Musing: Button with One Hole

button3bButton with One Hole

Too clever by far
Too clever or perhaps not at all
The Sublime twist of words
Tickling the synapses
My neurons enjoy my dexterity
I feel the tickle down my spine
Forgetting that subtlety is not
Always funny.

Posted in poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Even My Fingers Can’t Help Me Count

count
Who’s Counting?

 My name is Joe and I can’t count.

I cannot count. People laugh when I tell them this. They say, Don’t you have a degree in mathematics? I say, Yes, but mathematics is not counting. Mathematics is abstractions and theories. Counting is, well, counting.

Yes, I can recite the numbers in order. See, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. I remember reciting them as a child as fast as I could, as if I needed to hurry lest I forget one of the numbers on the way to ten. I can recite them as high as need be given enough time. You see, reciting just requires a little memorization and some basic understanding of the patterns. Reciting is the beginning of math.

Reciting is not counting. Counting is a different skill. I guess it’s the functional and practical application of reciting, perhaps like advanced reciting. Counting is keeping track of objects or repetitions.

I never acquired the counting skill. I am in fact in awe of people who have this counting skill. It’s true. The other day I was at the gym working out with some friends. One friend was doing some reps on the bench press. My other friend was in charge of counting the reps. I was talking to my counting friend. She was looking at me and talking back. Then the bench pressing friend was done.  You did seven, my counting friend says.

I was astounded. I said, What? How did you count those? You were talking to me. She said, I used my fingers. I thought, I don’t care if you used your toes. How did you pay attention, how did you focus, how did you do it? I couldn’t even fathom it. It was like magic.

You see, I get lost counting after about three. Doesn’t matter what it is. Counting reps on the bench press, counting tablespoons of sugar, counting beats in a song. Nope, can’t do it.

My counting skills are so messed up that I’ll be doing reps on the bench press and be counting 1, 2, 3 and then lose track as I keep going then at some point start counting again 13, 14, 15. What the hell is that? Can my subconscious actually count better than I can?

You might think this is frustrating. I am sure it was in the beginning and I’m sure it’s annoying to those around me. But if I hadn’t moved past frustration life would have become tedious. So by necessity and a need to survive I oddly moved past frustration into intuition. It wasn’t a conscious choice, more of an evolution.

Intuition, you say. Yes, intuition. If I wasn’t going to be able to count the reps or the tablespoons, I was going to have to develop a gut sense that something was enough or the right amount. Believe it or not you do get better at approximating. So while you may be sometimes accurate and sometimes precise, you are rarely both.

The con of intuition is that many things in life require accuracy and precision and I suck at these. I am a horrible baker.

The pro is that many things in life do not require high degrees of accuracy and precision and my intuition allows me to make quick decisions and move on. I make great meatloaf.

Though sometimes I wonder if my intuition came first and decided counting wasn’t necessary. I like to think that because it speaks to a strength begetting a weakness as opposed to a weakness begetting a strength, though I’m not sure why that matters and I suppose a weakness begetting a strength makes a better story for when I write my autobiography.

So when people say “Who’s counting anyway?” I can always say, Not me.

Posted in Personality | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musings on Broth, Kefir and Coffee

coffeeeggs2So, it’s come to this, Morning
Ritual. No yellow eyed eggs staring at
Me with unconditional love, no skillet of
Siren singing bacon calling to my waking
Spirit, no butter smeared toast stretching
Out to tickle my slumbering desire.

Too many nos, too many vacancies, too
Many nothings. Too many substitutions
Playing unfitted parts. But play them they
Do, undaunted, unashamed, unabashed,
Unapologetic. The ritual, they know, is
Greater than the sum of its parts.

Black and strong and bold the coffee
Knows what I need. Life and healing
Flow from the kefir. Warmth and warmth
And warmth, the broth brings warmth.
My future toothless self, whatever is still
Me appreciates broth, kefir and coffee.

Posted in Food, Personality, poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musing on Bars and Love

barsofloveBars of love, love that holds me out
Bars of hate, hate that holds you in
The iron gate of your prison

I can’t come in, bars of love
You can’t go out, bars of hate
These bars of your prison grate

Bars of ice, a frost upon our love
Bars of flames, singeing my affections
Ashes of whispered devotion

You wear your fetters, you have a key
I am tethered to your pain
Will probation come again?

Bars of grapes, crushed for the bottle
Aging into bars of wine
I will not come next time

Posted in poetry | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Going All Putin on the Vines

vines2What the hell happened to your arms? I said to myself this morning. Though perhaps I should have been more stern and said, What the hell happened to your arms…Joe?

Though the answer eluded me for a moment it did become clear where the scratches and scrapes came from. Except for the bruise.  I already knew that came from the door I knocked over the other day and tried to stop with my forearm. At least the discoloration could stand behind its accomplishment: the door did not smash the chair in its path.

Those pesky scratches though, they were no accident. Not at all. Just the product of thoughtless zeal. Zeal to bag the piles of sprawling and spiraling vines that had been cut down. Zeal brought on by the passing of the rain, the easing of the cold and the effrontery of the bedraggled eyesore fire hazard piles of vines.

The kind of zeal that brings energy and motivation that is fool hardy to turn away. The energy you know is fleeting. You don’t want to end up with trailing clouds of motivation, do you?

I grabbed some gloves and some bags and dove right in. Unwieldy to say the least. Like trying to wrestling ten-foot-long carnivorous, barbed spaghetti.  I put my sunglasses on to stop my eyes from being scratched out. Perhaps a pitchfork and a giant spoon would have made it easier.

Tripping and stumbling in the tangled mess at my feet didn’t help. Some snakes and quicksand and I would have been right at home in the Amazon. Though a machete wouldn’t have proven so helpful against dead vines on the ground, it would have been therapeutic.  And I needed therapy. Even the swearing wasn’t helping.

You know what else wasn’t helping? The short sleeve shirt I was wearing. Not one bit. At this point I should have gone all Putin on it and tore my shirt off. If I was going to show the vines who was boss I needed to go all shirtless on them. Nothing says command like a bare chest. And a horse. A horse to stomp on the vines.  Nothing instills submission like being stomped on.

So that’s how I got my scratches…Joe. If you’re going to show the vines who’s the boss, you’re going to have to get a few scratches.

Posted in Personality | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musings on Holes and Hearts

blackheart2aThey said there’s a hole in your
Heart. Physical, ya know, not
Emotional, I must tell myself.

Laughing at it won’t make it go
Away, won’t take away the knowing,
The ache, the break or genetic mistake.

A shadow on the x-ray, port or stern,
I can’t say.  A shadow perhaps fore of
The Day the hole strays from you to me.

They’ll say there’s a hole in your
Heart. Emotional, ya know, not
Physical. They won’t need to tell.

Posted in Personality, poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Elegy on an Aphid Free Morning

aphid2Survivor of winter, nasty sprays and weekly
Beatings. Destroyer of foliage, branches and
Flowers. Crusher of my hopes, my bounty and
Spring anticipations. But your sticky celebration was
Delivered too soon. Your spirited flights of joy
Sputtered as I rose out of the chilled basement,
Into the May sun now teetering above the
Barren trees filled with paratrooper sparrows who
Dropped onto the field of battle,
Swept you from the field and
Ended your dominion.

Posted in poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musing on Gloves and Gardening

gloves3Bruises, calluses and slivers live next to
Cuts, scrapes and blisters. My hands my
Only hands have become a gated
Community of environmental abuses
Heaped on my hands, my only hands.
Branches, cheap plywood and aged shovels
Release their frustration in sadistic practices
On my hands, my only hands. My naked hands,
My only hands sing for protection, sing for
Gloves. Sirens, my hands are sirens, calling for
Gloves, calling for help. I know who you are.
I know. I will not wear gloves.

Posted in poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Not Just Some Lamp I Used to Know

lamp2To repair or replace. It so often comes to that, doesn’t it?

Sometimes the answer is easy because the cost difference is so great. Too expensive to fix. Too expensive to replace.

Sometimes the answer is different because you have the skills to repair and I don’t.

And sometimes it is about attitude.

Yes, attitude. Attitudes about value. Attitudes about worth. Attitudes shaped by a culture of disposability. Attitudes shaped by a culture of heritage. Attitudes shaped by materialism. Attitudes shaped by minimalism.

I’ve found my attitude to fix things challenged recently. Challenged by the fact that some many objects in the last fifty years were specifically designed to be disposable. Never meant to be repaired. And in fact are not even repairable.

When I was a kid we cursed things that were made of plastic. Why? Because once a plastic piece broke we didn’t have the tools or skills to fix it. Wood I could glue. Metal I could solder or weld.  Plastic? I could hope the super glue would hold. It usually didn’t.

Recently I was with a friend as he took a lamp in to get it back up and running. It was missing a few parts. Though probably not horribly old it was certainly hand made. Unique but difficult to place an accurate value on it.

Cost of fixing it up wasn’t exorbitant but wasn’t a trifle. Was it worth it? Again, I suppose it all depends.

In this case the answer was yes. Probably because it was handmade.  If it was a mass produced fixture from Home Depot made fifteen years ago the answer may have been no.  You can buy the same fixture new for the price of replacing a bad socket.

How sad is that? Pretty sad. We can toss resources like they mean nothing. We can get more, right?

So buy something old. Buy something handmade. Your attitude towards it will be different. And that’s a good thing. So when it needs a repair, it will be worth it. And your lamp won’t be something you used to know.

Posted in Freedom | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musings on Permanence

rivets3Hanging by a Rivet

Permanence, fickle friend and
Rule bender of the stars. Stars whose
Wishes guide and buoy us while
Life smiles at us and plucks at the
Ties that bind Hope to us. Permanence
Raises a brow at Life and shrugs at us.
Fickle and secretive only she knows if the
Bond is a rivet or a single thread

Posted in poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment