Skinny Moon

The lunar orb waxes and wanes.
When it's just before or after new it's called a skinny moon.
Things keep changing, the full moon is just a memory.

An on-line photo gallery.
New faces, some old faces. No one I really know.
Then another view, and it is her.

It has been a tough year.
Now she has her place in the sun- for a day.
Playing hooky- for a day.

Party till late.
Another shot, at an outdoor cafe.
There she is again.

With an orange soda, not a beer.
It may mean nothing.
I don't know her. Really.

But I'll take it as a good sign.
The skinny moon after the new.
It will be alright.

Tackle Box

Cleaned out the garage a little today. Found my dad's old tackle box. I merged what was left of it into mine, throwing out the stuff from both boxes that was too funky or worthless. My dad wasn't the greatest fisherman, but we had some good times together on the water. The most memorable time was on Swan Lake in Todd county, when a storm came up, the motor wouldn't start and one of the oars broke. We managed to get ashore, soaked to the skin, and with no fish, either. It was never about the fish. For him I think it was a way to return to his youth, when he spent a lot of time fishing to supplement the often meager table at home. For me, It was about puttering around in bays and shallows, with their endlessly fascinating underwater worlds, visible in the early morning or late afternoon, when the sun would shine at an angle; the leafy weeds becoming castles, and the swarms of little sunfish and perch fantastic knights on quests of valor, with the occasional ogre-like Pike lurking, ready to devour a careless swimmer.

Old Lovers

"...so, are you going to carry that baggage around with you the rest of your life?"
"You talking to me? Love 'em and leave 'em Batty?"

What to do with those 'precious things' that are the mementoes and memories of your previous lovers? "Remember old lovers and keep them holy" - they aren't that precious! Yet...they linger, in the shadows of your mind, hopping out at the most inopportune times. The story of the guy who always dated girls with the same name (so he would never call out the wrong one in the height of ecstasy), may not be entirely apocryphal. And those photos! And all the gifts! And the clothes that you wore that special night! Just chuck them all? Why not? Are you going to sit and fondle them in your loneliness and decrepitude?

Still...that picture of her at 19 is pretty adorable. I wonder if she still has that book published in 1820 that I gave her. Oh, I give up! I'm just an old fool, and old fools never learn. Now where is my hankie?

Dondi And The Waitress

When I arrived home yesterday, I was greeted not by the weaver, but by her friend/colleague, Dondi. "Welcome home, Honey!" Dondi is fearless in word and deed. "What's for dinner, dear?" was my response. The weaver then came into the kitchen and stopped THAT little mini-drama. We all talked for a quite a while, catching up on Dondi's views of life and the world. The weaver suggested we go out for a drink and a light repast. Dondi was game, and off we went to the neighborhood patio bar on an absolutely gorgeous evening.

The patio was almost empty, a young waitress came a took our drink orders. When she returned with the wine, she obviously was having a little difficulty with the corkscrew. "How long have you been a server?" piped Dondi. "Only about a month...This corkscrew is harder to do than I thought." Dondi talked with the young woman, making her feel at ease. The waitress took our food order and left.

Dondi told us a story about her favorite waitress, who worked at a roadhouse near Dondi's rural home. "We have gone there for many years, she is someone who hasn't had the easiest life, but we always enjoyed her and tipped her well. Sometimes she would talk about the treatment she had received from some of the other 'regulars', our neighbors, and I was shocked." Dondi told us of her waitressing career (one night) and we talked about the elitism that people feel they need to express whenever they are in certain social situations.

After our meal, we ordered port with our desserts, and Dondi graciously explained the types of port and what we were looking for to our neophyte server. The young woman seemed genuinely pleased that customers would express an encouraging interest in her. As she left Dondi cheerfully said: "Why don't you tell your boss you need to take a few bottles of wine home to practice your opening technique on?" "I'm not 21 yet!" was her reply. We all laughed.

It is a curious thing, how uncivil people can be in commercial situations. There ought to be an eleventh commandment:

Thou shalt not hassle anybody doing honest labor no matter what their social position is compared to yours.

That would make the world a better place.

The End Of Love

Is there an end to love? Is it a fixed amount, a spiral to an ultimate dead end? Or is it a continuum, on and on, renewing and regenerating itself? Perhaps it is like an organism, a parasite in a symbiotic relationship with the host, with each partner getting some benefit from each other.

Love needs something to grow in, a culture, so to speak. It needn't be a beautiful garden, although it will thrive there quite nicely. Love is tough, it can grow between the cracks in an urban sidewalk, it can live in the harshest desert. But it will die in a poisonous environment. It can be broken, the cruel twists of time and fate can stop it prematurely. But the end of love, its ultimate destiny, is that inevitable?

God is love, so some will say. God can have an odd way of showing love, if that is indeed the case. All is love, if so then why are so many without it? Is love real? It's as real as you can feel it. If each of us is the result of love, and each of us has an end, then there is a personal end to love.

Lines of water, water lines.

Dip my feet into the stream of consciousness to alter current and obsctruct flow, feet like mermaid angels eyes bear glisteningly dilated pupils. Water is funny and water is live and let live like laremy and poetry.

Few lines will ever be as clear as the water line, knowing when you're above or below, the line as seemless as its own transition.

A young boy sits in the bathtub of white porceline with the shower running and the drain clogged, slowly creating and tending to the water line. He will raise it like a child without name, tending to it and fostering growth so that one day he will look back upon his life and realize that he never noticed the moment when the water passed his neck and mouth and eyes. I've been drowning all these years, he whispered, as the water rushed into his lungs.

He then died and sank like a ship, and the water was all around him.

The Quiet One Returns

"Hi."

The quiet one has come back. Her infant has been treated and is healthy again. She smiles as she speaks, her dimple reappears in her perfect cafe-au-lait skin and she laughs, a low "huh-huh-huh". As I stand next to her, I can feel my goofy grin spreading, there's nothing I can do to stop it. A complete body tingle stirs within me, and I feel a second of joy. We talk about her upcoming wedding, I mention that all the single guys will be sad now, now that they've lost their chance. She laughs again, and says she hopes that her wedding dress will fit.

She's only three months and already showing.

Bookshelf

My summer reading has ground to a halt. Time to check out the Flippist library for suitable replacements. We'll skip the Sock-Monkey Erotica, I'm too hot already for that kind of foolishness. I really should be reading my copy of Teach Yourself Icelandic but the lesson stories are full of farm accidents, orphans and other melancholy. Here's a copy of Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine...I'll just open it in the middle..."The labial appendages of the Hottentot women have been celebrated for years..."I'll pass on that. I really should have another go at Halldór Laxness's Paradise Reclaimed- Iceland and Mormons! Together! Probably not the lightest fare.

Aha! Here is the book I need. Four Souls, by Louise Erdrich, This modern saga-writer of the Upper Midwest and her multi-generational novels of Indian and German culture in Minnesota and North Dakota are always worth the time. If you want to start in on her work, pick up a copy of Tracks. She has been compared to Faulkner and Garcia Márquez...enough said. I'll take this down to the screen porch and curl up with the story of Fluer Pillager.

Nine Pound Hammer

Back when we had rental property on North Fifth Street, it was always a challenge to keep the place from falling down. One time a whole section of the north fence had collapsed, requiring some emergency repairs. I enlisted the aid of Frankie Paradise to help me drive in some new fence posts. We began working, and as soon as we had established a rhythm, I began to sing:

This Nine Pound Hammer, Is a little too heavy, For my size, Baby for my size.

And without missing a beat, Frankie rejoined:

Well it's a long way to Harlan, It's a long way to Hazard, Just to get a little brew, Just to get a little brew.

And then we both sang the chorus:

Roll on, buddy, Don't ya roll so slow. How can I roll, When my wheels won't go? Roll on, buddy, With your load of coal. How can I roll, When my wheels won't go?

Frankie knew all about swinging a hammer that was a little too heavy. He was stubborn enough in a lot of ways to make his life more trouble than it should have been, but he did what he wanted to do for the most part, and heaven help you if you stood in his way. The metaphor of mining and life fit him in a certain way, always digging for some coal, be it in music, motorcycles, love, or drugs.

And when I'm long gone, Don't you make my tombstone, Outta number nine coal, Outta number nine coal.

Still, I am glad for the times we spent together. Making movies, playing music, shooting hoops and even working on that dumb fence. That fence is long gone now, as is Frankie. But whenever I hear that traditional country tune, I'm right back there with him, sweating and singing:

Roll on buddy, Don't ya roll so slow. How can I roll, When my wheels won't go? Roll on buddy, With your load of coal. How can I roll, When my wheels won't go? How can I roll, When my wheels won't go?

A North Fifth Street Story

Letting Go

Mothers, you've gotta love 'em. But the umbilical cord is often not severed at birth. There are different approaches to mothering, of course, spanning a range from hostile through indifferent into affectionate and on all the way to smothering. But when should a mother 'let go' or to be more precise, what constitutes 'letting go'?
Is it out of the house and your on your own at 16? 18? 21? 34!? And what aspect of control does a mother have? Guilt, of course. Hatred, jealousy, all the seven deadly sins and then some. And then there is the difference between a son and a daughter, or first, middle or last born. Sometimes the hurt and anger lasts a lifetime. Sometimes 'letting go' is really a rejection, and then it is sad, if you can't share a little unconditional love with your mom, and vice-versa, with whom can you?

The Play's The Thing

I'll be on my best behavior this week. The eldest son is coming home, coming home with his "girlfriend". This might be the real thing. In this age of eternal engagements, (or perpetual co-habitation) that might be wishful thinking on my part, but still, it is something. They'll be going up to the Boundary Waters this week-end with a couple of other neo-voyageurs.

Actually, I've met her before (my psychologist brother-in-law even examined her and declared her free of "billable issues") so this isn't exactly a new situation, still, I find myself thinking: "You might have this person involved in your life for the foreseeable future, so watch how you act and think before you speak." As the pater familia, I find myself slowing morphing into a new role; it's not that I am the ruler of a dynasty, it's just that I will be in a different role in this play that is my life.

I'll be cooking for them tonight, and if that isn't high drama, it may be low comedy. Either way, the stage is set. The houselights dim, the curtain rises, Act III, Scene I opens, the actors enter, the action commences...

Inscrutable

Think. Write. Edit. Post.
That's how I usually proceed with these blog entries. (Although some may question the first item on that list.) Earlier this evening, I wrote a post. It was nothing special, in fact it was a mess. It was all about a cryptic message I received in a fortune cookie the other day:

You see pictures in poems and poems in pictures.

No big revelation here, but I attempted to construct an argument against it. No such luck. I tried the obverse argument (Flippism). Still no go. I sputtered through a couple of paragraphs, thinking it was good enough, and I prepared to run it. I was a bit drowsy- I had previously drunk a WHOLE BOTTLE of beer with supper tonight- and the text was riddled with typos. "I'll just run through spell check," I lazily rationalized.

Gone.

My IP has some pretty good control of pop-ups, but it must have mistaken the spell-check window for one. When I restarted my browser, the old post was gone. 'Recover post' did nothing. I started to re-write it, and Blogger wouldn't even let me 'Save as Draft". It knew. It prevented me from posting a bad entry. Artificial Intelligence? Or was it the inscrutable wisdom of the east, stepping in to prevent yet another heresy from yours truly?

Who Am I?

confessor, confessee,
shoulder to cry on, cryer,
man-child, father figure,
free-thinker, wage-slave,
reader, writer,
savvy lover, hopeless fumbler,
friend of cats, enemy of squirrels,
last years model, the next big thing,

failure,...?

who are you?

Easily Amused

Sometimes the cynic in me is overwhelmed. My icy crust of irony dissolves into giggles over silly TV comedy sketches or a Fred Bassett comic strip. I have a friend who once worked for a National Public Radio personality, I asked him what his job entailed and he simply replied: "Making Papa laugh." Perhaps that concept is the origin of all comedy. Papa is happy, nobody gets hurt. The court jester- magnified a hundred million times. We're all Bozos on this bus! Laughing to keep from crying. What's so funny? What is the secret of TIMING IS THE SECRET OF COMEDY comedy?

I declare that sometimes my mental age is about eight. When I am unable to laugh anymore, then I'll be grown up dead.

¾ Buzz

Ah, the mysteries of the organism! Of all the mental states we subject ourselves to, alcoholic inebriation has to be the least refined. A glass of wine, a bottle of beer, a cocktail or shot of hard liquor- all have about the same amount of C2H5OH- not enough to get most people tipsy (you really need at least another drink to do the job.) Then the ¾ buzz takes effect- that area where everything takes a 'glow on' while speech, mannerisms and coordination are still reasonably intact. Beyond that, hilarity or depression ensues, often intermixed.

In the 1962 movie "Lover Come Back", Rock Hudson 'seduces' Doris Day after they consume VIP, a candy wafer that turns into alcohol when it hits the bloodstream. At least he had the decency to marry her first! (It was only the early sixties after all.) What if chemists could devise a self regulating form of alcohol that would keep you at that certain point betwixt sobriety and utter chaos? Would it make any difference? Many people need a little 'lubrication' before they feel comfortable in social or intimate relations. Perhaps a real-life 'VIP' would enable the meek, the shy and the insecure to have an opportunity to feel free, without feeling/acting like a fool.

Of course, you could carefully regulate your drinking, staying close to the 'edge'. But unfortunately alcohol also impairs judgement, causing a 'moving target' effect when it comes to discerning the line of demarcation. Or perhaps, for some, the goal is obliteration. Then the existing mechanisms work perfectly well, if one is prepared to pay the price.

Two Wrongs...

...don't make a right. Or so the saying goes. Neither does one. Or three. Or a dozen. So what is the answer when you've been wronged? What can make it right? Maybe nothing. Maybe the scene is so bad, the hurt committed so heinous that there really isn't any corrective measure that can be taken. How can you get over it? Most of us live and learn, make do with what we have, and hope for the best. But the wrong, the black spot, is still there. It can be a personal assault. It can be an institutional practice. What is the answer?

We do what we can. We look at the situation, change what we can, accept what we cannot, and take measures to prevent a reoccurence. At some point we have to draw the line, to prevent it from destroying us. We can't let it continue eating away at us, or we become it.

We don't have to do it alone. We can get some help. Bad things happen to good people. But things change. Perhaps the meaning of life is working things out. There is no real alternative.

summer like a drug

blood in pink flesh
matches the air temp
with forehead glistening
melting into the air
summer like a drug
summer like a drug

girl in pink bikini
wanders in grasses
with her pubescent lover
melting into the air
summer like a drug
summer like a drug

dog in grey coat dances
on the prairie running
with unfettered abandon
melting into the air
summer like a drug
summer like a drug

cat in green bower
slumbers fitfully
dreaming of kitten frolics
melting into the air
summer like a drug
summer like a drug

Simple Pleasures

On my recent vacation, the Weaver and I rode the Root River Bike Trail in southern Minnesota. A few things noted:

The Amish girls in their bonnents and long dresses (in 90 degree heat), with fishing gear, going down to the Root. They looked natural and fitting for this environment.

The smiles on the faces of all the bikers on the path. A lot of these people hadn't been on a bike in years. There was a look of freedom in their faces completely unlike the grim, sad look of most motorists.

The odd little service shops that spring up along the way. A day spa/massuse service in the little town of Whalan (Pop. 34) across the way from a pie shop. No corporate francishes here.

Miles of roads with no cars. You don't realized how annoying vehicles can be until you return to "civilization".

How easy it is to forget about work, debt, and taxes when you are enjoying these 'simple pleasures'.

The Interlopers

   Lanesboro, Minnesota, is a small town in Southern Minnesota that was on the verge of extinction in the 1970's. A group of citizens conceived of the idea of making it a 'destination' spot, converting an unused trail line into a bike/hike/ski trail, refurbishing a small theater for live performances, and converting several stately Victorian mansions into BBs. It succeeded, far beyond anyone's expectations. The Weaver and I arrived early, the town was just stirring, so we ate and then took a stroll throughout the tree-lined avenues. We happened upon a slightly faded 'painted lady', as these majestic homes are sometimes called. The sign said "Vacancy", so we went up to the front door. The door bell was posted "out of order" so we took a chance and tried the door. It opened, and in the foyer was another set of doors with the sign "Open" hung upon the knob. We entered...

   "Hello! Is anybody home?" The house was silent. I strolled about a bit, carved golden oak woodwork, stained glass windows and vintage french posters lined the great room and the dining room. I peeked into the kitchen- a full commercial kitchen- obviously designed for banquets or other large gatherings. It was obvious that nobody was home. There was a number to call in a flyer by the door, the cell didn't work so I took it back to the commercial district, found a phone booth, and called. Someone mumbled: "MMmmbbttg B&B". I explained that we had seen the place and wondered if there was a room available tonight. "Sure! we've got one room with a queen sized bed." I said that we'd take it. I asked what we should do to reserve it. "Oh just come in, I'll be there to help you."

   Now many of these B&B's are part-time operations, with the owner working nearby during the day. I thought she would stop over and we'd meet her there. We went back. Nobody there. Well, maybe she'd been distracted. We waited a few minutes, read some art books and left a note, with our baggage. We were there to bike, after all, and the day was wasting. We rode for miles, ate lunch, and rode some more. Very pleasant and civilized. Visited the local museum, and toured some beautiful gardens. Then we went back to the B&B.

   We walked in, classical music was playing on the stereo, and we were ready to wash up and plan our evening. Nobody was there. We went upstairs, perhaps we could figure out which bedroom was ours. No such luck. We decided to wait, at this time we really could use a rest, so we both napped on the antique furniture. An hour later we both awoke, refreshed. Still nobody there. I snooped around a bit, found a telephone in the kitchen. I called the number again, and explained the situation. "Oh no!" The operator said. "This is the MMmmbbttg B&B - we only answer phones for that B&B. There isn't any room available..."

   Well, we then went and had a delightful dinner outdoors at a local restaurant, and drove home. We got to stay in a nice B&B for free, if only for a little while. I wonder if anyone ever did show up?

Endless Loop

In southern Minnesota is a quaint burg that calls itself "Bandtown USA." It does have a museum of band music (brass and marching) that may be the largest in the world. It does have a town band, and I was there in time to catch a concert. A band shell in the park on a beautiful summer's eve. There isn't any scene of small town Americana better than that.

You can also be sure that you are going to hear The Colonel Bogey March, God Bless America,and Stars and Stripes Forever. They gave it a shot, but it's hard for a part time band to play with any precision. As I sat listening, I mused over the many band concerts I've attended. I have always heard these exact same tunes at each one. Tradition has its place, but we're talking endless loop here. In this situation, they have access to thousands of scores, right in town, yet they play only a handful of chestnuts.

Later, winding down at the hotel, I surfed the cable box. There, on the local access channel, was the concert I attended that night. A strange hypnotic fascination compelled me to experience it again.

I have an uneasy feeling that it won't be the last time, either.

Home and Garden Tour

My fair city puts on its 'sunday best' once a year for the Home and garden tour. This year, the homes included some of the oldest in town, some restored, others remodeled, some in process. Living in an old house is a trial. Remodeling an old house is precisely like slamming your head against a brick wall. You suffer intensely while doing it, then feel much better when it's over. Today's tour was the perfect vehicle for nosy neighbors to comiserate and swap war stories.

The most intriguing by far was the old Kline Sanitarium, active as a clinic/spa from 1902-1935. It was converted into a hotel in 1939 and gradually evolved into the apartment building it is today. With its twin towers welcoming the visitor to our town as they cross the Mississippi River, it has fascinated me since I was a child, going past it on the way to grandmother's house. The inside did not disappoint. The suite of rooms we visited had high ceilings, carved woodwork and a beautiful inlaid floor. It had been the reception area, with the smaller rooms used as examination rooms. The current owner lives there, and it had a distinct "Adams Family" sense of decor, replete with skulls, erotic art and a gentle ambiance of decay. I was glad we toured it in the daylight.

The others were, basically, just old houses, some with a nice room or two, but really only more or less utilitarian. It made me feel a little better about my 'Frankenstein' of a house- the remodeling I've done over the years is finally making this shack look like a place were people comfortably, albeit not stylishly, lived. Which is exactly what it is.

V.A.C.A.T.I.O.N.

"...in the summer sun.."

Even the harried professor gets a little break now and then, off on a bike trip in southern MN. Until he returns you can all talk amongst yourselves...see you in a few...

Cook Outs

Summer nights meant cook-outs when I was young. My father, never one for convention, liked to use an electric frying pan for his culinary endeavors. He even went so far as to install an electrical outlet on the rear of our house, where he could plug in that pan and "grill" pork chops to his hearts content. Of course, this attracted the neighborhood urchins, especially the Koska kids, who evidently didn't get much to eat at home.

I had my fifth birthday party outdoors, with all the neighborhood kids in attendance. My father (with his frying pan cooking the hot dogs) was in charge. My dad never knew when to quit. Arlen Koska, who must have never tasted ice cream before, ate so much of it that he had to get his stomach pumped. I guess it really isn't a complete kid's birthday party if someone doesn't get sick.

One particularly memorable dinner outdoors was after an afternoon thundershower. The big clouds had moved east, into Wisconsin, and a beautiful double rainbow arched in front of those thunderheads. My dad told me that a rainbow is God's promise to Noah not to have any more great floods. I guess that's true, depending on where you live.

My Baby's Comin' Home

Five days home alone with my sheet metal symphony is enough. Just got a call that the Weaver scored an earlier flight. The pot roast is in the crock pot, the plants are watered, the grass is mown, the clothes are washed and the house is vacuumed. I picked up a six pack of Killians. There is a bottle of 17 year old scotch for later. In the words of that blues immortal:

...when I just heard this,
man, I did the twist,
my baby's comin' home...

We'll be twistin' the night away...

Fireworks

This year, I actually bought some fireworks. Why? To recapture my lost childhood? To celebrate our nation's independence? To start the garage on fire? To annoy my neighbors? No, no, no, and no.

I will use them to perform some white magick.

These fireworks are of the "fountain of sparks" variety. On each wrapper I will write a word, along with a name. My intention is that as the pyrotechnic display erupts, it will take the "curse" the word represents and consume it, thus freeing the person named on it.

Loneliness..................Ame
Pain............................Julie
Rejection.................Auður
Anxiety...................Tykho
Regret..................Stephen
Homesickness........Kristín
Frustration................Dan
Anger.........................Jojo
Fear......................Charles

Good luck. I am not responsible if your garage starts on fire.

Furnace Replacement

...and about as far from the previous post as is imaginable. The furnace I said I'd replace twenty years ago, when I moved in here, the gas-guzzling, low efficency, patched and rusted piece of junk is out. I don't usually fear household appliances, but this monster-in-the-cellar gave me pause. Was I really counting on this shambles of tin and iron to keep me safe and warm in the Minnesota winter? (shudder)

When I did move it, I had to tip it on its side to get out of the way, thus dislodging all the little childrens' toys that had 'fallen' down the cold air returns. Legos, a plastic cowboy, marbles and a piece of wood with the eldest son's name scrawled in it. It seems that the basement is on a roll for memory associations this week. It is as if all the little bits of my life that are too inconsquental to be properly archived float down and settle there, waiting for someone, anyone, to validate their existence. Last week the Weaver found a plastic rabbit from a barnyard animal set while weeding the front hosta bed. The toys of our children's childhood, back to remind us of those earlier days.

All is full of love.

All is Full Of Love

Sending love. Receiving love. Finding love. Missing love. Getting caught by love, unaware. Swimming in love. Drowning in a sea of love. All is full of love.

Waiting for love. Waiting some more. Time will change your love. If you fight love, it will conquer you. If you seek love, it will elude you. All is full of love.

When you find love, don't take it for granted. When you lose love, don't lose the love within. If you crave love, don't deny your love of yourself. All is full of love.

All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love.