Vultures and a Tune

I mistook a vulture for a raven this morning, high above my garden.  Either because of the hour, or because he was very dark on his underside, I was briefly fooled until his flight pattern became evident.  Vultures are some of the smoothest gliders among birds.  I watched him, without flapping his wings once, afterwards negotiate the high branches of a eucalyptus, tilting slightly to avoid them, banking eloquently on the thermal.

When I was manic, which began almost a year ago before my great January crash that put me in the hospital for 45 days, I decided to change my favorite bird, the raven, for the vulture, because vultures clean up the detritus of death and their utility in the chain of nature's degradation is invaluable.  Life issues in death, whatever we do.  My father used to say, "None of gets out of this alive."

The Parsees, who are Zoroastrians, have for over a millennium disposed of their dead amid the towers of silence, where they are quickly consumed by vultures, a practice called "Dokhmenashini."  Their consecrated ground, in the middle of pricey Bombay real estate, has now become an embarrassment, I found out through this link.  Apparently the vultures have been devastated by a virus, and without their consumption of the corpses, a stench has risen in Bombay deemed a public nuisance.  Nevertheless the orthodox Parsees are resisting any interference in their ancient practice, hoping to raise vultures to replace the flock.  Given that timeline, Bombay will continue to reek.  But I hear the city doesn't smell too good to begin with. 

I "decided" to quit smoking today, but quickly succumbed to the habit, as I had four cigarettes left.  I ratiocinated that it's better to quit on a day with no cigarettes, i.e. tomorrow.  To quote the bard:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Coincidentally my father used to recite this speech from time to time, a vestige of his brief career as a thespian in college.  Pretty dark stuff from Macbeth.  I do not wish to embrace this existential void, but in my present state I'm much more comfortable with death than life.  I've never really been afraid of death; it's life that scares me.  Not that I intend to do anything about it, but when I examine my habits--a lousy diet combined with too many cigarettes and only a daily walk for exercise--I see that I'm not caring for myself, that I may be hastening my death in a sort of slow suicide.  In this I am hardly alone.  But at present I have the willpower of a mayfly, having little to do and resenting whatever is required of me, or I deem required of me--like taking out the trash and paying the bills.  I'm a minimalist, reading mystery novels and chain-smoking, for the most part avoiding human contact, though I am not a misanthrope.

I'm not in a "pure" depression, as I'm not suffering weeping spells, but I suffer mightily from indecision and anxiety, not to mention the warring voices in my head, which I know are my own, which avoids the diagnosis of schizophrenia.  I know all of us are plagued by voices in our head, or sometimes tunes we cannot extirpate from consciousness.  I've had just such a tune in my head for several days since I thought of going to a studio and recording a new album, something I haven't done in almost two decades, despite the plethora of songs I've meanwhile written.  Here's a link to the tune, "Act Like a Man."  It's a solo acoustic version for which the original title was "Killing the Goddess."  Its 4/4 beat drums in my head.  If I go to the studio I will fill it out with harmonies and a bass line and drums and the rest.  If you listen to it, I hope you will not be haunted by it as I am.

If I had to summarize my present diagnosis, I'm a nutcase.  In interactions with others, or even posting here, I can pass for normal, just as Ted Bundy did so well, though I don't consider myself a Republican, as he did.

Not that I have it in me to be a serial killer, if you discount my drowning Raisin Bran with milk.

All for today,

CE

Rototilling; New Old Poem

First, as to the poetry contest here and at Facebook I've received only four entries thus far which make the odds of winning 50%. I'm sure there are many of you waiting until the April 15 deadline, just be sure to get your entries in with your taxes and don't forget to send me the refund.

Today, at some cost to my back, I rototilled the garden and planted some spring flowers to go with those already blooming. My goal is to have the whole yard littered in color. I'm trying mainly to plant the daisy family, as they are supposed to be deer-resistant. I also have my deer-repelling motion-activated sprinkler turned on. I want to plant many perennials as well, so they will continue to bloom every year. I'm a haphazard gardener at best; I learn as I go. I find out what works and try to duplicate it. But this I know: the rules for planting are just like the rules of real estate: location, location, location!

I'm excited about my soundclick page where there are now no less than 24 songs for your downloading pleasure, a number I intend to increase to 100 over the coming months. I have such a backlog of compositions I've never recorded seriously that I have a lot of pleasurable work ahead of me, though I need a bass guitar desperately to fill out the sound. My Fender bass is presently in the hands of my former bass player in Oceanside, CA, and I don't know how to get a hold of him.

The whales are still moving north here to their feeding grounds in the Bering Sea and below. We saw them spouting this morning when it was calm.

I'm happy to report that my garden has a healthy population of earthworms. After rototilling today, Kathleen said: "And now you've doubled them!"

It was my younger brother's birthday yesterday and I failed to call him, but he called me tonight to make up for it (that is, before 12 AM so it was still his birthday). I'm trying to think of a gift for him besides a CD or a book but it's hard. Remember buying gifts for Dad? How he must have tired of ties and pens. At least my girls always send me Simpsons or Lakers stuff.

As you can see, I have little to say tonight. Here's my soundclick link again for free downloading of songs by Dr. C.

There are songs there on everything from organ donors to reggae doctors to conspiratorial flounders. Truly eclectic in substance and style. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Here's an unpublished poem for my sign-off:


Back to Sleep

I went back to sleep and saw
the scorched ruins of my philosophy
begging for green wood
though I wouldn't ax a sapling
for my greater good.

I went back to sleep and saw
the Madonna of the Tortilla
in blue maize and white flour.
“Your time has come," she said
though it was not my hour.

I went back to sleep and saw
the present swallow the future
as the past swallowed the present
then woke with a start to the clock
that said I was and I wasn't.


Thine at 1 Kilobunny,

CE

New Poetry Contest and How to Access My Music!

I have decided to host a little poetry contest for those who peek in here. Send your best poem to cechaffin (at) gmail (dot) com, and with the help of my editor, Kathleen, we will choose the winner. Send one poem only, your "best," whether published or unpublished. In the subject line put "Contest."

The deadline is April 15. The winner receives a signed hardback of my new book (see above). No entry fee, no strings attached. I'll publish the winner (and perhaps near-winners) here with comment.

Gentlemen, start your literary engines!

As for recent news, I have suffered a triad of illnesses: an abscessed tooth, pulled yesterday (oh the sound of the roots being wrenched from their socket!), a tick bite with another allergic reaction (I'm on prednisone now), as well as a cold I picked up from my lawyer coughing on me in court. I knew I was doomed when his droplets hit the air. But I'm recovering from these minor irritations, a mere blip on the radar when compared to depression, ugh!

For those who don't know, I've been writing and performing songs for forty years. Now I've uploaded fifteen, of various vintages and style, at Soundclick under "Dr. CE." You can listen there and download for free. I would dearly appreciate comment on my work.

Do I have a new poem today? Hmmm.... at least a recently revised one:


Among Schoolchildren

A old man in a brown cardigan
walks a black Chow
on a chain leash
beside a fence
where children throng and
in a supplication of white fingers
reach through galvanized diamonds of steel,
each clamoring for a touch,
the soft substantial feel
of mammalian welcome:
fur, abundant fur.

Would they trade
their fence for the leash?
Freedom, too, is relative.


As for my mood, despite my scare last week, I'm doing fine. My shrink even considered lowering one of my medications, a sure sign of stability, though he hasn't done it yet. For each pill I don't take, my percentage of normality increases incrementally. But to go off all medication would be an exceedingly stupid thing, and I urge all my fellow sufferers to keep popping their pills.

I just heard that a new review of my book is due out in Eclectica come April, along with three poems.

All for now.


At 1 Kilobunny,

CE