

Within you is the body of light.

---

This may be your last breath
beyond body & air.

I am grateful for what the path of life gives me
with aspirations for the well-being of all.

I am grateful for the time we shared
I am grateful we walked the path together, for a time.
I am grateful for the 17 years we've grown into brothers.

Soon all hopes and fears will be irrelevant.

You will find that room
that expansive room
where the gods are but projections of your pure inner light
Rest in this light,
the clear light of your own awareness.

---

At length, we lose everything we thought real.
Do not cling to fear or longing.  Strive
to perceive & partake in the cosmic mind.
May your mind be untroubled & clear.

Recline on your right side,
as the Buddha did at the moment of his own death.
Now your compassion is as limitless as space.

Earth collapses into water;
Water collapses into fire;
Fire collapses into air;
Air dissolves into consciousness.
Then there is an experience of piercing luminosity,
pure white light.
You may believe you perceive a new reality — it is still a projection of your mind.

From everlasting consciousness you have come, and
to eternal consciousness you shall you return.

What do you see from your former life?

Do not cling to these memories.
Do not cling to the past.
Do not cling to the ones who mourn you, though their tears call out to you.

The 42 peaceful deities emanate from your heart;
The 58 wrathful deities emanate from your brain.
Do not fear them.
Do not fear your wakefulness.
Take refuge in the Teacher;
Take refuge in the Teachings;
Take refuge in the Practice —
on the path to recognize your own mind.
Recognize the luminous essence of your own mind.
Seek the truth and practice compassion.

---

Tokens become icons;
icons become distractions;
distractions become obstacles to freedom & enlightenment.

These are the tokens you may recognize when you are reborn:
the bull's horn (which only Padre could play);
the computer keyboard, where you did so much compassionate work;
the water purification system you built;
the wells and reservoirs where you stored the water;
the music, the wealth of music which enriched your home;
the land, the setting sun
beyond the Texas foothills.

Grief Journal: Advice for Job's Friends

When I posted Sunday morning about unsolicited advice, I had forgotten that my lady friend reads this blog.  She read that entry, and her feelings were understandably hurt.  Which was far from my intention.

As I say, the loss of a loved one is almost more than anyone can bear.  A sudden unexpected loss, as with my brother, is even harder.  What can you say?  You hate to see your friend hurting, so you try to find comforting words.  "I'm sorry" seems so paltry in the face of such a loss.  Can we honestly say, "I grieve with you," without seeming to appropriate our friend's hurt?  Most people my age (61) have experienced at least one major loss in their lives.  Do any of us remember words that were the most comforting?  I suspect most of us remember the closeness and concern of our friends more than any particular words said.

I typically say, "Peace be with you."  Which could be just as troubling as any advice.

Thankfully, our church does not have people who would say "Your brother is in a better place now" or "God wanted another angel."

Hint: I'm, relatively certain those will not be comforting words to anyone.

Man, this may not be the best time to listen to Górecki's Symphony No. 3 (aka, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs). Then again, it might be exactly the right time.

Anyway. 

In a way, I blame my brother.  His injunction against a funeral or memorial service has short-circuited the social customs around a friend's loss.  For example, at work, the last time an employee lost a close realtive (her mother), she took off 2-3 weeks, and returned to find a sympathy card and some flowers.  I haven't chosen to take off, primarily because there's no function to attend.  There are, as yet, no practical concerns to attend to.  So: no flowers, no sympathy card. 

In the church, there would be a large funeral.  There would be no need for the grapevine or Facebook posts to notify people I have suffered a loss.  There it would be, an official announcement, spoken at our next services, and sent via email.  The funeral would be followed by a feast, prepared by the Episcopal Church Women.  I think Joann S would rejoice that she could minister to her friend.  There is a custom of presenting people with a prayer shawl as a physical reminder that the bereaved is surrounded by the prayers of the community.  These things will not happen for me.  Though I did have a substitory wake Saturday evening with a mutual friend of my brother & mine.

So, I've been faced with finding my own rituals to walk the grief path.  I've been praying the Novena for the Dead from St. Augustine's Prayer Book; ironically, my brother would strongly object to the language.  At this moment, I accept the words - they are more like symbols of the stages.  Sunday and Monday, I wore a purple shawl with a labyrinth pattern, as a token of the prayer shawl I may not receive from my church.  In about two hours, I will attend Hal's funeral.

Side note: I was not extremely close to Hal.  He was a priest in our diocese, and served at a church I attended for a brief time.  I mostly interacted with him at a Guitar Camp he and Lindy Hearn led for several years. 

Although Hal and I were not close, we did have a relationship.  In a way, the relationship was similar to the one I had with my brother.  So, I will attend his funeral, bearing in mind the transitive relation of grief; that this funeral will be a safe place for me to express grief for my loss.

As for my friends?  It's hard.  As I've said, to say his name, to admit he's dead, is a tender moment.  So - everyone who knows me has my permission to spread the word.  Let the grape vine ignite!  I want everyone in my faith community to know, but I don't have the energy to tell each one.

Each person will express their condolences in the best words they can find.  My task is to ignore the particular words, and to accept the compassion in the spirit in which it is offered.  It will be tender, it may hurt, but it will be necessary.  No significant change or transition occurs with out difficulties or pain. 

To be honest, there's a part of me that wants to stand on the mountain-top and declare: "Pity me! For my brother, who I loved, is dead."  There's another part of me that recognizes how maudelin & pathetic it would be to stop each person on the street with those words.  There's a part of me that would like to use this loss as a "get out of jail free" card.  I still remember justifying poor work performance in relation to my divorce.  It's true, of course, I'm not fully on my game.  But there's only so long that's appropriate, until it seems greedy and self-serving.

What can you say?  I'm afraid I don't have a script.  I think, as with past losses, your presence will be what lingers over time.  Don't worry about your words.  "Sorry for your loss," may seem insufficient, but your touch and your compassion will make up for anything lacking in the words.

Grief Journal: The Transitive Relation of Grief

One of the few things I remember from high school math is transitive relationship.  It's normally expressed: "If a = b and b = c, then a = c.

Human emotions are not so precise, of course.  But each loss holds echoes of previous losses.  My brother's death reminds me of Padre's death, of Wanda's death, of Robin's death, and on and on back to that first loss, the death of our maternal grandfather, Samuel H.  This loss reminds me of how my brother-in-law, my wife's youngest sibling, died about three months prior to his mother.  Both had been in the Navy, so the Navy hymn was sung at both funerals.  There was a period of about two years during which I could not sing that hymn because I got so choked up.

It may be a blessing there will be no funeral for my brother.  He was in the Marines, a branch of the Navy.  And hearing the Navy Hymn once more in this context would tear my heart like the temple curtain. 

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
for those in peril on the sea.

‘No man is an island,› saith the poet. Just so, no grief stands alone.

Grief Journal: Idée d’jour

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out-- Because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out-- Because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-- Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me-- and there was no one left to speak for me. -Martin Niemoller, pastor, initial supporter of Hitler, concentration camp survivor (1892 - 6 Mar 1984)

Brother Dave referenced this famous quote in his last email blast (more about that later) in relation to this newstory.

---

Variant from independent journalist Jonathan Katz: “First they came for the Latinos, Muslims, women, gays, poor people, intellectuals and scientists and then it was Wednesday.”

Grief Journal, 3/05

Yesterday, 6:34 a.m.

Early memory of Brother Dave:
The scene is my maternal grandfather's funeral; I am ˜4 years old. It's my first experience of death.

I said, “My eyes are leaking.” And Dave shushed me.

In the past, I've assumed Dave was embarrassed by my statement. He would have been ˜10, and possibly easily embarrassed by his kid brother. Now, I wonder if he just felt like some things needed to remain private.

---

Sometime on the road

I went for a drive back and forth on N.E. 30th, searching for the family burial plot.  At some point, a driver in front of me did something that seemed foolish or inconsiderate.  I can't even remember what it was now.  But, in the moment, I felt a rush of rage - disproportionate to the precipitating event.  "Wow," I thought, "so that's happening.  I best be on guard."

As it turned out, I wasn't even looking for the right cemetery.  I did find it, much later in the day.

---

Yesterday afternoon - Unsolicited Advice

There are two books I recommend for people in mourning: A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis, and The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.  The former is best read within a month of the loss.  The latter is best read about a year after.

I don't remember either of them talking about unsolicited advice.  It started Wednesday evening, shortly before service, when a woman from the choir suggested I seek out the Compassionate Friends website.  I'll confess this is not someone I would normally ask for advice.  But, she lost her son several years ago, and I knew she was well-intentioned.  So I thanked her.

You may ask how she found out.  I'm not sure.  I told a priest from our church via phone about an hour before service - she was the first from our church I told.  I know she told the Cathedral's Dean, who came to offer comfort.  That interchange was over-heard by two others.  Somehow, it spread from there to the choir.  It likely spread even further.

I've helped spread it, by posting about my brother's death, and my grief, on Facebook.  Many of my Facebook friends attend the same church I do.  So, when I go to service today, I imagine there will be an outpouring of sympathy.

I screwed up my energy and courage to call my lady friend with the news Thursday evening.  She expressed sympathy, and offered comforting words.  I told her I planned to attend someone else's funeral this Tuesday, as a substitute for the service my brother did not want.  She said, "Well, maybe things happen for a reason," meaning the opportunity for a funeral happened so I could mourn my brother.  I guess. 

Now, as I think about the scene at church, I imagine there will be additional offers of unsolicitated advice.  I can't find much fault - I suffer from the "fix it" gene as well.  But, honestly, there's not much you can say in the face of grief - especially in the face of a death as unexpected as my brother's.  I suppose "I'm sorry for your loss" seems too small in the face of this, so you offer suggestions.

So far, the most meaningful thing to me have been hugs.  That warm physical contact reminds me that I am not a ghost.  I have not, in fact, followed my brother into that dark valley from which no one may return.

Grief Journal, 3/04

I lost my brother this past Wednesday. He died at 3:45 in the afternoon. It was his firm desire not to have a funeral or memorial service. He didn't even want an obit.

It's possible he'd object to my publicly sharing my grief. I'll just avoid using his name (though long-time readers of this blog already know it), and hope he won't mind terribly.

Coincidentally, Wednesday, March 1 was Ash Wednesday. When we are liturgically reminded of the transient nature of life: "Remember, O Child of God, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Having a close loved one die is another powerful reminder of this.

I find myself meditating on the things I can never do again - share books & music, for example. I find myself thinking of practical concerns - he was my emergency contact, and the beneficiary of my life insurance policy.

I am keeping a written journal, but it's my intention to share what I've written in this space.

---

March 3, 4:00 pm

I bought a candle for my brother.
I am his brother
and now he's gone.
The wind carries his ashes away.
He was my brother
and now he's gone.

March 3, 5:30 pm

My brother died on Ash Wednesday, two days ago, at a quarter to four in the afternoon.
I am made a ghost by his passing -
walking the Shadowlands with him.
One day, my forehead may be marked with his ashes.
From dust we come,
to dust we return.

Note: regarding being marked with my brother's ashes.  The ashes used for the Ash Wednesday service come from the palm branches used for Palm Sunday earlier in the year.  I was told, by someone I trust, that the branches are burned in a funeral home creamatorium.  So, there's no way to be certain that the ashes of the recently deceased are not mixed in with the palm branch ashes. Since my brother is being creamated somewhere in the Texas Foothills, this is no more than a poetic conceit.

March 4, 6:00 am

I've been crying in my sleep; my brother is gone.

Idée d'jour

Cats seem to go on the principle that it never does any harm to ask for what you want. – Joseph Wood Krutch

Seems we could have the same attitude regarding prayer. Of course, it's best not to expect the answer to always be "yes", or the results to be immediate. Prayer isn't a magic incantation.

Idée d'jour

It is the ability to take a joke, not make one, that proves you have a sense of humor. - Max Eastman Ergo: President-Elect Blowhard has no sense of humor

All Ye Need Know ....

I look at myself in the first grade and I look at myself now, I'm basically the same. The temperament is not that different. -Donald Trump, Republican nominee for the US president (b. 14 Jun 1946) Reference: 1, 2

Psalm 23

The Gun is my protector; I shall not want.
It lays waste to my enemy,
makes him lay down in bloody fields.
It troubles the waters.
It restores my manhood;
it proves I am right,
and none deny me for fear of its wrath.

Yes, my enemies shall know the valley
the valley of the shadow of death;
for I am the angel of death.
I shall fear no evil;
for I carry my Gun always,
its trigger and hammer are with me always.

I prepare a table before my enemies,
I anoint my head with oil;
my goblet overflows with no mercy.

Surely no one will follow me;
goodness and mercy shall give me wide passage;
and I will sleep with my Gun forever.

As translated by the NRA

Idée d’jour

Historians tell the story of the past, novelists the story of the present.
– Edmond de Goncourt, writer, critic, and publisher (26 May 1822-1896)

Idée d’jour

I felt odd: overtired, overwrought, unpleasantly like my brain had been removed and my skull stuffed with something like microwaved aluminum foil, dinted, charred and shorting with sparks.
Helen Macdonald, H Is For Hawk,Chapt. 1, pg 3

Idée d’jour

We carry the lives we've imagined as we carry the lives we have, and sometimes a reckoning comes of all the lives we have lost.

... Sometimes a reckoning comes of all the lives we have lost, and sometimes we take it upon ourselves to burn them to ashes.
Helen Macdonald, H Is For Hawk, pg. 129-130

How We Tell Our Stories

1. It's the way we tell our stories that tends to set our fate
2. We speak of heroes and villains
3. We speak of winners and losers
4. How we tell the story forms the mask we will wear
5. The word on our lips
6. The breath exhaled
7. The air taken in
8. All part of the mysterious stew
9. It's the way we tell our story, the length of each line - longer than the palmist's reckoning
10. We speak of our role, but
11. We are always the hero of our own saga
12. We speak of winning and losing,
13. But each new breath is a victory
14. How we decorate the hours,
15. How we honor the day,
16. How we dream the night
17. How we limn the path determines where we go
18. It's how we tell our stories that tends to set our fate

Meet Dr. Black

You drop your silver needle
into the canyon of my heart
You sleep the sleep of reason
you dress yourself in dark

You never left the ceremony
you never found your bliss
You sleep the sleep of reason
And forget what you have missed

Sha la la la la

There's an owl outside your window
And he plays an eldritch drum
Your nightmare dreams of heaven
And things you've left undone

There's an owl upon the bed stand
She wears Minerva's crown
Your nightmare dreams of heaven
And all the sh*t gone down

Sha la la la la (shoop, shoop)

Dr Black & Lady Midnight –
You think they know the score?
They're at the end of Boogie Street
But they don't live there any more.

You've your golden record
 And I've got my golden voice
Dr. Black is in his wheelhouse
And it seems you have no choice

You say the bed's gone crazy
And the bats have gone absurd
Dr Black is in his wheelhouse
But he never says a word.

Sha la la la la

You kneel before the altar
Where streams of honey flow
You've sacrificed your innocence
For things you'll never know

When you walked upon the water
Well, it was understood
You'd sacrifice your innocence
And enter the dark wood

Sha la la la la (shoop shoop)

Dr Black & Lady Midnight,
They seem to know the score –
They go whistling past the graveyard
But they don't work there anymore

It's the way we tell our stories
That tends to set our fate
You wander through the labyrinth
In lazy figure eights

I know your heart is spinning
Dr Black has got the cure
He'll lead you through the labyrinth
Where nothing's known for sure

Sha la la la la

You say you were a miner
There’s no diamonds in your mine
You’ve gathered all the laurels
The judges said were mine

And once you were a hunchback
Beneath your bed of snow
You gathered all the laurels
Down where the asphalt grows

Sha la la la la (shoop shoop)

Dr Black & Lady Midnight
They surely know the score
Down at the end of Boogie Street
It don't matter any more

You took the first position
in the mariotte parade
With your mistress and her lover
and her lovely chamber maid

Your father dreams in heaven
your mother's doing well
with your lover and your mistress
and the hermit in her cell

Sha la la la la

I'm the perfect imitation
of the man I'm meant to be
So I dance upon these stages
Believing I am free.

In the shadows of the evening
Where the saints are dressed in chains
You dance upon your stages
For the little that remains

Sha la la la la (shoop shoop)

Dr. Black & Lady Midnight
May want to know the score
Down at the end of Boogie Street
It don't matter any more

The structure of your innocence
It ain't too hard to see
as I kneel before you baby
and your fearless symmetry

Cause if I ever met you
I didn't catch your name
but I kneel before you baby
and I love you just the same

Sha la la la la

You drop a diamond needle
In the blackness of my heart
You sleep the sleep of reason
and you dress yourself in sparks

You never left the ceremony
You never found your bliss
You sleep the sleep of reason
And forget what you have missed

Sha la la la la (shoop shoop)

Dr Black & Lady Midnight
Can never know the score
Down at the end of Bookie Street
They don't live there anymore

Dr Black & Lady Midnight
They've got a place to dwell
Down at the end of Boogie Street
At the Mystery Motel

---

This pastiche of Leonard Cohen was inspired by a dream recounted in passing by Yosev Omed.  All he could remember was a new LP by L. Cohen titled Sleep the Sleep; "Meet Dr. Black" was the opening track for side two.

Idée d’jour

For one human being to love another...the work for which all other work is but preparation.
Rainer Maria Rilke

Idée d‘jour

There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.
– Carson McCullers

Iowa

Here's hoping that winning Iowa will do Cruz as much good as it did Santorum four years ago.

Idée d’jour

Love, friendship, respect, do not unite people as much as a common hatred for something.
– Anton Chekhov

Idée d’jour

When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people.
– Abraham Joshua Heschel, rabbi and professor (11 Jan 1907-1972)

Christmas Is Coming

Christmas is coming with the tread of a silver leaf;
Christmas is coming
like the whisper of a white cloud.
The fog of Christmas morning
tastes so sweet
and everywhere you can hear
the jingles of children's smiles.
I do believe Christmas is coming
'cause everybody's singing the old songs
under yellow street lights.
The sky is a fine blue package
that won't be opened until Christmas Day.
Suddenly, the streets are filled with friends
and all the familiar sights:
blinking red & green faces
and a mongrel dog eating treats.
Yes, Christmas must be coming.
I believe Christmas is coming
with the tread of a silver leaf;
Christmas is coming
like the whisper of a cloud.
The fog of Christmas morning tastes so sweet
and everywhere you can hear
the jingle of children's smiles.

Let us strike for Christmas on earth!

Revised from 22.XII.1979

Idée d’jour

I would like to paint the way a bird sings.
– Claude Monet

Idée d’jour

The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.
– Muriel Rukeyser

Knee Deep in Houston

I got your message late last night
but I was feeling tight
so I didn't hit the road
til break of day.
You say you're missing me
no longer need to be free
and you're sorry now
you sent me away.

Now I'm knee-deep in Houston
and I sure could use a friend

The asphalt is in flood
and the sky's the shade of mud
I keep pressing on
in hopes to make the time.
I remember all too well
but it's much too sad to tell
when I was yours
and I thought that you were mine.

Now I'm knee-deep in Houston
and I sure could use a friend.

I'd stare all night up at that rounded ceiling
and think of things and how they might have been
Then my head & my heart go a'reeling
And I know I'll never see my home again.

Good night, Irene, Goodnight
Goodbye to the bayou
With no steady job,
I can barely make the rent
So long to mid-night jazz,
farewell to all the lads
looks like I'll have
to hit the road again.

Now I'm knee-deep in Houston
and I sure could use a friend.
Yes, I'm knee-deep in Houston,
and I surely need a friend.
Knee-deep in Houston . . .
hey, bud, can you spare a dime?

Light One Candle

It's been dark days for the first week Advent, which seems almost appropriate.

Soon it will be the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah, celebrated in the video below. The miracle of the oil is another reminder of how the light can overcome the darkness.

Let us consider how each of us may be a candle in these dark days. A candle of love. A candle of acceptance. A candle of hope. A candle of peace. A candle of compassion. A candle of forgiveness. A candle that encompasses all, even those who cannot see it.

Idée d’jour

Let one not deceive another nor despise any person whatever.... In anger or ill will let one not wish any harm to another.
– Buddha

Idée d’jour

We haven't yet learned how to stay human when assembled in masses.
– Lewis Thomas, physician and author (25 Nov 1913-1993)

My First Advent

My first Advent was in 1965. I was ten years old.

I was introduced to the Episcopal Church via Vacation Bible School at St. Phillip's, Ardmore. My dad had remarried that summer; his wife, Wanda, had been introduced to the Episcopal church through my Aunt Nelle, who had been introduced by her second husband, Jewel, a cradle Episcopalian.

I immediately fell in love with the music. Once dad and Wanda settled down, we sought a church, and soon chose St. John’s, on Brooklyn Avenue in Oklahoma City. St. John’s was high church by the standards of the day, but I felt right at home kneeling, genuflecting, and making the sign of the cross. I somehow intuitively knew that prayer was meant to be a full-body experience.

I had grown up in the Methodist church, which did not observe Advent at that time. All I knew of Christmas was a small tree in the corner with brightly wrapped packages beneath.

My dad bought an Advent calendar, which was hung near the side kitchen door. Being the youngest, I was given the task of opening the small doors each day. The mystery of what lay hidden behind each numbered door made the weeks prior to Christmas something more than a guessing game centered on assorted packages.

I didn’t know the word liturgy then, but this simple discipline of folding open a little paper door and revealing a small picture gave the days a shape and meaning. The anticipation of that revelation became tied to the anticipation for Christmas. One small mystery became a larger mystery.

I don’t remember any of the presents I received that year, nor any of the gifts I gave. But the gift of mystery, mystery given form in a simple calendar, is a gift I have carried for a lifetime.

---

Written by request, for inclusion in a church booklet

Idée d’jour

If you want a symbolic gesture, don't burn the flag, wash it.
– Norman Thomas, socialist and social reformer (20 Nov 1884-1968)

Jeb! Kills Hitler!

“Hell, yeah, I'd kill Hitler!” says Jeb! Although he admits this thought experiment could have unintentional consequences, he's sure it's the right thing to do. I wonder if this nominally Roman Catholic anti-abortion activist has really thought it through.

The obvious implication is you're willing to kill any baby who might grow up to be a notorious mass murderer. Why stop with Adolf? How 'bout Charlie Manson? Or Ted Bundy? Or Jeb's! brother? His brother's notorious VP?

Maybe we could kill all babies born to impoverished mothers who have divorced and remarried a brute.

Who gets to choose?

One last thought: Why is it no one considers killing Mussolini as a baby?

Purr Envy

Sometimes
I envy my kitty's purr —
it rumbles & thrums
through her body
like rolling thunder.

---

See the Scientific American article on Why Cats Purr. It echoes a hypothesis I've had – that purring is a sort of meditation cats use, a self-calming in stressful situations. It is, indeed, a sound of contentment; so, when stressed, the cat strives to induce contentment by purring.

Idée d’jour

Lives based on having are less free than lives based either on doing or on being.
– William James

Idée d’jour

Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.
– Twyla Tharp

Idée d’jour

Beauty is in the heart of the beholder.
– Al Bernstein

Idée d’jour

All it takes is one good person to restore hope!
– Pope Francis (via Mutts)

Idée d’jour

We seem to think that we can substitute an irreplaceable and irretrievable beauty for something which we have created ourselves
Pope Francis (see today's Mutts)

Idée d’jour

Nature is filled with words of love, but how can we listen to them amid constant noise?
– Pope Francis (via Mutts)

Idée d’jour

Rather than a problem to be solved, the world is a joyful mystery to be contemplated with gladness and praise
– Pope Francis (via today's Mutts Cartoon)

Idée d’jour

Maybe everything we've ever done has been for love.
– Byron Katie

Idée d’jour

Sixty minutes of thinking of any kind is bound to lead to confusion and unhappiness.
— James Thurber

Buddha couldn't've said it better!

Idée d’jour

A straw vote only shows which way the hot air blows.
– O. Henry, short-story writer (11 Sep 1862-1910)

I think this also applies to recent polls which suggest a certain blow-hard is trending ever upward.

Recipient of Honored Giveaway

I was given this blanket by the Honored Veteran at the Oakerhater Honor Dance, Sat, Sept 7.

A photo posted by James Collins (@jacsongs) on Sep 7, 2015 at 7:51am PDT

I have attended the annual David Pendleton Oakerhater Honor dance for over a decade. This dance takes place at the Whirlwind Mission in Watonga, OK. This is the only Honor Dance which includes a Christian Eucharist (communion). I have been music leader for most of those years, and have lead music for the Vacation Bible School our church sponsors.

I had a neat experience at the Honor Dance. One of the special dances was for the Honored Veteran. His name is John - served in the Airborne with my acquaintance Malcolm Whitebird (he recognizes me, but doesn't know my name). Those honored are expected to do a giveaway. I helped unload their van - boxes and plastic crates filled with blankets and shawls. Once all was set up, my friends Kent and Blue stood beside Malcolm and John.

They had given a shawl to the bishop's wife and several blankets out. They had a few left. It seemed they were conferring on who else should receive a blanket. Malcolm was talking with Kent and Blue; I could see his hand move as if strumming a guitar. Seconds later, my name was called.

The Rocky Horror Ritual

I.

"Lips! Lips! Lips!"

This cry is heard from New York City to San Francisco to Houston, like a call to arms. In Brooklyn, people have encircled a city block, wearing costumes which rival the transvestites in Central Park. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, a plate glass window was broken because the movie theater did not start the show on time.  Some people have seen this movie a hundred times or more.  What is this movie which has inspired cult-like fanatacism?

It is The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a film based on a stage musical which originated in England, then was successful Off-Broadway, but was a commercial failure as a movie when it was released in 1972.  But a mere seven years later, there were posters, t-shirts, a soundtrack album on picture disc. Certainly, with such a following, this movie qualifies as a phnomenon.

The primary enjoyment of the movie appears to be the experience of losing your inhibitions in a crowd.  People come dressed as various characters from the movie, their costumes and make-up ranging from the very poor to the very convincing.  They reply to comments made by the characters, insult them, and give them stage directions.  As a friend of mine has said, seeing Rocky Horror is like going to a rock concert.

In brief, the movie is about Brad and Janet, two ultra-average college kids who get engaged after two of their friends get married.  They decide to tell their good news to their science professor, Dr. Everet Scott.  Unfortunately, on the way they have a flat tire on a deserted country road.  Because their spare tire is "badly in need of air," they are forced to walk to that castle a mile back on the road.

At the castle, they meet Riff Raff, a crazed hunch-back servant, his sister Magenta, and a warped Dr. Frankenstein-like scientist named Dr. Frank N. Furter.  Frank, in full make up, corset, and stockings, ignores Brad and Janet's pleas to let them use his telephone, but he does invite them to his lab to see his muscle-bound creation, Rocky.  From the moment of Rocky's creation it's clear that Dr. Furter takes joy in creation for reasons beyond the fact that he is its creator — there's an obvious sexual interest. Not only is it implied that he has sex with Rocky, he explicitly has sex with Brad and Janet — in that order.  And all three in one night.

But Frank does not go unpunished.  It seems that he and his servants are from the plant Transylvania in the gallaxy of Transexual.  And Riff Raff has been given orders to leave earth.  In so doing, he kills the doctor because his life-style's been "too extreme," and leaves Brad and Janet crawling helplessly, like insects, on the planet's face.

Lost in my brief synopsis of the movie are the numerous allusions to classic horror movies, especially Frankstein and King Kong. In the end scene, Magenta bears a marked resemblance to Elsa Lancaster as the Bride of Frankenstein.  After Frank has been killed, Rocky climbs to the top of the RKO radio tower with his master's limp body under his arm (RKO is the studio which released King Kong).

Also lost are the crowd's reactions.  In one scene, Riff Raff is drinking wine from a bottle while holding a full wine glass in his other hand. "Drop it," the crowd shouts; and seconds later, he drops the wine bottle.  After Janet has had sex with Frank N. Furter, she asks, "O Brad, how could I have done this to you?" To which many in the crowd reply, "It was easy!" And someone else says, "No, it wasn't – she still has panty hose on!"  In another scene Frank sings, "What ever happened to Fay Wray?" and the crowd answers, "She went ape-shit!"

The movie opens with a wedding, and many in the audience throw rice.  Later, when Dr. Furter marries Rocky, they throw rice again.  During a scene where it is raining, people squirt water pistols.  There's a gospel-styled song titled "There's A Light" during which people hold up lighters, matches, and lit candles.  In another scene, the doctor proposes a toast - so people throw slices of toast.  And when he sings, "Cards for sorrow, cards for pain," the air is filled with tossed playing cards.

These actions are ritual, repeated at every showing of this movie.  Often I have heard, while standing on line, "O dear, I forgot the rice.  Anybody got some extra rice?" or "Anybody got an extra book of matches?" And once you are familiar with the plot and all the allusions in the movie, you surely go to this movie just to be part of the ritual.

Perhaps the meaning of the ritual can be found in the movie. The character for whom the most sympathy is Frank N. Furter.  It certainly isn't Brad and Janet, the logical choices, since they're described by the audience as Asshole and Whore from the moment of their introduction.  Frank N. Furter, who is portrayed by the British actor Tim Curry, is the strongest and most charismatic character on the screen. His introduction, in the titles, is greeted by applause.  His entrance into the film is preceded by a rhythm guitar, with which the audience claps. Clearly, he is the character with whom the Me Generation of the 1970s identifies.

And yet, Frank is killed — punished for his life of extreme debauchery. It would seem the moral of the movie is "The wages of sin are death." But the Pepsi Generation comes to the movie, time and again, to vicariously engage in a wild sex orgy.  In this sense, the movie is a safety valve where those who are repressed in this SEX-obsessed era can release their libidinal steam.

II.

“I'm doing exactly what I want to . . . That's what Rocky Horror is all about.” – Bostonian woman.

— No, we don't have to worry much about violence. We never have to call the police, 'cause there's a couple of guys here who break up fights and escort people out of the theater.

In order to get to the Satellite Theaters in Norman, Oklahoma, you must go up two flights of red-carpeted stairs.   The lobby is small, slightly larger than two prison cells.  And, if you're lucky, and arrive at the right time, you meet the manager, who is the owner's daughter-in-law.  Whe is a very handsome young woman, possibly in her late 20s or early 30s.  When I met her, she was wearing a pastel red pant suit and a brilliant diamond ring.  She was very personable and forthright in answering my questions.

— I'm afraid I can't tell you how much we pay for the rental on the film, how much we make on it, or how much we spend on cleaning. [The owner] doesn't give out that information on any of the films.  Sorry.

— I'm not interested in actual figures; I'd just like a comparison between this and your other shows.  For instance: do you spend more on cleaning for this show?

— Well, I can tell you this: we do spend more to clean up for this show that for the others. He's here most of Saturday and Sunday morning cleaning.  But the crowd isn't all that bad, y'know.  We get a lot of drunks, of course.  And we don't like people drinking beer, smoking marijuana and cigarettes, or lighting those lighters, but .... how can you stop them?
 You know, this one time this guy brought in an aerosal spray can and sat in the front row.  Well, he lit his lighter in front of that can and the flame shot out past those curtains at the side of the screen.  One of the guys escorted him out.  You know, that could've really scared people - if the curtains caught on fire.
 Another time, this guy hit his girl friend and we had to take him out of the theater.  He really hurt her.  But he was real apologetic later; he was drunk, y'know, and he just ... he just got carried away.  Another time, a couple of guys came to blows, but we got 'em out without any problems.. And those incidents are real rare.  Most of the time, they're pretty cool – I guess 'cause they're a college crowd. I've not been there, but I've heard they get really wild at the May, where they show it in the City (OKC).

— So the crowd isn't destructive?

— Not at all.

— Have you ever had a Standing Room Only crowd?

— Not as far as I know.  The theater can seat 400 people, and I think we haven't had more than 250 for Rocky Horror. but if you looked in that theater now [at the 6:30 showing of The Warriors], there wouldn't be that many people in there.

— Do you know why the owner chose to show the film so late at night?

— Well, you know that Twentieth Century Fox [the distributer of Rocky Horror] approached him, he didn't go to them. He didn't know anything about the film until they approached him. They told him a little about it, and how it was a good money-maker. And they suggested he show it late at night.  It really is a late-night film.  You know, the Boomer Theater showed Rocky Horror here in 1976, earlier in the evening, and it bombed. If we showed it daily and for the matineés, I think we'd start loosing money on it. People would get bored with it.  But, showing it every week-end, we get a steady revenue from it.  We wouldn't show it otherwise.

Getting Rocky Horror fanatics to talk about the film is not difficult.  Especially if you sound like you're attacking it.  M.K. Jackson, who is currently a graduate student working in the Bizzell Library, very kindly agreed to speak with me on short notice.  She has seen the movie at least a dozen times.

— Although, she says, I stopped counting at six.  I've seen it in Houston, Kansas, Colorado, Tulsa, and Norman.  The crowds in Houston and Kansas are better than the one here in Norman. There, they cooperate; they all shout the same thing at the right time – between lines of dialogue. That way, you can hear what's going on in the movie.  I don't really like the crowd here in Norman: they shout different things at different times, and it's just noise.

— Well, if it's so bad here, why continue seeing it?

— Because it's fun.  There's absolutely nothing like it.  And it's exciting.

— Something that's interested me: people get so involved in the film – throwing things, wearing costumes, and all of that. Why don't even small groups of people get involved during the orgy scene.

— What you don't understand, James, is this film isn't about sex.  It's a film about decadence, which involves more than sex.  Decadence is self-centered.  And although it's self-destructive – as is the case with Frank N. Furter, and that great decadent, Oscar Wilde – there's also a sense of self-preservation, of how much you can get away with. And the sort of thing you're talking about is just too much.

— Why do you think Rocky Horror is so popular?

— It's a release.  And it's a cult:  with all the rituals, it really is like going to church every Friday or Saturday night.  And I think it fills a need for the ritual which is lacking in America today.

III. Son of Rocky Horror

“Each man must create his own system or else he is slave to another man's” – William Blake

Objectivity is a fiction.  "Truth in journalism" implies an I, and that pronoun proliferates like telephone poles on a country road.  The 1970s were the "Me Decade", as Tom Wolfe wrote.

The 70s were the denouement of a neo-Romantic era which began in the 1960s, between the death of Robert Frost and President Kennedy.  Just as Romanticism in France was heralded by the first French Revolution, so was America's by campus revolts during President Johnson's terms of office. And as the activism of France's Romanticism ended with Napoleon's deposition and the beginning of a more rigid government, so did America's activism end with the shock of "four dead in Ohio."

After these ages of activism ended, an age of Romanticism as literary and cultural philosophy began.  Now the self, as in "self help" is emphasized. The letter "I" is holy.  The accent is on youth, for Romanticism is the teenage years gone wild.  It's the "Pepsi Generation."

I believe Rocky Horror is a fable for the Romanticism of the 1970s.  Granted, this movies is about decadence, as one of the songs says, to "give yourself over to absolute pleasure." But, my dear friend, decadence is just Romanticism in drag.

The advertisements for this movie read: "He's the hero!  That's right, he's the real hero!" But the question is, who is the hero?  It would seem to be Dr. Frank N. Furter, for this is the character whom audiences applaud and cheer throughout the movie. Yet, in the end he is killed, punished for being the true Existentialist Man who lives by no morals but his own.  But this is not unusual.  Dorian Gray dies in the end, after all.  The tragic Romantic hero is an enduring trope.  We cheer these heroes, even though their deaths are a form of moral defeat.

Who would not like to create their perfect mate? No doubt, we envy Dr. Furter's success in that pursuit.  But we also cheer him because we wish we could share his loose morals.  But most of us have enough sense of self-preserevation to realise that such extremism is self-destructive.  Although we may identify with the Doctor, we are really just a bunch of Brads and Janets being vicariously debauched for ninety-two minutes.  Every Friday and Saturday night, we go to this Church of Decadence, barely tasting the communion.

Why?  Listen:

People have an innate need to believe in something, be it Krishna, God, the Flying Spagetti Monster, or the Cosmic Doughnut.  And those who have rejected both Christian mythology and the myths of foriegn cultures are placed in the lonely position of creating, in effect, their own religion.  Without at least one other person believing as you do, and observing your rituals, it's hard to convince yourself that your religion is viable or true.  So we run to the religion of the Self: self-help, self-hypnosis, regression therapy,or Werner Erhert's pseudo-existentialist EST.  Or .... we become card-carying members of the Rocky Horror cult.

I have already described many of the rituals involved in this cult, but what (if any) beliefs do its adherents have in common?  Obviously, all the hard core fanatics believe this movie is great; so great, in fact, that it is worth spending three dollars a shot for as many as forty-three to one hundred visits.  Also, sexual licentiousness is OK.  Although the audience calls Janet a "Whore", I doubt there are very many single virgins in the audience.  The term is used ironically: it is as if to say: "My parents would think you're a whore, but you're all right in my book."

* * *

I originally wrote this essay in March of 1979, at which time I predicted enthusiasm for the movie would soon end.  I'm now a 60 year-old geezer writing about this 43 year-old movie.  Surprisingly, it's still showing in many markets with the same rituals I observed all those years ago.  Romanticism may be dead, but the longing for connection and ritual is not. Nor is the temptation to give yourself over to absolute pleasure.

idée d’jour

Just ask, just ask! says the dew, and rolls away.
— Issa

Idée d’jour

Ah! what a divine religion might be found out if charity were really made the principle of it instead of faith.
– Percy Bysshe Shelley, poet (4 Aug 1792-1822)

20.VI.15

Raking fresh mown grass
contemplating
things best left undone

Idée d’jour

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
— Rumi

The Way of Jazz

The Jazz you can play
isn't the real Jazz.
The Jazz you can sing
isn't the real Jazz.

Horn & Ivory
begin in No-Jazz:
Jazz is the mother
of the American Songbook.

Jazz is empty,
used, but not used up.
Deep, yes ancestral
to the American Songbook.

Horn & Ivory aren't humane.
To them the American Songbook
is a straw dog.

Wise souls aren't humane.
To them Fats & Miles
are straw dogs.

Horn & Ivory
act as a bellows:

Empty yet structured,
they move, inexhaustibly giving.

Horn will last,
Ivroy will endure.
How can they last so long?
They don't exist for themselves
and so can go on and on.

True swing
is like water.
Water's good
for everything.
It goes right
to the low loathsome places
and so finds a way.

Once upon a time
people who knew Jazz
were subtle, spiritual, mysterious, penetrating
unfathomable.

To follow Jazz
is not to need fulfillment.
Unfulfilled, one may live on
needing no renewal.

---

Selections from Ursala K. Le Guin's rendering of the Tao, substituting words as follows:
Jazz: Name, Way
Horn: Heaven
Ivory: Earth
American Songbook: 10,000 things
Fats & Miles: the hundred families
Swing: goodness

Guin, Ursula K. Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching : A Book about the Way and the Power of the Way. United States: Shambhala Publications, Incorporated, 2009. 2-24. Print. 

Dream Café

I got the bum's rush from the Dream Café.

OK, I guess that deserves some explanation.
Woke from the edge of a dream around 2 a.m.:
a modest indoor café – nice wooden tables,
no table cloths.  I was alone at a table with four chairs.
I was writing.
I think I was writing poetry.

The waiter was familiar. The café was not.
There were several pages around me.
No plates, no service ware, not even a cup of joe;
just sheets of paper, one beneath my right hand,
the rest fanned out in a small arc just above.
I was bent over, consumed in my writing.

I think I was alone in the café.
The tables were good quality wood,
not laminate or Formica.
But – no table cloths, no candles.
I'd guess it was a moderately-priced café.

This dream is almost two-days old,
and the path back is drenched in fog.
The memories are indistinct, and
intermingling with my quotidian road.

The waiter was familiar.
He sheepishly approached me:
“I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave
if you're not going to buy anything.”

That's when I woke up.
With dream fragments
to go.

Poetry Month Scouting Wrap Up

These two questions come from a survey sent by the Found Poetry editors:

1. What did you like best about the project? What parts came easy to you?
   I appreciated the challenge of the prompts; some were more challenging than others (a couple using websites as resources were especially frustrating).  But I felt a sense of accomplishment in over coming these challenges.  Any prompt that asked the poet to use the source material as "word banks" were the easiest.
   Having a goal of completing at least half the prompts (15 out of 30) was freeing; I felt very successful in completing 28 out of 30.
2. What did you like least about the project? What parts were difficult for you?
   I remember three websites that were challenging for me: the one for Haiku Anew, the erasure tool for Redacted, and the diastic tool for Spelling B.  I'll admit some of that challenge was likely due to my own time limitations, and concurrent impatience. I knew the "Out and About" prompts would be challenging – and the editors warned us these prompts would challenge our comfort zones.  As it turned out, I completed all but two of those "Out and About" prompts (the two which required the highest level of interaction with the public). 

I chose to take on this project with two goals: to flex my poetry muscles, and to generate more content for my blog.  The prompts have forced me to think of poetry in new ways (e.g., it doesn't necessarily have to tell a coherent story), and have given me some ideas for how to break writer's block in the future.  Since I was essentially writing a poem a day, I had to accept that many of these poems would be mediocre at best - some might not even qualify as poems. It was a good way to enforce the William Stafford method of writing a poem a day - I lowered my standards, of necessity.

As for generating content, I've had more posts this month than in some time, through writing about the process of responding to the prompts.  The links to the PoMoSco site will remain available to the general public through the end of May; after that point, I'll decide which poems to repost on this blog.  Flexing those muscles may inspire me to set myself a modest goal of writing at least one poem a week (or month).

I especially enjoyed the prompts which directed the poet to use text(s) as a word bank. I tend to get stuck on images and words, and this was a good way to break out of that habit.

Short Takes: PoMoSco Update

C1 2 B1 was in response to the Orders Up prompt.  I went to Jeff's County Cafe on Classen, a greasy spoon I go to about once a month.  The title comes from what I typically order for breakfast.

At the Comic Com was written in response to the All Ears prompt. The directions involved going to a public space and copying down as many snippets of conversation as possible, then converting that to a poem.  I picked up a free paper at Jeff's and saw there was a small comic con in town on the same day, and decided to go. One thing that's unique about this poem is that it has embedded PSAs; I'm very pleased the editors let them stand.

A Monk and His Book was drawn from Mark Twain's first book, The Innocents Abroad or The New Pilgrim’s Progress; the word bank was derived by phone number, as described in the Dialed In prompt.

Blue Earth People was derived from a page from Desert Notes by Barry Lopez.  The Click Trick prompt is an erasure variant using Photoshop (or equivalent) to obscure unwanted words.  The resulting poem makes Lopez sound like a cranky misanthropic anthropologist.

Family is a Gift forced me to get some exercise and fresh air by walking in random directions around my neighborhood.  I wrote down as many words as possible on this "Chance Walk".  I remindend myself that many cars names can serve dual purpose as nouns or verbs (e.g., dart). The poem has an embedded ad for the burger joint down the street from my house (technically, a link to its Twitter feed).  The title comes from a sign on the door of an abandoned house.

The As Advertised prompt challenged the poet to use notices on a community bulletin board as word banks.  As it turned out, my favorite bookshop (the only locally-owned new bookshop I'm aware of) didn't have many notices up.  Their bulletin board is in a small entry way, so I decided it would be simplest to read the notices into an electronic device (in this case, a Samsung Tab).  The device "misheard" serveral words (e.g., "yoda" for "yoga" and "sister" for "Sedaris"); I chose to preserve these "mondregreens" for this Earth Day poem.

Listening to Shame was derived from Krista Tippett's On Being interview with Brené Brown.  This was in response to the Quiet on Set prompt; my reading of the directions caused me to keep many phrases intact. I received a positive response to one of those phrases; it's not a verbatim quote (which would've been breaking the rules), but it's darn close.

Another poem which seems very beholden to its source material is Rise Up Young Heart, which comes from a meditation by Bp. Steven Charleston. He graciously granted me limited permission to re-purpose his writing.  I haven't decided whether to reprint it here; it seems at best an abridged version of his original work. This was done in response to the Cut It Out prompt, where the poet literally cut out the unwanted words and phrases with an exacto knife. I thought the scan of the document would be more interesting if I put a picture behind the page.

Hard Without Glasses was in response to the Best Laid Plan prompt. The text comes from “The Alcoholic Veteran with the Washboard Cranium”, a remembrance by Henry Miller.  Not sure this is entirely successful, but it was worthy experiment.

Beautiful Renewal is the last poem written in response to one of the official prompts. Since I was going to miss two prompts, I decided to revisit one of the prompts I'd already completed (one of the Badge Masters did the same thing). I simply revisited Substitute Texter, since my previous attempt had been relatively successful.  The substitutions for this poem were chosen at random from words left over from the Cut It Out prompt; inspired by the work of P.F. Anderson, I decided to construct this as a pantoum.

I only had to create one more "found poem" to have written 30 poems in 30 days, so I set my own challenge, which appears immediately below (Psalm 4: Lord of the Exploding Universe).  The result is sort of a cross between the Substitute Texter and Interloper prompts, since I exchanged some words from the sermon for words in the psalm.

Psalm 4: Lord of the Exploding Universe

Answer me when I call
Lord of the exploding universe.
My memories live in my body.
You set me free when I was in distress,
for I carry that exploding day in my body.
Be gracious to me now and hear my prayer.

How long, O mortals will you defame my honor:
All is coming apart in this Age of Terror
how long will you love what is worthless and seek after lies?
All is coming apart, all is exploding

Know this, that the Lord has chosen,
has chosen those who are fearful,
has chosen those who are righteous:
I struggle to live with righteousness
but the Lord hears me when I call.

How well we remember.
Will we remember what it means?

Stand in awe; we live in the shadow,
in the shadow of the April 19 Bomb:
commune with your own memories.
My memories dwell in my body.

Offer the sacrifices that are appointed:
The past may be smoke, but it can return in an instant.
Put your trust in the Lord of the expanding universe.
This building of brick has expanded by a foot;
Can our hearts expand as well?

There are many who say,
You weren't there, but you were present
in the shadow of the April Bomb.
Lift up the light of your face on us O Lord.
O Lord of the exploding universe.

But you have put gladness in my heart:
bringing order out of chaos.
The world has shifted.
They may revel in the madness
of mutually assured destruction.
I put my trust in you, O Lord.

The world has shifted, but
I lie down in peace and sleep comes at once:
For O Lord , it is you only
who make memories dwell in my body.

Found poem; Sources:
“Psalm 4.” A New Zealand Prayer Book = He Karakia Mihinare O Aotearoa: The Anglican Church in Aotearoa, New Zealand, and Polynesia. San Francisco: HarperSan Francisco, 1997. 200. Print.

Back, Rt Rev George. “On the 20^th Anniversary of April 19, 1995.” St. John's Episcopal Church, Oklahoma City. 19 Apr. 2015. Sermon.

---

I've completed 28 prompts for the Poetry Scout Month Project; looks like I won't make the last two. So, to have a full 30 poems for the month of April, I've done a repeat of one challenge (see Beautiful Renewal), and created a challenge of my own. This explores the communication between a psalm and a sermon delivered on the same day the psalm was read.

The Rolling Stone Series

Two poems for the Poetry Scout Month project used the April 23rd issue of Rolling Stone as a resource: Down the Rabbit Hole and A Terrifying Band for Our Children When You Look Back. A friend gave me a subscription to Rolling Stone (prior to the campus rape hub-bub), and this project gave me a chance to put a back issue to good use.

“Down the Rabbit Hole” was in response to the Pinch an Inch prompt.  The instructions direct you to select a column inch anywhere on the x-axis of the page.  This was interesting to do with a magazine, since all the magazines I have handy (Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, and Outdoor Photographer) are divided into three columns of  ~inch each per page.  So, all I had to do was decide what article to use, and which of the three pre-determined column inches to select. I thought a music review would be the most likely to have “poetic language”, so I selected the lead review, which was in the far right-hand column.  Just to make things interesting, I selected two more reviews on the opposite side of the page - both also in the far-right hand column. The poem takes its title from the third of these reviews.

“A Terrfying Band” was in response to the Picture It prompt.  I had a hard time groking the instructions for this badge, until I reviewed what other poets had done in response.  I finally decided the easiest method was to simply doodle on the page and black out any words that might mislead the reader.  The result still did not reflect my intent, so I typed out the version of the poem I intended.  The source text was an interview with Peter Townsend.  He's been somewhat on my mind, as I've been obsessively wood-shedding “Pinball Wizard” whenever I wasn't working on this project.

Their Testimony

Report on my progress through the Poetry Month Scout Badges continues.  “Their Testimony” was written in response to the “Interloper” prompt. The goal was to go to a public speech (preferrably something specialized and unfamiliar to the writer). I fudged a bit by taking notes at my church – during the sermon and during the presentation for adult education.  Both presentations were related to the 20th anniversary of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on April 19.

Based on the editor's response to others (on Facebook), I suspect they would consider this choice “cheating”.  I feel very at home at my church, for one thing, and “April 19” has meaning and familiarity to anyone who has lived in Oklahoma for more than a few years. In fact, there's Reflections of April 19, 1995 linked immediately to your left.

The handbook warned writers many of these prompts would push our comfort level.  The thought of being in a strange place, among strangers, was way beyond my comfort level. So, I strove to honor the spirit of the prompt – the words and phrases of the poem come entirely from the two presentations offered at my church on April 12.

A Riot of Souls

Two more for Poetry Month Scouting: for the Haiku Anew and Interrogator badges.

First, the Haiku: I selected a haiku from a collection titled Haiku Mind: 108 Poems to Cultivate Awareness and Open Your Heart by Patricia Donegan. It's a source I dip into every so often, haiku being a sort of stout ale best appreciated in sips.  I entered the haiku text (by Hekigodo Kawahigashi) into the recommended on-line discombobulator, which rearranges letters as well as words. It seemed to come up with extra words, so I picked the ones that seemed to work the best. I titled the collection of five haiku Moonlit Riot. The instructions say to create a poem that “fits the haiku structure while still making sense.” At first, I assumed "haiku structure" meant the common 5-7-5 syllabic construction (first line 5 syllables, and so on).  In reading other examples, I don't think many other participants have felt bound to this restriction; I think the editors really meant "a poem of three short lines."

This proved to be an interesting exercise, one I might repeat. I think I'd loosen the bonds a bit more, though.

You Who Question Souls was my response to the Interrogator prompt. I still had Leonard Cohen on my mind (he has yet another live album coming out in May), so I pulled out my copy of Book of Mercy. My goal was to gather about two pages worth of questions from the book.  These questions were rearranged into a new poem. I'm rather pleased with the end result; with the exception of a couple of lines, one might not guess the source was a modern collection of psalms.

Babel Broke Down

Poetry Month Scouting, continued. My poem “Babel Broke Down” was in response to the “First in Line” prompt. As the referenced page mentions, this type of poem is a cento, a form I've tried once before, using the index of first lines from selected poems of Emily Dickinson.

My first impulse was to use first lines from Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen, which happens to be next to the chair by my writing desk. It also happens to have an index of first lines, which includes the titles of his drawings throughout the book. The index goes on for several pages, and felt too overwhelming. So I picked up a chapbook which also sits near my chair, Lexicography, by my friend Carol Hamilton.  Although her chapbook had no index of first lines, it was less intimidating – being a little over 81 pages.

Chapbooks tend to be collections of poems along a common theme, in this case Words, and their meanings. After only a few pages, I was struck by how frequently the first line on the recto page seems to comment on, or reply to, the first line on the opposing page.  In a sense, the poem seemed to write itself.

In my mind, it seems to have a plot.  As a friend said, “It almost makes sense.” As such, I think it is one of my more successful attempts in this project.

Poetry Month Scouting

As I mentioned on March 25, I am participating in the Poety Month Scout project, sponsored by the Found Poetry Review.  “Found Poetry” is an interesting concept, challenging the writer to create something new out of a pre-existing work.  The editors of the Found Poetry Review have crafted 31 prompts intended to be a fun way to introduce poets to this process. I've managed to complete nine prompts, or badges.  In effect, I've written a poem a day.

Some of these attempts have been more rewarding, some have been frustrating.  For example, the "Redacted" badge required the poet to use an on-line tool to black out words on screen; the remaining words would constitute the "poem".  I found the on-line tool very hard to use (especially in Firefox).  However, after reading the experiences of other poets, I decided to give it another go, this time using the Chrome browser. I'm happier with this result; the source text is a meditation on the resurrection narrative from the Gospel of John.

“Crumpled is a Verb” is possibly the most popular of my attempts, at least judging from the number of positive comments it has received. To quote from the Scount Badge Handbook:

To earn the “On Demand” badge, start by coming up with an unlikely word combination. You can make up your own, choose words at random from a source text, or use a generator like the one at JimPix to come up with your words. Examples:

• Foolish Ninja
• Calamitous Rock
• Hurry Pork
• Jugular Magnet

Visit Google (http://www.google.com) and do a search on your chosen word combination (no quotes around the terms)..

Google will display a list of pages, as well as short descriptions for each site. Compose a poem using only these page titles and short descriptions — do not click into the sites themselves to grab more text. You can use multiple pages of search results if necessary.

I used the Jim Pix tool, and got "“Crumpled Change” as the word combination.

“Working On Doodles” was in response to the “Spaced Out” prompt.  It's possible I didn't select the best source text for this challege: a one-paragraph blurb on “Ally McBeal” from Entertainment Weekly.

The irony in all this, of course, is that I was a wash-out as a scout; never made it past cub. Don't know what the editors would call a person who completes 15 or more of these prompt badges, but I hope it's better than cub. Padre would be amused, if not proud.

Idée d’jour

Bad weather always looks worse through a window.
— Tom Lehrer, singer-songwriter and mathematician (b. 9 Apr 1928)

Bones of Bashan

Third in the PoMoSco series. The source is Psalm 22, as rendered in the New Zealand Prayer Book.

The guidelines were to select words and phrases by a means of rolling dice. I had done a similar poem using the I Ching. The editor-in-chief of the PoMoSco project gave me permission to use the I Ching for this project as well.

The I Ching didn't give as much variety as I had hoped, and using a method similar to what I did for A Loveless Marriage (linked above) would have been too time-consuming, so I also applied an on-line dice rolling site — using six twelve sided dice. Each die would determine which line I would select; the line of the trigram would determine whether I would select the first half or second half of the line. I think the end product is rather interesting.

This poem also marks the third in my personal “Holy Week” series. The PoMoSco Handbook has a suggested calendar, but I respond to do this prompt out of order. “Roll the Dice” immediately made me think of a line from Ps 22: “they cast lots for my clothing”. “Casting lots” is similar to rolling dice. A connection!

In remembrance of her

A cut-up from the Gospel According to Mark, 2nd in the series for Poetry Month.

This picture demonstrates the process: I cut out a paragraph from the Passion according to Mark from my church bulletin. I sliced out words and phrases with the Exacto knife, put them in the glass bowl, and shook vigorously. Tiny slips of paper flew everywhere! Being a slow learner, I put them back in the glass bowl and shook more gently. Fewer slips of paper were lost. I painstakingly pulled them out of the bowl and stuck them on the blank page. This was hampered by the fact that just a sliver of Glue Stick was left, and it was almost dried out.

Yet, if you go to the PoMoSco site, you'll see a scan of that same page. Although cut-up is often associated with William S. Burroughs, the PoMoSco Handbook attributes the process to Dada poet Tristan Tzara. Gotta say, I ended up with something like word salad, so I've got to wonder how Burroughs made any sense.

The poem has received a positive comment: “It’s fascinating how the main character becomes female here and the voice of the teller fades into the background. I had to look up the verses to see what was shattered — this is that interesting!”

A Withered Hosanna

This linked poem is the first in the Poetry Month Scout Project, a special National Poetry Month effort . This is in response to the “Pick &” Mix prompt under the Remixing Badge. The goal was to write down words and phrases that caught my eye in the source text, then use them in any order I wished. MLA style citation appears below.

I chose the reading from Mark, assigned for Palm Sunday, because this project begins in the midst of Holy Week. Interestingly, the April 1 prompt coincides with Holy Wednesday, which many scholars call "silent", because there is no record of what Jesus did on this day.

The goal is to respond to at least 15 out of 30 prompts by the end of April, the cruelest month.

Thursday afternoon, 19.Mar.2015

Feeling earth respond to my step
energized by ion-rich mist
Bradford Pear blossoms

Idée d’jour

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.
T.S. Eliot

Idée d’jour

There is only one religion though there are a hundred versions of it.
— George Bernard Shaw

Idée d’jour

Music is a means of rapid transportation.
— John Cage

Idée d’jour

The beauty of the band was you never knew what was going to come out next.
— Jimmy Page

Idée d’jour

There are few things in life more heartwarming than to be welcomed by a cat.
Tay Hohoff

Idée d’jour

There is no enlightenment outside of daily life
— Thich Nhat Hanh

Idée d’jour

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
— Rumi

Idée d’jour

For one human being to love another...the work for which all other work is but preparation.
— Rainer Maria Rilke

Idée d’jour

‘Respect for religion’ has become a code phrase meaning ‘fear of religion’. Religions, like all other ideas, deserve criticism, satire, and, yes, our fearless disrespect.
— Salman Rushdie

Idée d’jour

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.
– Zora Neale Hurston

When My Voice Was Born

The stars were still waking the hour my voice was born.
The archer stretched her bowstring to the shadows
the hour my voice was born.
The trees were shaking off their leaves
and gifting all their colors to my voice.
The caverns of the sea filled with haunts of my voice.
The waters of Jerusalem & the Sea of Tranquility;
the dark flowing river of mother's hair;
father's nicotine fingers on the guitar line:
weaving the journey of my voice
the day my voice was born.
O my voice is early twilight;
O my voice knows the backstreets;
O my voice knows the blue highways;
O my voice knows the way to your house.
My voice soared with windmills along the sacred hills,
The echoing hills the resounding plains,
The day my voice was born.
My voice aims true whether it soars above the clouds
or dives behind the secret waves.
My voice aims true, gathers the fire of the spirit,
aims true, gathers the heavens.
My voice gathers the seven winds;
gathers the twilight hours;
gathers the seventy joyful sorrows;
gathers the elders & their childhood dreams.
My voice aims for your heart.
My voice longs to speak soul to soul
My voice longs to strike sparks in your hair.
My voice lingers at your ear
gentle & bold in equal measure.
That is why my voice was born.
My voice embraces the 64 colors and
the infinite tones of the aurora borealis.
My voice rejoices every minute
for the hour it was born.

The Seven Voices of Your Name

It is your Name I would use in the ceremony. Before I am a vacancy. It is your Name I will teach to be a modern novel bout the wearisome uselessness of men and the casual fragility of women. Your Name, which you hide in your hand, shall become the Word. And the Word engenders a long list of words. These words will lead me back to your unspoken Name. The Name which I will be unable to speak until I am a vacancy.

Perhaps we met in a Garden, or a forest clearing. It was possibly Spring. Perhaps it was a dream. But I am convinced that we met, and you whispered your Name to a pond. But you would not tell me your Name. Because you knew I would use it in a ritual to invoke your Love.

Your Name will be an instrument of my peace. An instrument, like the pen with which I write. An instrument whose chords I cannot finger. The melody it plays is of the Word. I could teach your name to shame the Angels.

Your Name will force me into exile.

Because your Name has chosen not to love me. Because it would leave me as a vacancy. I know I am a stranger in the House of your Name. If I could find that House, I would humble myself before your Name.

The ritual was abandoned by the dreamers, but I proceed in a sense of futile nostalgia. This ritual teaches us to call upon the seven voices of your Name. This is why I must know your Name. This is why you must never tell me your Name: it should come to me of its own bidding. Then it will tell me its secret, and lead me to the sanctuary. There, I will be a priest in service to the mystery of your Name.

My face has grown old in the shadow of your Name. My face has grown too old to love. I should hide my face and cover my head in the House of your Name. I was a fool to think I could learn your Name. Because it is hidden.

I will continue this chant until it has conjured the mystery of your Name. I have faith in your Name. I have studied the rhythmic barks of trees for miracles. I have dissected the alphabet for your Name. I have called forth all the demons of Heaven to reveal your Name.

Your Name will punish me at last with its secret. In the end, your Name will teach me to be content as a vacancy. And once I am a vacancy, I shall know your Name.

19–21.Oct.1979 Revised

Idée d’jour

Where it is a duty to worship the sun, it is pretty sure to be a crime to examine the laws of heat.
— John Morley

Idée d’jour

It may sound trite, but using the weapons of the enemy, no matter how good one’s intentions, makes one the enemy.
— Charles de Lint

Haiku Conversation

I weave webs of words;
clouds caress dust-yellow moon.
Which speaks more clearly?
Revised from ~1985

Larry G. responds:
From this web of words,
the caress of something said,
nothing else in mind.

Idée d’jour

I'd rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on Earth.
Steve McQueen