Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Update on Brayden, Hugger Extraordinaire...

For those of you who have followed some of the CaringBridge kids that have been featured in this blog, here's an update on the irrepressible Brayden Martin, his Mom Maranda, wild brother Mason, and super grandmother Robin -- and more friends and family than a person could count.

Maranda took him to the ER due to behavior changes and a mother's instinct.  There's been a determination of disease progression in Brayden's brain, with the inevitable side effect of swelling.  In a heap of bad timing, his port has stopped working, and he won't get another until tomorrow.  If an MRI confirms the CT findings from the ER, Maranda has made the difficult decision to take Brayden home on hospice care.

He's been on corticosteroids and so is obsessed with food, and despite the dire situation, this has brought some levity to their days.  Hopefully, he'll be off the stuff soon, and his mind can shift to other things than constant hunger.







The goal is to raise money to help Brayden's Family with his hospice care. Right now, we want him pain free and to alleviate as much stress on the family as possible during this time as they look at options. Anything you can donate will help in doing so. If you have any questions, please contact me at ashley.klanac@gmail.com
Nolan Blake and Brayden Martin

Monday, July 28, 2014

A Sensible Green Salad




It's both an irritant and a sputtering baby flame of hope that one wishes to privately tend, teasing with tendrils of dried moss, carefully offered wafts of fresh but humid air, then cautiously covered with a high tech cake dome, perfected "air" mixture piped in from the Perfected "Air" Mixture canister standing by.  We who tend are dressed, variously, in protective suiting:  high density yellow paper cloaks with plastic self-ties, elbow length dress gloves, Michael-Jacksonian masks (with some adjustments to the nose clip) mixed with slight variants of that wondrous Guy Fawkes, Anonymous hacktivists, V for Vendetta and Occupists masks, now wonderfully ubiquitous, even in my world where soma meets psyche for afternoon sex.  A little Marvin Gaye, some ripe figs.

What?  You're lost, you say?  Are you sure you should've revived this blog, profderien, O Retired Educator?

What fire are we nursing now with such ridiculous, ambiguous imagination -- and to mention hope so early on, have you finally lost your faculties?

There's a team of researchers, a joint sort of affair, kind of -- affiliated with the University of Liverpool’s Institute of Translational Medicine and the University of Pecs in Hungary -- that is bandying about the word "cure" and CRPS within the same sentence.  I know, I just recently posted about it... but then a few neural sparks made me search mine own blog, using as search term the very odd "Liverpool."

And I remembered Dr. Andreas Goebel.
And I remembered this craze of optimism, this careful tending of a flame, and the eventual realization that Goebel's pony has but one trick.
And that the trick is tantalizing, infuriating.  Tantalizingly infuriating?

The source of the piss on the baby fire?  Common sense, common experiences.  To say that CRPS is not a neurological disorder at all, and not (often) the result of trauma is to belie the experience of... well, almost everyone with CRPS, and almost every physician who has observed its onset and evolution.

The air up here in Hope Land is thin, and hallucination likely.

I'll spare myself the shame of reviewing every sarcastic post born of my anger at those pushing "cure" and "CRPS" within the same paragraph -- and here I'd temporarily lost my bearings over another Goebel article, another IVIG paean, another sweeping claim.

My return to sanity came from an effort to eat popcorn.  You take the hand, you approach it to the bowl of puffed grain, you grasp one (my preference) and you bring it to your mouth.  Except, as has been the case for a few days, my hand would not cooperate, despite the oxygen-deprived fish mouthing of my face, hungry for popcorn.  It either would decline to pick up a piece of the lightly salted kernel, or would manage that feat, only to drop it three inches below my gaping maw.

My return to sanity was bolstered by the pain  and trophic changes of a now dragging right foot, the gift of an ignorant neurologist who conducted an ignorant neurological exam, the very definition of trauma.

My return to sanity has most especially been paved by the searing path of pouring boiling water on my thighs three mornings in a row during that incredibly complicated process of making coffee.

And my return to earlier convictions cleared completely when I remembered that Dr. Goebel headed an earlier team which published a paper -- just in December 2012 -- that included a line that has haunted me, and driven me:

There are only few treatments, and there is no cure. The condition has continued to puzzle investigators. Bizarre aspects of its presentation have continued to emerge over the past 110 years, and although we now understand that CRPS is indeed associated with an initial local inflammatory response – without reported neutrophil invasion or overt tissue destruction [8] – the underlying cause has remained elusive. Over the course of the disease, initial limb signs generally mellow [9], however about 15% of patients continue to have unrelenting pain [5]; these patients' quality of life remains amongst the lowest reported in medical conditions [6].

Tonight, Fred and I cranked up the air conditioner and dined on a sensible green salad dressed with red balsamic vinegar, because we are out of white.





© 2013 L. Ryan

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Bleck and Ick: Kahlil Gibran

I am not a Kahlil Gibran fan.  He often makes me go "ick."  But people are tossing around the likable section of this poem, the part that is attributed so often to "an unknown Arabic poet," and that just irritates the crap out of me.  If you like your wisdom wispy, romantic, and ejaculatorily swift, you'll love "Sand and Foam," limning aphorism heaven, and you'll be able to properly place this part you love to quote but not contextualize, not attribute:

You are free before the sun of the day, and free before the stars of the night;
And you are free when there is no sun and no moon and no star.
You are even free when you close your eyes upon all there is.
But you are a slave to him whom you love because you love him,
And a slave to him who loves you because he loves you.

Bleck... Ick...

**********************************************************************


Kahlil Gibran, The Summit from Sand and Foam, c. 1925,
Watercolor and pencil on paper, 11 x 8 1/2 inches,
Telfair Museums, Gift of Mary Haskell Minis, 1950



from Sand and Foam
by Kahlil Gibran


I AM FOREVER walking upon these shores,
Betwixt the sand and the foam,
The high tide will erase my foot-prints,
And the wind will blow away the foam.
But the sea and the shore will remain
Forever.

Once I filled my hand with mist.
Then I opened it and lo, the mist was a worm.
And I closed and opened my hand again, and behold there was a bird.
And again I closed and opened my hand, and in its hollow stood a man with a sad face, turned upward.
And again I closed my hand, and when I opened it there was naught but mist.
But I heard a song of exceeding sweetness.

It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life.
Now I know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.

They say to me in their awakening, "You and the world you live in are but a grain of sand upon the infinite shore of an infinite sea."
And in my dream I say to them, "I am the infinite sea, and all worlds are but grains of sand upon my shore."

Only once have I been made mute. It was when a man asked me, "Who are you?"

The first thought of God was an angel.
The first word of God was a man.

We were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea and the wind in the forest gave us words.
Now how can we express the ancient of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?

The Sphinx spoke only once, and the Sphinx said, "A grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is a grain of sand; and now let us all be silent again."
I heard the Sphinx, but I did not understand.

Long did I lie in the dust of Egypt, silent and unaware of the seasons.
Then the sun gave me birth, and I rose and walked upon the banks of the Nile,
Singing with the days and dreaming with the nights.
And now the sun threads upon me with a thousand feet that I may lie again in the dust of Egypt.
But behold a marvel and a riddle!
The very sun that gathered me cannot scatter me.
Still erect am I, and sure of foot do I walk upon the banks of the Nile.

Remembrance is a form of meeting.

Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.

We measure time according to the movement of countless suns; and they measure time by little machines in their little pockets.
Now tell me, how could we ever meet at the same place and the same time?

Space is not space between the earth and the sun to one who looks down from the windows of the Milky Way.

Humanity is a river of light running from the ex-eternity to eternity.

Do not the spirits who dwell in the ether envy man his pain?

On my way to the Holy City I met another pilgrim and I asked him, "Is this indeed the way to the Holy City?"
And he said, "Follow me, and you will reach the Holy City in a day and a night."
And I followed him. And we walked many days and many nights, yet we did not reach the Holy City.
And what was to my surprise he became angry with me because he had misled me.

Make me, oh God, the prey of the lion, ere You make the rabbit my prey.

One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.

My house says to me, "Do not leave me, for here dwells your past."
And the road says to me, "Come and follow me, for I am your future."
And I say to both my house and the road, "I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going. Only love and death will change all things."

How can I lose faith in the justice of life, when the dreams of those who sleep upon feathers are not more beautiful than the dreams of those who sleep upon the earth? Strange, the desire for certain pleasures is a part of my pain.

Seven times have I despised my soul:
The first time when I saw her being meek that she might attain height.
The second time when I saw her limping before the crippled.
The third time when she was given to choose between the hard and the easy, and she chose the easy.
The fourth time when she committed a wrong, and comforted herself that others also commit wrong.
The fifth time when she forbore for weakness, and attributed her patience to strength.
The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.
And the seventh time when she sang a song of praise, and deemed it a virtue.

I AM IGNORANT of absolute truth. But I am humble before my ignorance and therein lies my honor and my reward.

There is a space between man's imagination and man's attainment that may only be traversed by his longing.

Paradise is there, behind that door, in the next room; but I have lost the key.
Perhaps I have only mislaid it.

You are blind and I am deaf and dumb, so let us touch hands and understand.

The significance of man is not in what he attains, but rather in what he longs to attain.

Some of us are like ink and some like paper.
And if it were not for the blackness of some of us, some of us would be dumb;
And if it were not for the whiteness of some of us, some of us would be blind.

Give me an ear and I will give you a voice.

Our mind is a sponge; our heart is a stream.
Is it not strange that most of us choose sucking rather than running?

When you long for blessings that you may not name, and when you grieve knowing not the cause, then indeed you are growing with all things that grow, and rising toward your greater self.

When one is drunk with a vision, he deems his faint expression of it the very wine.

You drink wine that you may be intoxicated; and I drink that it may sober me from that other wine.

When my cup is empty I resign myself to its emptiness; but when it is half full I resent its half-fulness.

The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you.
Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say.

Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.

A sense of humour is a sense of proportion.

My loneliness was born when men praised my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues.

When Life does not find a singer to sing her heart she produces a philosopher to speak her mind.

A truth is to be known always, to be uttered sometimes.

The real in us is silent; the acquired is talkative.

The voice of life in me cannot reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we may not feel lonely.

When two women talk they say nothing; when one woman speaks she reveals all of life.

Frogs may bellow louder than bulls, but they cannot drag the plough in the field not turn the wheel of the winepress, and of their skins you cannot make shoes.

Only the dumb envy the talkative.

If winter should say, "Spring is in my heart," who would believe winter?

Every seed is a longing.

Should you really open your eyes and see, you would behold your image in all images.
And should you open your ears and listen, you would hear your own voice in all voices.

It takes two of us to discover truth: one to utter it and one to understand it.

Though the wave of words is forever upon us, yet our depth is forever silent.

Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.

Now let us play hide and seek. Should you hide in my heart it would not be difficult to find you. But should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for anyone to seek you. A woman may veil her face with a smile.

How noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.

He who would understand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the very man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a breakfast table.

I would walk with all those who walk. I would not stand still to watch the procession passing by.

You owe more than gold to him who serves you. Give him of your heart or serve him.

Nay, we have not lived in vain. Have they not built towers of our bones?

Let us not be particular and sectional. The poet's mind and the scorpion's tail rise in glory from the same earth.

Every dragon gives birth to a St. George who slays it.

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.

Should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you must needs have knowledge and art and music -- the knowledge of the music of words, the art of being artless, and the magic of loving your readers.

They dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired.

Should a tree write its autobiography it would not be unlike the history of a race.

If I were to choose between the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten, I would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry.
But you and all my neighbors agree that I always choose badly.

Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.

Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness.

A POET IS a dethroned king sitting among the ashes of his palace trying to fashion an image out of the ashes.

Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.

In vain shall a poet seek the mother of the songs of his heart.

Once I said to a poet, "We shall not know your worth until you die."
And he answered saying, "Yes, death is always the revealer. And if indeed you would know my worth it is that I have more in my heart than upon my tongue, and more in my desire than in my hand."

If you sing of beauty though alone in the heart of the desert you will have an audience.

Poetry is wisdom that enchants the heart.
Wisdom is poetry that sings in the mind.
If we could enchant man's heart and at the same time sing in his mind,
Then in truth he would live in the shadow of God.

Inspiration will always sing; inspiration will never explain.

We often sing lullabies to our children that we ourselves may sleep.

All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.

Thinking is always the stumbling stone to poetry.

A great singer is he who sings our silences.

How can you sing if your mouth be filled with food?
How shall your hand be raised in blessing if it is filled with gold?

They say the nightingale pierces his bosom with a thorn when he sings his love song.
So do we all. How else should we sing?

Genius is but a robin's song at the beginning of a slow spring.

Even the most winged spirit cannot escape physical necessity.

A madman is not less a musician than you or myself; only the instrument on which he plays is a little out of tune.

The song that lies silent in the heart of a mother sings upon the lips of her child.

No longing remains unfulfilled.

I have never agreed with my other self wholly. The truth of the matter seems to lie between us.

Your other self is always sorry for you. But your other self grows on sorrow; so all is well.

There is no struggle of soul and body save in the minds of those whose souls are asleep and whose bodies are out of tune.

When you reach the heart of life you shall find beauty in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to beauty.

We live only to discover beauty. All else is a form of waiting.

Sow a seed and the earth will yield you a flower. Dream your dream to the sky and it will bring you your beloved.

The devil died the very day you were born.
Now you do not have to go through hell to meet an angel.

Many a woman borrows a man's heart; very few could possess it.

If you would possess you must not claim.

When a man's hand touches the hand of a woman they both touch the heart of eternity.

Love is the veil between lover and lover.

Every man loves two women; the one is the creation of his imagination, and the other is not yet born.

Men who do not forgive women their little faults will never enjoy their great virtues.

Love that does not renew itself every day becomes a habit and in turn a slavery.

Lovers embrace that which is between them rather than each other.

Love and doubt have never been on speaking terms.

Love is a word of light, written by a hand of light, upon a page of light.

Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.

If you do not understand your friend under all conditions you will never understand him.

Your most radiant garment is of the other person's weaving;
You most savory meal is that which you eat at the other person's table;
Your most comfortable bed is in the other person's house.
Now tell me, how can you separate yourself from the other person?

Your mind and my heart will never agree until your mind ceases to live in numbers and my heart in the mist.

We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words.

HOW SHALL MY heart be unsealed unless it be broken?

Only great sorrow or great joy can reveal your truth.
If you would be revealed you must either dance naked in the sun, or carry your cross.

Should nature heed what we say of contentment no river would seek the sea, and no winter would turn to Spring. Should she heed all we say of thrift, how many of us would be breathing this air?

You see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.

You are free before the sun of the day, and free before the stars of the night;
And you are free when there is no sun and no moon and no star.
You are even free when you close your eyes upon all there is.
But you are a slave to him whom you love because you love him,
And a slave to him who loves you because he loves you.

We are all beggars at the gate of the temple, and each one of us receives his share of the bounty of the King when he enters the temple, and when he goes out.
But we are all jealous of one another, which is another way of belittling the King.

You cannot consume beyond your appetite. The other half of the loaf belongs to the other person, and there should remain a little bread for the chance guest.

If it were not for your guests all houses would be graves.

Said a gracious wolf to a simple sheep, "Will you not honor our house with a visit?"
And the sheep answered, "We would have been honored to visit your house if it were not in your stomach."

I stopped my guest on the threshold and said, "Nay, wipe not your feet as you enter, but as you go out."

Generosity is not in giving me that which I need more than you do, but it is in giving me that which you need more than I do.

You are indeed charitable when you give, and while giving, turn your face away so that you may not see the shyness of the receiver.

The difference between the richest man and the poorest is but a day of hunger and an hour of thirst.

We often borrow from our tomorrows to pay our debts to our yesterdays.

I too am visited by angels and devils, but I get rid of them.
When it is an angel I pray an old prayer, and he is bored;
When it is a devil I commit an old sin, and he passes me by.

After all this is not a bad prison; but I do not like this wall between my cell and the next prisoner's cell;
Yet I assure you that I do not wish to reproach the warder not the Builder of the prison.

Those who give you a serpent when you ask for a fish, may have nothing but serpents to give. It is then generosity on their part.

Trickery succeeds sometimes, but it always commits suicide.

You are truly a forgiver when you forgive murderers who never spill blood, thieves who never steal, and liars who utter no falsehood.

He who can put his finger upon that which divides good from evil is he who can touch the very hem of the garment of God.

If your heart is a volcano how shall you expect flowers to bloom in your hands?

A strange form of self-indulgence! There are times when I would be wronged and cheated, that I may laugh at the expense of those who think I do not know I am being wronged and cheated.

What shall I say of him who is the pursuer playing the part of the pursued?

Let him who wipes his soiled hands with your garment take your garment. He may need it again; surely you would not.

It is a pity that money-changers cannot be good gardeners.

Please do not whitewash your inherent faults with your acquired virtues. I would have the faults; they are like mine own.

How often have I attributed to myself crimes I have never committed, so that the other person may feel comfortable in my presence.

Even the masks of life are masks of deeper mystery.

You may judge others only according to your knowledge of yourself.
Tell me now, who among us is guilty and who is unguilty?

The truly just is he who feels half guilty of your misdeeds.

Only an idiot and a genius break man-made laws; and they are the nearest to the heart of God.

It is only when you are pursued that you become swift.

I have no enemies, O God, but if I am to have an enemy
Let his strength be equal to mine,
That truth alone may be the victor.

You will be quite friendly with your enemy when you both die.

Perhaps a man may commit suicide in self-defense.

Long ago there lived a Man who was crucified for being too loving and too lovable.
And strange to relate I met him thrice yesterday.
The first time He was asking a policeman not to take a prostitute to prison; the second time He was drinking wine with an outcast; and the third time He was having a fist-fight with a promoter inside a church.

If all they say of good and evil were true, then my life is but one long crime.

Pity is but half justice.

THE ONLY ONE who has been unjust to me is the one to whose brother I have been unjust.

When you see a man led to prison say in your heart, "Mayhap he is escaping from a narrower prison."
And when you see a man drunken say in your heart, "Mayhap he sought escape from something still more unbeautiful."

Oftentimes I have hated in self-defense; but if I were stronger I would not have used such a weapon.

How stupid is he who would patch the hatred in his eyes with the smile of his lips.

Only those beneath me can envy or hate me.
I have never been envied nor hated; I am above no one.
Only those above me can praise or belittle me.
I have never been praised nor belittled; I am below no one.

Your saying to me, "I do not understand you," is praise beyond my worth, and an insult you do not deserve.
 How mean am I when life gives me gold and I give you silver, and yet I deem myself generous.

When you reach the heart of life you will find yourself not higher than the felon, and not lower than the prophet.

Strange that you should pity the slow-footed and not the slow-minded,
And the blind-eyed rather than the blind-hearted.

It is wiser for the lame not to break his crutches upon the head of his enemy.

How blind is he who gives you out of his pocket that he may take out of your heart.

Life is a procession. The slow of foot finds it too swift and he steps out;
And the swift of foot finds it too slow and he too steps out.

If there is such a thing as sin some of us commit it backward following our forefathers' footsteps;
And some of us commit it forward by overruling our children.

The truly good is he who is one with all those who are deemed bad.

We are all prisoners but some of us are in cells with windows and some without.

Strange that we all defend our wrongs with more vigor than we do our rights.

Should we all confess our sins to one another we would all laugh at one another for our lack of originality.
Should we all reveal our virtues we would also laugh for the same cause.

An individual is above man-made laws until he commits a crime against man-made conventions; After that he is neither above anyone nor lower than anyone.

Government is an agreement between you and myself. You and myself are often wrong.

Crime is either another name of need or an aspect of a disease.

Is there a greater fault than being conscious of the other person's faults?

If the other person laughs at you, you can pity him; but if you laugh at him you may never forgive yourself.
If the other person injures you, you may forget the injury; but if you injure him you will always remember.
In truth the other person is your most sensitive self given another body.

How heedless you are when you would have men fly with your wings and you cannot even give them a feather.

Once a man sat at my board and ate my bread and drank my wine and went away laughing at me.
Then he came again for bread and wine, and I spurned him;
And the angels laughed at me.

Hate is a dead thing. Who of you would be a tomb?

It is the honor of the murdered that he is not the murderer.

The tribune of humanity is in its silent heart, never its talkative mind.

They deem me mad because I will not sell my days for gold;
And I deem them mad because they think my days have a price.

They spread before us their riches of gold and silver, of ivory and ebony, and we spread before them our hearts and our spirits.;
And yet they deem themselves the hosts and us the guests.

I would not be the least among men with dreams and the desire to fulfill them, rather than the greatest with no dreams and no desires.

The most pitiful among men is he who turns his dreams into silver and gold.

We are all climbing toward the summit of our hearts' desire. Should the other climber steal your sack and your purse and wax fat on the one and heavy on the other, you should pity him;
The climbing will be harder for his flesh, and the burden will make his way longer.
And should you in your leanness see his flesh puffing upward, help him a step; it will add to your swiftness.

You cannot judge any man beyond your knowledge of him, and how small is your knowledge.

I would not listen to a conqueror preaching to the conquered.

The truly free man is he who bears the load of the bond slave patiently.

A thousand years ago my neighbor said to me, "I hate life, for it is naught but a thing of pain."
And yesterday I passed by a cemetery and saw life dancing upon his grave.

Strife in nature is but disorder longing for order.

Solitude is a silent storm that breaks down all our dead branches;
Yet it sends our living roots deeper into the living heart of the living earth.

Once I spoke of the sea to a brook, and the brook thought me but an imaginative exaggerator;
And once I spoke of a brook to the sea, and the sea thought me but a depreciative defamer.

How narrow is the vision that exalts the busyness of the ant above the singing of the grasshopper.

The highest virtue here may be the least in another world.

The deep and the high go to the depth or to the height in a straight line; only the spacious can move in circles.

IF IT WERE not for our conception of weights and measures we would stand in awe of the firefly as we do before the sun.

A scientist without imagination is a butcher with dull knives and out-worn scales.
But what would you, since we are not all vegetarians?

When you sing the hungry hears you with his stomach.

Death is not nearer to the aged than to the new-born; neither is life.

If indeed you must be candid, be candid beautifully; otherwise keep silent, for there is a man in our neighborhood who is dying.

Mayhap a funeral among men is a wedding feast among the angels.

A forgotten reality may die and leave in its will seven thousand actualities and facts to be spent in its funeral and the building of a tomb.

In truth we talk only to ourselves, but sometimes we talk loud enough that others may hear us.

The obvious is that which is never seen until someone expresses it simply.

If the Milky Way were not within me how should I have seen it or known it?

Unless I am a physician among physicians they would not believe that I am an astronomer.

Perhaps the sea's definition of a shell is the pearl.
Perhaps time's definition of coal is the diamond.

Fame is the shadow of passion standing in the light.

A root is a flower that disdains fame.

There is neither religion nor science beyond beauty.

Every great man I have known had something small in his make-up; and it was that small something which prevented inactivity or madness or suicide.

The truly great man is he who would master no one, and who would be mastered by none.

I would not believe that a man is mediocre simply because he kills the criminals and the prophets.

Tolerance is love sick with the sickness of haughtiness.

Worms will turn; but is it not strange that even elephants will yield?

A disagreement may be the shortest cut between two minds.

I am the flame and I am the dry bush, and one part of me consumes the other part.

We are all seeking the summit of the holy moutain; but shall not our road be shorter if we consider the past a chart and not a guide?

Wisdom ceases to be wisdom when it becomes too proud to weep, too grave to laugh, and too self-ful to seek other than itself.

Had I filled myself with all that you know what room should I have for all that you do not know?

I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to these teachers.

A bigot is a stone-leaf orator.

The silence of the envious is too noisy.

When you reach the end of what you should know, you will be at the beginning of what you should sense.

An exaggeration is a truth that has lost its temper.

If you can see only what light reveals and hear only what sound announces,
Then in truth you do not see nor do you hear.

A fact is a truth unsexed.

You cannot laugh and be unkind at the same time.

The nearest to my heart are a king without a kingdom and a poor man who does not know how to beg.

A shy failure is nobler than an immodest success.

Dig anywhere in the earth and you will find a treasure, only you must dig with the faith of a peasant.

Said a hunted fox followed by twenty horsemen and a pack of twenty hounds, "Of course they will kill me. But how poor and how stupid they must be. Surely it would not be worth while for twenty foxes riding on twenty asses and accompanied by twenty wolves to chase and kill one man."

It is the mind in us that yields to the laws made by us, but never the spirit in us.

A traveler am I and a navigator, and every day I discover a new region within my soul.

A woman protested saying, "Of course it was a righteous war. My son fell in it."

I said to Life, "I would hear Death speak."
And Life raised her voice a little higher and said, "You hear him now."

When you have solved all the mysteries of life you long for death, for it is but another mystery of life.

Birth and death are the two noblest expressions of bravery.

My friend, you and I shall remain strangers unto life,
And unto one another, and each unto himself,
Until the day when you shall speak and I shall listen
Deeming your voice my own voice;
And when I shall stand before you
Thinking myself standing before a mirror.

They say to me, "Should you know yourself you would know all men."
And I say, "Only when I seek all men shall I know myself."

MAN IS TWO men; one is awake in darkness, the other is asleep in light.

A hermit is one who renounces the world of fragments that he may enjoy the world wholly and without interruption.

There lies a green field between the scholar and the poet; should the scholar cross it he becomes a wise man; should the poet cross it, he becomes a prophet.

Yestereve I saw philosophers in the market-place carrying their heads in baskets, and crying aloud, "Wisdom! Wisdom for sale!"
Poor philosophers! They must needs sell their heads to feed their hearts.
 Said a philosopher to a street sweeper, "I pity you. Yours is a hard and dirty task."
And the street sweeper said, "Thank you, sir. But tell me what is your task?"
And the philosopher answered saying, "I study man's mind, his deeds and his desires."
Then the street sweeper went on with his sweeping and said with a smile, "I pity you too."

He who listens to truth is not less than he who utters truth.

No man can draw the line between necessities and luxuries. Only the angels can do that, and the angels are wise and wistful.
Perhaps the angels are our better thought in space.

He is the true prince who finds his throne in the heart of the dervish.

Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need.

In truth you owe naught to any man. You owe all to all men.

All those who have lived in the past live with us now. Surely none of us would be an ungracious host.

He who longs the most lives the longest.

They say to me, "A bird in the hand is worth ten in the bush."
But I say, "A bird and a feather in the bush is worth more than ten birds in the hand."
Your seeking after that feather is life with winged feet; nay, it is life itself.

There are only two elements here, beauty and truth; beauty in the hearts of lovers, and truth in the arms of the tillers of the soil.

Great beauty captures me, but a beauty still greater frees me even from itself.

Beauty shines brighter in the heart of him who longs for it than in the eyes of him who sees it.

I admire him who reveals his mind to me; I honor him who unveils his dreams. But why am I shy, and even a little ashamed before him who serves me?

The gifted were once proud in serving princes.
Now they claim honor in serving paupers.

The angels know that too many practical men eat their bread with the sweat of the dreamer's brow.

Wit is often a mask. If you could tear it you would find either a genius irritated or cleverness juggling.

The understanding attributes to me understanding and the dull, dullness. I think they are both right.

Only those with secrets in their hearts could divine the secrets in our hearts.

He who would share your pleasure but not your pain shall lose the key to one of the seven gates of Paradise.

Yes, there is a Nirvanah; it is in leading your sheep to a green pasture, and in putting your child to sleep, and in writing the last line of your poem.

We choose our joys and our sorrows long before we experience them.

Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.

When either your joy or your sorrow becomes great the world becomes small.

Desire is half of life; idifference is half of death.

The bitterest thing in our today's sorrow is the memory of our yesterday's joy.

They say to me, "You must needs choose between the pleasures of this world and the peace of the next world."
And I say to them, "I have chosen both the delights of this world and the peace of the next. For I know in my heart that the Supreme Poet wrote but one poem, and it scans perfectly, and it also rhymes perfectly."

Faith is an oasis in the heart which will never be reached by the caravan of thinking.

When you reach your height you shall desire but only for desire; and you shall hunger, for hunger; and you shall thirst for greater thirst.

If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.

The flowers of spring are winter's dreams related at the breakfast table of the angels.

Said a skunk to a tube-rose, "See how swiftly I run, while you cannot walk nor even creep."
Said the tube-rose to the skunk, "Oh, most noble swift runner, please run swiftly!"

Turtles can tell more about roads than hares.

Strange that creatures without backbones have the hardest shells.

The most talkative is the least intelligent, and there is hardly a difference between an orator and an auctioneer.

Be grateful that you do not have to live down the renown of a father nor the wealth of an uncle.
But above all be grateful that no one will have to live down either your renown or your wealth.

Only when a juggler misses catching his ball does he appeal to me.

The envious praises me unknowingly.

Long were you a dream in your mother's sleep, and then she woke to give you birth.

The germ of the race is in your mother's longing.

My father and mother desired a child and they begot me.
And I wanted a mother and a father and I begot night and the sea.

Some of our children are our justifications and some are but our regrets.

When night comes and you too are dark, lie down and be dark with a will.
And when morning comes and you are still dark stand up and say to the day with a will, "I am still dark."
It is stupid to play a role with the night and the day.
They would both laugh at you.

The mountain veiled in mist is not a hill; an oak tree in the rain is not a weeping willow.

Behold here is a paradox; the deep and high are nearer to one another than the mid-level to either.

When I stood a clear mirror before you, you gazed into me and saw your image.
Then you said, "I love you."
But in truth you loved yourself in me.

When you enjoy loving your neighbor it ceases to be a virtue.

Love which is not always springing is always dying.

You cannot have youth and the knowledge of it at the same time;
For youth is too busy living to know, and knowledge is too busy seeking itself to live.
 You may sit at your window watching the passersby. And watching you may see a nun walking toward your right hand, and a prostitute toward your left hand.
And you may say in your innocence, "How noble is the one and how ignoble is the other."
But should you close your eyes and listen awhile you would hear a voice whispering in the ether, "One seeks me in prayer, and the other in pain. And in the spirit of each there is a bower for my spirit."

Once every hundred years Jesus of Nazareth meets Jesus of the Christian in a garden among the hills of Lebanon. And they talk long; and each time Jesus of Nazareth goes away saying to Jesus of the Christian, "My friend, I fear we shall never, never agree."

May God feed the over-abundant!

A great man has two hearts; one bleeds and the other forbears.

Should one tell a lie which does not hurt you nor anyone else, why not say in your heart that the house of his facts is too small for his fancies, and he had to leave it for larger space?

Behind every closed door is a mystery sealed with seven seals.

Waiting is the hoofs of time.

What if trouble should be a new window in the Eastern wall of your house?

You may forget the one with whom you have laughed, but never the one with whom you have wept.

There must be something strangely sacred in salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.

Our God in His gracious thirst will drink us all, the dewdrop and the tear.

You are but a fragment of your giant self, a mouth that seeks bread, and a blind hand that holds the cup for a thirsty mouth.

If you would rise but a cubit above race and country and self you would indeed become godlike.

If I were you I would not find fault with the sea at low tide.
It is a good ship and our Captain is able; it is only your stomach that is in disorder.

Should you sit upon a cloud you would not see the boundary line between one country and another, nor the boundary stone between a farm and a farm.
It is a pity you cannot sit upon a cloud.

Seven centuries ago seven white doves rose from a deep valley flying to the snow-white summit of the mountain. One of the seven men who watched the flight said, "I see a black spot on the wing of the seventh dove."
Today the people in that valley tell of seven black doves who flew to the summit of the snowy mountain.

In the autumn I gathered all my sorrows and buried them in my garden.
And when April returned and spring came to wed the earth, there grew in my garden beautiful flowers unlike all other flowers.
And my neighbors came to behold them, and they all said to me, "When autumn comes again, at seeding time, will you not give us of the seeds of these flowers that we may have them in our gardens?"

It is indeed misery if I stretch an empty hand to men and receive nothing; but it is hopelessness if I stretch a full hand and find none to receive.

I long for eternity because there I shall meet my unwritten poems and my unpainted pictures.

Art is a step from nature toward the Infinite.

A work of art is a mist carved into an image.

Even the hands that make crowns of thorns are better than idle hands.

Our most sacred tears never seek our eyes.

Every man is the descendant of every king and every slave that ever lived.

If the great-grandfather of Jesus had known what was hidden within him, would he not have stood in awe of himself?

Was the love of Judas' mother of her son less than the love of Mary for Jesus?

There are three miracles of our Brother Jesus not yet recorded in the Book: the first that He was a man like you and me, the second that He had a sense of humour, and the third that He knew He was a conqueror though conquered.

Crucified One, you are crucified upon my heart; and the nails that pierce your hands pierce the walls of my heart.
And tomorrow when a stranger passes by this Golgotha he will not know that two bled here.
He will deem it the blood of one man.

You may have heard of the Blessed Mountain.
It is the highest mountain in our world.
Should you reach the summit you would have only one desire, and that to descend and be with those who dwell in the deepest valley.
That is why it is called the Blessed Mountain.

Every thought I have imprisoned in expression I must free by my deeds.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Read This, Thought of You...

Yesterday's "Poem of the Day" from The American Academy of Poets

Nick Flynn


Nick Flynn, 1960

Years later I’m standing before a roomful of young writers in a 
high school in Texas. I’ve asked them to locate an image in a 
poem we’d just read—their heads at this moment are bowed to 
the page. After some back & forth about the grass & a styrofoam 
cup, a girl raises her hand & asks, Does it matter? I smile—it is as 
if the universe balanced on those three words & we’ve landed in 
the unanswerable. I have to admit that no, it doesn’t, not really, 
matter, if rain is an image or rain is an idea or rain is a sound in 
our heads. But, I whisper, leaning in close, to get through the 
next forty-seven minutes we might have to pretend it does.





Thursday, July 24, 2014

Are you sitting down? A State and Federal Government SNAFU...

There are so many extant prefaces that will do, but I choose this one:

"Truth is stranger than fiction."

Yesterday, while playing with the up-and-down controls on my hospital bed, and listening to the "Summer Night" setting on my Homedics Sound Spa with 6 Sounds, Fred brought in the day's bundle of mail.  I almost missed the real challenge to my mental well-being , as we are receiving an inordinate amount of what amounts to Hate Correspondence thanks to my inExecutive Decision to cancel this year's ManorFest due to Personal Insanity.

You know, we paid through our considerable noses to have an unplottable address, so how are all these Haters getting the address to Marlinspike Hall, anyway?  Harrumph.

Unplottability refers to the deliberate concealment of several areas around the world. Unplottable locations are either magically hidden from plain sight or simply removed on maps. Common reasons for unplottability are for individual safety and the protection of certain secrets, particularly within the schools of wizardry.
Anyway -- too tired for more original segues -- about one-third of my way through the interminable gripes, most of the "we-all-have-problems-and-yours-are-nothing-special" sort -- my swollen and painful hand landed on a thick envelope of poor quality, making me cry out:  "Oh shit!  Something from the government!"

And so it was.  Apparently that brief trip to the United States of America, within which is located the land of Atlanta, itself subsumed by the backwardness of the state of Georgia -- a trip via miniature [pink] submarine and Captain Haddock's own wormhole, which originates in Marlinspike Hall's moat -- apparently, that brief trip to see the Board Certified Neurologist Doctor Raymon J Wilensky [RJW] left Fred, myself, the submarine, and all the physical holdings of the Haddock family PLOTTABLE!  How else to explain a thick envelope of poor quality from a division of the State of Georgia, made out to my Americanized moniker?

Eight pages long it was.  

It's title?  An initially agonizing, sharp-intake-of-breath inducing: NOTICE OF DECISION.

I make thousands of important decisions a day.  Still, I rarely issue an eight-page notice detailing them. That'd just be embarrassing. Besides, I have a blog for that!

Okay, to sum it up, it was from something called the "RSM Project Office."  
I went "Oooohhh!"
Then I went "Oooohhh, what the hell is the 'RSM Project Office' and do I have to freaking climb up to the Computer Turret to find out?"  

In case you've forgotten, this is the path from our cushy apartment in one of the Directional Wings off the main digs of the historic Marlinspike Hall, ancestral Manor home of the Haddock family to the modern convenience of wifi, as detailed in an early blog post:


The only way in or out, up or down, the pesky turret is via a thick rope ladder, dyed caution yellow, that extends down (but mostly sideways) out to the Manor Stables -- a remarkable outbuilding that is an alarming replica, as we pointed out in our last post, of the Knoppenburg Manor Stables. The proper term today is "agricultural building." You won't catch me calling it a barn if there are any prying ears about. Of course, the last outsider who dropped by was The Technician Overlord of Our Telecommunications Bundle, which he so wisely decided was best centered in the Hobby Room at the top of the Turret Tower. We had concocted a cover story about the rope bridge ("It's more a bridge than a ladder," Fred just said), which consists of the baldfaced lie that we are a new off season venue for those Cirque du Soleil performers who are fresh out of rehab. So the hefty diameter of that hemp monster, see, is easily explained away as necessary gear for these poor, troubled acrobats.
I'm usually not subject to such heights of embarrassment (heights, and, lately, riches) but I just don't want anyone to think that I have to zig zag my way from one Manor Wing to another, make it to the Grand Ballroom, out the entrance, patterned after Brunelleschi's bronze baptistery doors, over the drawbridge (Provided it is down! Men!), across the moat, down the lane, over the hedge, into the damned agricultural outbuilding, up the custom wheelchair ramp into the hayloft, and then, lickety-split, go hand-over-fist on the rope bridge for a good half mile... all just to get my email.


Yes, Dearest Readers, I did ["have to freaking climb up to the Computer Turret..."].  Because the (800) number listed for said RSM Project Office is One Of Those Maniacal Menu-Operated Weapons Of Governmental War Attrition Tactics. Also, as Our Beloved Milanese Nightingale, the Bianca Castafiore, recently discovered, we only have functional cell phones whilst leaning at a 70 degree angle out one of the turret's bow-and-arrow openings, necessitating that Sven Feingold stop his important topiary shaping to come up and hang on to our telephoning ankles for the love of God, and also for His Sake.

See? Either way, these "RSM Project Office"  arseholes from Atlanta, Georgia, necessitated the arduous journey to the Computer Turret.  Yesterday being Monday, that meant that my huffing and puffing and slip-sliding through the intervening barn, now renovated as the Carny Rehab Facility, meaning that, yes, red-faced, sweaty moi would be interrupting a post-weekend Group Therapy Session of pissed-off carnies. And why are they pissed off?  It would have been a great weekend for them, full of gainful employment and illicit drug transactions, had ManorFest 2014 gone off as scheduled.  And who cancelled ManorFest 2014 due to "personal insanity"?  That's right, moi again!

Anyway -- I made it to the Computer Turret, though more than disheveled, Sven batting off the intrepid acrobats with a police-grade head crusher and the occasional zap of a Taser.  He held my ankles as I plunged out the window and dialed the useless Georgia government phone number... then returned, using the stairs, this time, to his appointed duties.  We need to petition the Captain for a raise, or supplemental gratuities, or something, on behalf of Sven.  Just the fact that he's keeping The Castafiore occupied ought to be worth considerable "executive bonus" points to Archibald Haddock, y' know?

Okay, so I was stuck with email to shoot through the moat algae and out the other end of the wormhole to Atlanta, Georgia Land.

I wrote the email produced below, though for purposes of transparency and The Fair Reporting Act As It Applies To Blogs About Fictive [shut UP!] Lives, the last paragraph was added after 5 emails were returned as "undeliverable," except 1 reply from "customer service."


Please read this email in its entirety, paying attention to the details,
wherein lie many of the pertinent details. 
My name is, for your purposes, L. Ryan and today I received the "RSM Project Office"'s
denial of my "request for benefits." 
It's a fascinating document, for primarily two reasons. 
*One: I did not request Medicaid benefits. That must have been a glitch inthe ACA Marketplace application I completed in October 2013, as I would
never deign to bother the Great State of Georgia and its forward-looking
policies toward health care. I don't have that kind of time to waste. 
*Two: At the end of the document, I was intrigued to discover that Ireceive SSI benefits in the amount of $331.57. Why "intrigued"? Because I
don't receive SSI benefits.

If you'd please squelch the errant SSI payments I supposedly receive, I'dbe forever grateful. 
If, however, I somehow deserve that money... oh
please, send me a check that covers the last 14 years of our lives,
non-taxable, and that doesn't deprive me of the rest of my [private disability] "benefits." 
If someone has, by chance, been collecting SSI in my name? Well, it'sprobably your job to deflect that bit of larceny back to the federal
government. I've done my part as an [expatriate] citizen and submitted a fraud report,
just moments ago.  Having no "company" name to supply, I used the
"RSM Project Office" name and address as the fraudulent party.

I sat up here knitting apple and banana cozies, answering the occasional frantic email from family members, most perturbed, though, by the missing emails, and the cold-as-ice family sentiment poseurs -- figuring that SIX emails to the Department of Human Services should jolt some bureaucrat into a reply.  Yes, I mentioned in one of the [...] deleted segments that I am the Queen of Gullibility.  I am, I swear.  The thing is, once you screw with me, I don't forget you, ever, and, unfortunately, the organization for which you work is also tainted with your evilness, even if you have cozies on your rusty toaster and your 1970's avocado Salad Shooter.

Apple and Banana Cozy by BeadlesandPins at Etsy.com

[Oh, damn.  Fred just dropped a bottle of chardonnay. What a technological breakthrough, live blogging! Now, had I knit a chardonnay cozy, might that bottle remain intact?  We'll never know.]

Oatmeal Cable Knit Wine Cozy, $12, etsy.com

[Kind of disturbing, huh, this "cozy" craze?]

Well, anyway... This is the text of my email to the federal government Social Security Fraud Tip Thingy:

I was notified by letter yesterday from the "RSM Project Office" of the State of Georgia DFCS department of their decision regarding two things, an application for Medicaid coverage and my monthly SSI income. 
The small problems I have with this notification are mostly covered by these facts:
1.  I never applied for Medicaid -- unless the ACA Marketplace submitted the request in my name, something I explicitly asked not be done.
2.  I DO NOT RECEIVE THE $331.57 PER MONTH IN SSI THAT THE "RSM PROJECT OFFICE" CLAIMS THAT I DO. 
Either someone out there is receiving that amount in my name or the "RSM Project Office" just sits around making up stuff to foil anything to do with President Obama's landmark legislation.   
I consider either possibility equally probable. 
This is not a joke, despite my attitude.  I have no idea how long "I" have been receiving this imaginary money, but should I, indeed, prove eligible for its receipt, please forward it to my sad bank account, with interest.  In lieu of that, please find and arrest the person/entity who is enjoying that government benefit in my name. 
[...]
Do I really believe that a division of Georgia's government has stolen SSI funds from the good and decent Federal government?  No.  But I do believe they are ignorant enough and blinded by political animus to overlook an obvious bit of fraud.  I've asked them to report it... I doubt that they will. 
Sincerely,  
Moi 
Ah, those of you out there who just love State and Federal SNAFUs are waiting, breath-bated, for the one response that DID come!  Well, here you go, and look, Fred just found another bottle of chardonnay, duct-taped under the kitchen table by Bianca "Wile E. Coyote" Castafiore.  Just in time.

On Wed, Jul 23, 2014 at 2:35 PM, <customer_services_dfcs@dhr.state.ga.us> wrote:


Good afternoon,
Your request has been forwarded to the DFCS Fair Hearing Unit for review and response.
Have a great day.


© 2013 L. Ryan

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

some ordinals... but not others...

let's see.

first, great thoughts of flaming balls of courage (in the southern style) to miss kate mcrae and her lovely family out in california, land of all possibilities, ocean, sky, sand, and forest.

she's had a neurological scare, and i suppose that any neurological symptoms suddenly showing up in a brain cancer survivor makes one want to redefine "scary" and scream "bleeeeccckkkkkkk!"  just guessing.

so she has an mri and all that stuff coming up so that we can dismiss scary and stop yelling  "bleeeeccckkkkkkk!" -- thereby rendering us all much more acceptable to be around.

second, great thoughts of flaming balls of freaking courage, pain relief, and waves upon wave of energetic laughter, even of the cosmic sort, to our brother-unit el profeso obstinado, the former grader boob.

no, grader boob is not dead, deceased, but he is kinda gone. on a temporary basis.  he recently penned the humorous observation:  "I was asked to come in for an interview to one of the full-time spots I applied for months ago. The universe has a sense of humor."

it's simply that, due to a cancer invasion, el profeso obstinado has knocked off the hours he usually dedicates to red-penning and instructive, encouraging marginalia.  there is also the small detail that such activity would be even less compensated than usual.

let's see, i've pulled off a "first," and a "second," and without much difficulty, i could add a third, fourth, and fifth.  but i'm not feeling ordinal.



© 2013 L. Ryan

Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Primacy of Silence

I am rationalizing as fast as I can.  Without a goal, though, it's much like treading water, no rescue of self or others the end point, just lactic acid weighing down the legs and my uselessness made manifest by drowning.



At camp one summer, I qualified for the final exam in a Red Cross Certified Advanced Life Saving course. The elite bunch of us candidates were given instructions on what to wear.  Jeans, a leather belt, a button-up long sleeve shirt, a short-sleeved tee underneath, lace-up shoes, ankle-length socks, and a hat.  I remember how unspecified the hat seemed.  How color did not matter, how function trumped style.  We all had on, as a final layer and defense against pubescence, one-piece bathing suits.

It was early morning and there was fog on the camp lake.  We took our final exam off the end of a rickety pier.  The examiners seemed matronly, an odd remembrance, since I am sure they were not matronly. Maybe everyone looked a little heavy, given the extra layers we had piled on.

So all candidates jumped into the cool, slightly stinky pond water, and tread water for a specified time.  Then we were to take off the jeans, shirt, tee, belt, shoes, and socks.  I suppose we did something with the hats, but I cannot remember what.  Some of these items were to be transformed into flotation devices.  Some of them I saw fit to let drift to the slimy pond's bottom.  I lost points for giving up on my lace-up boots. Perhaps, if I had saved them and made it to an illusory desert island, they'd have supplied sustenance enough for the whole class, for a month, at least.

Then we showed off our proficiency by floating a bit, hanging on to those inflated blue jean legs, for example, or resting our heads on pouffed out tee shirts.

That's when I began to have cramps in my calves, as I was more treading water, still, than honestly floating with confident reliance on my deflated jeans.  Still wish I could visualize the hat.  I keep thinking that it was some sort of oddity, like an old lady's gardening helmet, and not what you'd expect, like a San Francisco Giants baseball cap.

I long ago decided that I was not going to trapped inside my family's predilection for silence, and its awful predatory and coercive ways of underscoring the primacy of silence.  This blog, every email I write, most of my conversations -- they all honor that long ago decision.  It comes off as narcissism, as a form of anti-socialism.  It reads as an inability to edit, not just my verbal production, but my private thoughts, as well.

I am reminded of how Rothko, Picasso, and many "unknown" artists would occasionally allow rancor under their skin, and be coerced into producing the finest of representational art, in some unexpected and banal medium.  To prove that they were classically trained.  To prove that they could draw intricacy like nobody's business.  They usually managed to achieve something reminiscent of the best boy or best girl in the final year of prestigious art school, a something or other to promote their impressive portfolio.  Especially fun are the naive artists, the primitives, when they break into some Parisian metro near-photographic pen-and-ink brilliance. Everyone feels secretly foolish after these displays.  "See, I can do what you think I cannot.  I simply choose not to, I choose another way.  Which I have now, of course, dirtied and demeaned for wont of proving this silly ability to you." We like to blame the other for our pricked pride, our mainlined production, our betrayal of ourselves.

My hat was of woven grass and had a plastic flower, something approximating a yellow mum without the fragrance.  I guess it was supposed to float up side down, and perhaps serve as repository for my boots, spare keys to our dorm, a cabin-without-a-lock, and my pyrography award plaques.  Next time, a fez, or a Stetson.

One of the instructor's had to save me, and she went all out -- "for the sake of demonstration," she whispered in my ear.  My chin ensconced in her palm, to both keep my head above the pond's water and to maintain control of my body, should I decide to panic and, as the drowning sometimes do, attempt to take my rescuer with me to my watery grave.  I am glad she did not decide on that scenario, as a firm grip on my hair would be the next step.

With a smart scissor kick and a modified side-stroke, she brought me successfully to shore, or, in reality, to the slimy ladder on the side of the pier.  I scrambled to my feet, and rejoined my classmates.

It wasn't an ego-destroying failure, but it stung.  Had I passed, I'd have been part of the group swim from the cordoned safe-swim area for all campers across the lake to wild waters and a very famous rope swing. As it was, I ate ice cream and watched two of my compatriots forget to let go of the rope whilst safely over open water. Ouch.


© 2013 L. Ryan

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

high, low and in-between

yes, i know that i've posted this video/song before.  i will probably post it again.  get over it.





I come from a long line
High and low and in between
Same as you
Hills of golden
Hails of poison
Time’s thrown me through
And I believe I’ve come to learn
That turnin’ round
Is to become confusion
And the gold’s no good for spending
And the poison’s hungry waiting

What can you leave behind
When you’re flyin’ lightning fast
And all alone? 
Only a trace, my friend,
Spirit of motion born
And direction grown.
A trace that will not fade
In frozen skies
Your journey will be
And if her shadow doesn’t seem much company
Who said it would be? 

There is the highway
And the homemade lovin’ kind
The highway’s mine
And us ramblers are getting the travelling down
You fathers build with stones
That stand and shine
Heaven’s where you find it
And you can’t
Take too much with you
But daddy, don’t you listen
It’s just this highway talkin’

All things that are alive
Are brothers in the soil
And in the sky
And I believe it
With my blood
If not my eyes
I don’t know why we can’t
Be brothers here
I know we should be
Answers don’t seem easy
And I’m wonderin’
If they could be

-- townes van zandt

Prayer of Pan Cogito – Traveller

Prayer of Pan Cogito – Traveller

Lord
Thank you for creating the world beautiful and of such variety
And also for allowing me in your inexhaustible goodness
To visit places which were not the scene of my daily torments

- for lying at night near a well in a square in Tarquinia while the swaying
bronze declared from the tower your wrath and forgiveness

and a little donkey on the island of Corcyra sang to mi from
its incredible bellowing lungs the landscape’s melancholy

and in the very ugly city of Manchester I came across
very good and sensible people

nature reiterated her wise tautologies the forest was
forest the sea was sea and rock was rock

stars orbited and things were as they should be – Jovis omnia plena

- forgive me thinking only of myself when the life of
others cruel and irreversible turned round me like the huge
astrological clock in the church at Beauvais

for being too cowardly and stupid because I did not understand
so many things

and also forgive me for not fighting for the happiness of
poor and vanquished nations and for seeing only moonrise and museums
- thank you for the works created to glorify you which
have shared with me part of there mystery so that in gross conceit

I concluded that Duccio Van Eyck Bellini painted for me too

and likewise the Acropolis which I had never fully understood
patiently revealed to me its mutilated flesh

- I pray that you do not forget to reward the white-haired old
man who brought me fruit from his garden in the bay of the island of Ithaca

and also the teacher Miss Hellen on the isle of Mull whose
hospitality was Greek or Christian and who ordered light
to be placed in the window facing Holy Iona so that human
lights might greet one another

and furthermore all those who had shown me the way and said
kato kyrie kato

and that you should have in your care the Mother from Spoleto
Spiridion from Paxos and the good student from Berlin who
got me out of a tight spot and later, when I unexpectedly
ran into him in Arizona, drove me to Grand Canyon which
is like a hundred thousand cathedrals standing on their heads

- grant O Lord that I may forget my foolish and very weary
persecutors when the sun sets into the vast uncharted
Ionian sea

that I may comprehend other men other tongues other suffering
and that I be not stubborn because my limitations are
without limits

and above all that I be humble, that is, one who sees
one who drinks at the spring

thank you O Lord for creating a world very beautiful and varied

and if this is Your temptation I am tempted for ever
and without forgiveness

--Zbigniew Herbert



© 2013 L. Ryan