As expected, traffic has decreased during the posting of my long short story.
Yes, I enjoy oxymorons. And no, I don't post just to increase traffic.
If anyone finished the story and has an impression or criticism to share, please do so!
I had a discussion with a friend recently who felt that Bob Dylan's obscurity was intentional and a smart marketing tool. I replied by saying I thought Bob did what he wanted, damn the publicity.
Am I that free? No, I still care what others think, probably more in my present state than usual. Admittedly it's a form of slavery, but it's also a big part of the social glue that keeps us from murdering each other.
Meanwhile I have returned from SoCal and my daughters and friends, though I was not allowed to see my grandson by his father (who never married my daughter but was happy to exploit her and vice-versa,). I was so pissed I didn't feel youknowwhat briefly.
I also indulged in a martini competition during happy hour with my oldest surviving daughter, the schoolteacher. She said, "Happy Hour was designed for teachers. Who else gets off by 4 PM?" And here I never knew all the barflies were into education!
Anyway, I learned something. Martinis are not confined to vodka or gin, vermouth, lemon, olives and onions--as long as you put the mixed drink in a martini glass, it's called a martini. Several I sampled were like drinking candy--"Georgia Peach" (in honor of The Masters), "The Gobstopper," "Hawaiian Sunset," "Miami Ice," "Ruby Red," and "Black Orchid" were a few I sampled.
Keturah said "Gobstopper" and "Black Orchid" "taste just like Jolly Rancher candies!" Indeed. Bartenders are way ahead of the new flood of cannabis candies.
(For all you Hillary fans who want to take away my freedoms and impose your protection on me, as in whether I can play lawn darts or drink creek water, be it known that we were on foot and also capable of walking afterwards.)
I did well this weekend by pretending. Seeing my daughters and my oldest friend made it easier to pretend to be myself (entertaining, irreverent and unconventional, sometimes verbally offensive). I fit into the mold pretty well and only came close to tears once. All I ask of others is that they not inquire into how I'm feeling. Don't wanna go there.
One patient of mine used to answer the question as follows: "With my fingers."
I have a couple of new poems of questionable value. Then isn't all poetry of questionable value? Auden said, "Poetry changes nothing."
Memory-wise, I'm still recovering from ECT. Little lacunae, like "Who starred in that movie?" are slowly being filled with information. It's still a harrowing process; as you remember one thing you wonder what other things you have failed to remember (how much of our memory dwells on trivia is philosophically discouraging; we are a concrete race).
Here's a poem that undertakes two common subjects:
My cats kink and snurl together,
slink effortlessly up the windowsill
and pose, contemptuous of their grace,
as if it were expected,
as if the world held nothing else--
meanwhile destroy my garden,
a two-foot strip around my porch
I dared to punctuate with flowers.
They claw out plugs of drugstore blooms
and leave them baking in the sun.
Mainly they trash the marigolds.
Still I re-plant, water and wait,
hoping the roots regenerate
yet suspect the trauma too severe
for drugstore flowers to persevere.
At first the closing four lines were pentameter, but I converted them to tetrameter, in accord with most of the unrhymed portion of the poem.
Citrus oil, coffee grounds and half-full plastic jugs of water have been advised as cat repellents. They didn't mind the orange peels and sniffed out the coffee grounds with glee. I have only the jugs left to try. But why did they bite off my geranium blooms? Damn cats. Or is it a potato bug, also known as "The Jerusalem Cricket?" The cats killed one today.
Cats and flowers don't mix.
At least the alyssum survive.
Tax day today! Don't forget to contribute to our effort in Iraq!
Did I pass the audition?