I must have come by my rabid, frothing at the mouth interest in all things political early on in my childhood. The careful political nurturing I received later by my parents cemented my addiction to what our country should stand for, how our country should work, and why, after all these years, we are still collectively and continuously screwing up this wonderful country we have.
Like many rug rats, I was read to by parents and my older brothers. I grew up surrounded by books, child and adult. The two books I remember the most from those early years was The Little Engine that Could and Yertle the Turtle, by Dr. Seuss. The Cat in the Hat was right up there also, but not like "Little Engine" or "Yertle the Turtle".
My mom told me when I picked the bedtime story as a little tacker who had yet to read on his own, it was usually "Little Engine" or "Yertle". It seems odd that now, some 70 years later, I notice that both books emphasize two of my most deeply embedded character pluses or minuses. The Little Engine That Could was about tenacity and never giving up. Yertle the Turtle was about power and how it corrupts.
The book was banned in several panty bunching locales for being "too Political".
"Yertle the Turtle, a children's story by Dr. Seuss, is more than just a whimsical tale. It's a potent allegory exploring themes of power, ambition, and the dangers of unchecked authority."
As I remember the story, Yertle was a big turtle in a small pond. He ruled over a kingdom as far as he could see. Everything was going well when Yertle got the idea that if he was ruling over everything he could see; he thought, "Why don't I find some high ground so I can see more and rule a bigger kingdom.
The problem his underlings pointed out was they lived in a pond. There was no high ground in a pond. Other than a swamp, a pond was about as low as one could go.
"Hmm", Yertle thought, "I wonder?"
He scratched his pebbly turtle chin. "How can I get higher?" None of his underlings or sycophants had an answer.
Yertle set to pondering this question of ruling all that he surveyed. One morning, after his breakfast of algae bloom sprinkled liberally with tadpoles and water bugs, he summoned his assistant.
"If I am to rule over all that I survey, I need to be higher so I will know how big my kingdom is. It has to be bigger than this small pond."
Yertle then demanded that several turtles from his flock stand on each other's backs. After quite a few had successfully scrambled onto each other's back, Yertle slowly climbed to the highest turtle and took a lay of the land.
The view pleased him immensely, but something was not right. He knew immediately what was wrong. He had not gained enough height. Surely there was more to his kingdom than this paltry pond and swamp. Yertle demanded that more and more of his citizens stack themselves up.
When there was a turtle stack that became lost in the distance heights, Yertle slowly climbed up the turtle stack until he found the top. He was just beginning to understand how big his kingdom was, when one of the slackers he had ordered to be part of the stack shifted. The tower of turtles began to sway this way and then sway that way, like a snake climbing a tree trunk. The sway, at first mild and almost hypnotic. began to sway in a faster and more extreme way. It was out of control. Every turtle on it clawed frantically for a grip on the turtle beneath them ..........
The stack of turtles fell and fell hard. Yertle ended up in the swamp at the end of the pond with mud in his eye and a reed stuck up his ass. That is where you will find him today; ruling over a couple of dead beat frogs and a hostile dragonfly.
Just so you know, I re-capped the story from memories of many bedtime readings of the tale. So cut me some slack if it is not perfectly correct. I covered the high notes at least.
I heard some scuttlebutt about Trump loving this tale once he was able to understand it in the 8th grade. My source went on to contend, Donnie always wished he had written it as it was the game plan he knew he was destined to follow. ......... And don't believe him when he often claims that he actually wrote the story and that sleaze bag Seuss plagiarized it from him.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..................................
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I was sure there would be problems locating a tune to go with this post that wasn't something from "Romper Room". I was wrong. I found a tune I had not heard yet. Here is "Yertle the Turtle", by the Red Hot Chili Peppers .......... Turn it up to WOW. It's the Chili Peppers dude.
I originally had this piece on automatic publish. That was just how confident I was Kamala was going to win. I made the same mistake when Hilliary ran. Sometimes it pays to not count chickens before they hatch. This was one of those times.
I was going to postpone this post for the foreseeable future, or at least until I was over the shock and disappointment of the election.
I know that wallowing in my self-pity is a no win situation. I have decided to cease and desist any more Grumpy Gus, the World can go to Hell histrionics. I'm still very unhappy, but making the decision to move on rather than wallow has had immediate benefits.
The first one is posting this bit of verse. When it is all said and done; when I weigh the Bad Times against the Good Times, the personal Truth of the verse still holds.
Besides, my good friend "Pipe" asked me to repost. Thank you sir for the poke.
"Nothing Less"
Sitting here
at 72
Wondering if
My dreams
did come true
Then I don’t
remember
Ever dreaming a dream
I was not already living
My Life has
been nothing less
Than the dream I could ever
Hope to have come
true.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................
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This piece of verse was inspired by Sierra Hull's fine song, "Someone Like You".
I never concerned myself with where or who came up with this quote. Was it a song, a line in a movie, or was it just some casual wisdom passed down by someone who coined it and made it famous? I didn't know, so I checked.
Apparently that great poet Emily Dickinson came up with it. That makes sense of course. She could create wonderful poetry with the fewest words possible. I always admired her work.
I would be lying though if I didn't admit that it may have had something to do with the brevity she brought to her poems.
In grade school, specifically Mrs. Savage's 6th grade class, memorizing one of her poems was a lot easier than say, Longfellow, who was also great. He was much longer winded. I gravitated to her when the assignment was to memorize a poem from "the list". We were expected to recite it in class and then explain what it meant to us. At least the first part was easy. Explaining the poems with a 6th grade male mind, not so much.
“The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care”
The version of the quote most poached today is only a part of the original quote. Dropping the last phrase takes something away from the point I think. The emotional Heart only feels in one direction at a time. Both Hatred and Love are created by the emotional Heart and both only have one goal. While their short term goals are mutually exclusive, Their ultimate goal is often the same: to blanket the object of their affection or derision with as much emotion as possible.
Seeing the quote and a recent viewing of the film, "A Quiet Passion" brought up memories of poetry, Mrs. Savage, and how much I loved her class. More importantly it caused me to want more information about Emily Dickinson.
She was singled minded and refused to be relegated to marriage, children and kow towing to the men in her life: an early accidental Feminist I guess. She pushed boundaries and through tenacious will and her over the top talent, she broke through a barrier women writers now take for granted.
It angers me now that so much of the current interest in Emily is whether she was Gay or not. Who the fuck cares? Isn't it enough that she left us a beautiful body of work and helped to elevate American literature to where it was slowly being recognized by the literary snobs across the pond. Today, she is more popular in Great Britain than here. Hell, I wonder if two in ten Americans would even recognize her name.
I tried hard to remember my favorite Dickinson poem from Sixth grade. Couldn't do it. But I will assume it was one of her shortest. So, with short in mind, Here are two of the over 1700 poems she penned in her all too short lifetime:
I never know where I will find the prompts for my posts. This one came from Outer Space I think.
BTW - Emily Dickinson is related to Taylor Swift. ...... For what its worth.... To some a lot, to the rest of us, not a bit. ........We just don't give a shit.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .............................
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Today it's a cover day. One of the best Blues Tune ever recorded is "The Sky is Crying". So many blues players have covered it, the original artist's version was lost in the many covers of it. Elmore James was first and still my favorite, but this cover by Stevie Ray Vaughn is right on Elmore's heels. Every time I listen to it, I want to sit on a tall stool, my elbows on a bar and drink sour mash like I did so many years ago.
My yard has been in a serious state of disarray for 3 or 4 or maybe even 5 or 6 years now. The jungle I used to beat back to a stalemate in days gone by took every advantage it could these past years and now I imagine the jungle decided it has finally won.
No matter how overgrown my yard gets, one of the plantings will always raise a hand to let me know they are still hanging in there.
The flowers to the left are the progeny of an escapee seedling I dug up from a neighbor's garden path, oh, I guess about 8 years ago. I had no idea that little transplant I left to its own devices would grow so big and strong. But it did and it is one of the few stand outs still standing.
And I still do not know what it is.
Well, if I was unable to fight the good fight?
A couple of ringers, hired guns, professionals were brought in.
They handed the jungle its first defeat in years I believe.
Now that some light drifts in, I am inspired,
Hopefully for more than a minute or two.
It's been painful, unkind and blows my mind.
Sloth combined with age is a tough row to hoe.
But hoe we must, or the sooner we turn into dust.
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Once I found this tune, "Forgotten Flowers" by John Fulbright, my search for a tune halted. Its folksy, but a good listen.
A music video posted by a FB friend found its way to my feed yesterday. I had not heard of the group Ferocious Dog before. They are a very talented band from across the pond. Very socially conscious; most of the tunes I followed up with concerned every day souls in crisis or bewilderment with the world they lived in.
The tune my friend posted was "Broken Soldier". Immediately my memory bank kicked in and I was thinking of a friend I had met during my hard drug days in the early 1970s. His experience as a Vietnam vet I wrote about in a short composition in my blog back around ten years ago.
And since I have recently become smitten with poetry again and the possibility of creating some that was not terrible, I turned my short post into a short poem after I heard this tune.
It is so sad that fifty years later, we are still dealing with critically damaged souls after we sent them to wars that made on sense. Anyway, here are my thoughts after listening to Ferocious Dog's tune about the same problem.
"Conquering Hero"
His
eyes were full of the evil he had seen.
His
mouth, full of stories better passed over than passed down.
Memories
caught in his craw
Woke
him sweating cold in the dread of his nights
Leaving
him staring
Into
his darkness till Dawn’s early light
His
innocence pooled bloody on too many battle grounds.
Scarred
and broken he was sent back
To
a homeland that would never understand.
Well
meaning people wearing blue scrubs and white coats
Did
what they could.
As
it was with so many others,
It
did not work out.
Feeling
forgotten, discarded and alone with his demons,
He
sought solace in barbiturates, whiskey and gin.
Trying
to forget his role in the pre-meditated chaos
Of
Men killing Men in faraway lands.
One
day he gave up, double hit China White, laid down, and he died
Before
his curtain closed, with one final sigh,
Our
conquering hero had found his restful reprieve.
The
bleak stories and nightmares at last nodded goodbye.
RIP Pat.
War sucks. Enough said.
Later .........................................................
Facts injected with conjecture and foregone conclusions,
Cast Truth aside in pursuit of knee jerked solutions.
Lost in a sea of deception,
Specious goals are massaged by lying hands,
Replacing Honesty with Truth’s ugly step sister,
The Half Truth.
The Midway Squawkers and Snake Oil Salesmen
Insist and demand the Half Truth into our lives
Hoping their deception lasts long enough
For them to cash in their nickels and dimes.
Assaulted long enough,
We allow recent lies to become our New Truth.
Delusion casts itself in stone
Brain dead populations dance around it
Happy as if they had brains.
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I first wrote this as a Flash fiction 100 word composition quite awhile ago. I have now converted it into a poem with some minor changes. It is no longer 100 words, it is now 99 words.
I thought given the current political moods clashing and thrashing worse than ever, re-posting it here and now might just impart how I feel regarding the current crop of leaders and their lackeys.
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So I had no problem locating an appropriate tune for this post.
On this dark/bright day when shadows/light overcomes the heavy/light heart you drag down to the polls, I decided I would skip on down to the Acton Town Hall. I would not frown as I cast my vote. Just put the x's where I think they fit best. Skip along home and forget it.
And instead of heated and passionate posting on the current slide down the shit hole I might/might not see coming, I am just going to waste some bandwidth with some other bandwidth I wasted on Thinking Ten. Call it bandwidth wasted - squared.
A little ditty I wrote off the prompt "Down in a Hole" - a tale of tragedy and triumph.
Down in a hole
Where only the big moles go
The intrepid cricket tripped and he slipped
Coming down hard on three of his hips
He struggled to rise
But much to his surprise
Where once there had been six legs
Now stood only five.
From that day forward
He walked with a limp
But no one, nor anyone
Called him a wimp
Because on his shoulder
For all to see
He carried that lost leg
And would wield it with glee
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I told myself I would post every day this month. I didn't believe me. I always blow it. And I know it. So why do I make promises to myself I cannot keep?
I guess it must be easier to fool myself than anyone else. Maybe I just need the practice.
OR
If I cannot fool myself, how can I even think of fooling anyone else?
All of which brings up a real stewpot, a hobo pie comprised of multiple odd and irritating human behaviours with a tossed salad of bad habits on the side. So many tendencies, proclivities and routines that step on other toes. Obstacles we place in front of ourselves or leave behind for someone else to stumble into.
We don't often discuss our idiosincracies, the unpleasant edges of character we pick up along the way. We just live with ours, let others live with theirs, and somehow we all still wake up to a new day.
Ain't that odd?
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Showing My Age
Delicate, delectable, reflectable
Something so fragile, less than agile
Is bound for trouble
Something so special
So fine and unique
More often too quick to peak
Leaves brown regrets, frets
The what could have been
The what should have been
If only we had been in
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Okay so I am mangling bytes with more mild abandon than my usual tripe. I'd apologize but what would be the point? You are either still with me or you never stopped by. If you got this far, you deserve what you got. If you never stopped by, well, I guess you dodged a bullet you lucky bastard.
This week's Friday Flash Fiction starter sentence comes from Aussie Paul - "He had been told crawling would get him nowhere."
Since I have little time to give a longer piece because of work constraints, I gave myself 30 minutes to come up with a six line effort. Okay, so I actually spent maybe an hour on it. The first six line effort got me in the ball park. After another half hour, I think I made it better.
The last line was inspired by a movie by the Coen Brothers. One of the verbal exchanges between Bernie Bernbaum and Tom Reagan. Bernie died anyway. Except for the fact that Bernie was gay, maybe the whole piece was inspired by this movie. John Turtorro's acting just fascinates me.
Having No Pride
He had been told crawling would get him nowhere.
They knew nothing of his resolve and patience.
After all, he had found the one rich woman who would cater to his groveling ways.
Having no pride, self humiliation became his stock in trade; his road to success.
Now Death sits at his front door and yet he has no fear.
Confident the Reaper will let him skate if he is on his knees and soils his britches just so.
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I chose to once again poke fun at some sacred American icons. Not sure why. Maybe it was because I was banned for life from Disney World back in 1977 for smoking pot on the monorail with members of Black Oak Arkansas and crew. But I think it is just because I really love Mickey and friends. I grew up with them and this is my way of letting them know that I know movie stars are human too. They have the same needs we all do, even if they only have four fingers on each hand.
Duck & Mouse
Duck had to kick out the back window to escape.
As Mickey and his henchmen poured in the front gate.
"The Duck has to pay", Mickey declared.
"Get Him. Kill him. Before it's too late."
Donald thought he was clever, so clever he smiled.
"Mickey you're an idiot. Minnie loved it. No way it was rape."
Just then Mickey ran into that back room with a view.
Saw Duck on the window balanced, ready to screw.
Dug deep in his pocket for some ammo to reload
To avenge Minnie's honor, killing Duck before he hit the road.
Duck just cackled and flipped Mouse the bird
"Tell me something Mickey, just what good sir, what is the good word?"
"You defiled poor Minnie, your ass is mine now"
"You loser, you clown, you feather brained turd."
But Duck did not hear him, he had leapt to the ground
Flew the coop, took a powder
Falling four floors tends to make for a very ugly sound.
Mickey rushed the window, still hoping to shoot
Leaned out, looked down and saw it was moot.
For Duck was sprawled flat, splat, like a collapsed top hat
Stone dead on the concrete, expired........ nightie night.
"Well my work here is done", Mickey declared with puffed chest.
Went home, grabbed a beer, headed to bed for some rest
Instead found his woman, the mouse of his dreams
In bed with that damn Goofy and ecstatic in mid scream.
PS - A piece I began many years ago. I offer it now as not so much a comment on what is going on in my life as something I did and now want to share. I have reworked it and most likely will again if the spirit moves me.
