desiderata revisited

I was first introduced to Max Ehrmann's prose poem Desiderata through my friend Les' blog. For some reason, today, I've been thinking about that poem. I've been thinking about it a lot. What else am I going to think about? Politics? The latest fashions? I've had a heck of a day, a day that makes me  ask existentialist questions and not like the answers I'm getting. 

The prescriptive tone of the poem (all of it is written in directives --do this, do that, etc.) is soothing. The world seems overwhelming sometimes, and the best way to address anxiety is to have simple direction. Desiderata does that. Its counsel is gentle, though. It doesn't judge too harshly.

I'm not going to reprint it here, as it can be found in many places, including Les' original post (linked above). Instead, I'd like to consider it --look at what it means to me. Meditating on Desiderata beats meditating on today. Trust me: you don't want to read that. So here goes ...

Desiderata Revisited

It's a noisy world.

Stay calm and find peace in silence.

Be yourself --always --and allow others to be themselves.

Listen to anyone with a story to tell who will listen to yours;

Leave those who are too loud to hear you to themselves.

You are no better than anyone else. Be humble.

You are no less important than anyone else. Be assured.

Remember your past fondly;

Look ahead to your future;

And appreciate what you have now,

No matter how insignificant it may seem

Because circumstances are always changing.

In business matters, exercise caution

As money corrupts;

But there is goodness in the world --

Avoid cynicism, because most people

Want to do the right thing.

Never lie about love or affection,

And don't worry: there will always be love.

The years teach you lessons.

Learn them, and carry them with grace.

Don't mourn your youth.

When the storms come, you will be steady;

Don't look for clouds on the horizon

Or fear will leave you tired and weary.

Practice good habits and be patient with yourself.

The Universe is vast and full of ancient things,

And yet, you are a part of it.

There is a place even for you.

You may not understand why;

It is not for you to understand.

Therefore, find your peace

In the midst of it all.

As hard as life can be,

With all that is lost and endured,

The world is full of small treasures.

If you can see them,

That is where you will find your happiness.

I've probably misinterpreted it, but that's okay. I tried my best, and I'm supposed to be patient with myself so that I don't end up giving up. The way I understand the original poem, I do most of this already. That doesn't mean I don't have struggles. I do. But so does everyone else. It's not a competition ( "If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself."); life in all its complexity is a shared experience. Desiderata is written to "you", who could be anyone. That's the beauty of it. We're not alone.

Thank you, Les, for introducing me to the poem. You helped me today. I hope you are well, as always. 

birthday manifesto

As we get older, birthdays seem to be something there only to mark the passage of time. Another year ...sigh. What haven't I gotten done? What haven't I accomplished? It's not that we haven't been getting older the whole time; it's just that birthdays are so infrequent (only once a year, unless you're one of those cool leap year babies who seem to age faster than the rest of us --"You're 8???"). They stand out.

But this grim view of birthdays, I think, is wrong. I would like to go on record: birthdays are excellent; birthdays are wonderful; any day that celebrates your birth and your presence here with the rest of us is a day that should stand out. You don't have to get anything of note done. You don't have to accomplish anything in particular. Just being here --I mean, what are the odds? Don't make me go into how babies are made & the statistics involved in that process. Please don't. The point is, you're here! 

I would like to wish my friend, Melissa, a very happy birthday today, October 19th. She reminded me today, on a day that was otherwise very hard, that I'm lucky to know her. She takes care of me. I hope I take care of her, too. If she had not been born, I would have just had a hard day --instead, I got to make her a birthday meal on Twitter! I got to think about what she means to me, and about stories she's shared with me that give me a glimpse of how the world beyond me is a better place with her in it. She has a beautiful voice. She has a sensitive spirit. Pardon me while I get mushy, but a birthday is a great excuse to let people know what they mean to you.

So, anyway, that's my briefly-stated birthday manifesto: celebrate birthdays, for as long as you can. Don't worry about getting older --that'll happen anyway. Enjoy birthdays, & enjoy each other. Treat yourself well. Treat the birthday boy or girl well (I don't care how old you get, when it comes to birthdays, we're all boys and girls!). Allow birthdays to stand out in a good way. And please, please, please, most importantly, don't forget to eat cake. And save me a slice!



[Update December 15th: My birthday. I am still alive, & I think that's a good thing. I have friends. I have family, including two family members who have been and are seriously ill and are still with us. 2016 hasn't done us in yet. Something to celebrate!]

no, i don't have tourette's, m***er f***er (caution: language)

Prepare yourself.  I’m about to go apeshit.

Some of my favorite words to use indiscriminately include the following: fuck and any derivation thereof; asshole; shitty shit; holy balls; and, my personal favorite, holy fucking shitty asshole shit balls.  I have more, but I don’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.

If you were to look at this collection of words, if you were to notice the way they explode from my lips, you might become concerned.  This concern might then grow into suspicion --surely no one would want to talk like that.  At this point, you might begin to suspect a clinical cause of some kind.  You might take to the Internet with your suspicion and would type the symptom into the search engine of your choice.  For our purposes today, we will type in ‘excessive potty mouth’.  The search engine would inform you that the clinical term for excessive potty mouth is ‘coprolalia’, from the Greek for ‘crappy word choice’.  It would also helpfully direct you to no fewer than 2,351 medical websites.  These websites would then suggest that I am suffering from Tourette Syndrome.  While I appreciate the concern, I’m here to tell you, it’s all a bunch of bullshit.

Now, don’t get me wrong; there are people in the world who have Tourette Syndrome, and a subset of these people have coprolalia.  These people know that real coprolalia is a bitch, a compulsion that they’d love to have under control.  That’s not me.  I just love to curse.  I’m a vulgarian, and I don’t give a shit if you have a problem with it.  I’m not going to cheapen what those people go through by excusing my behavior with the label of a disorder I came up with using Dr. Internet. 

Here are a few other possible diagnoses I could give myself based on my daily experiences, if I were so inclined:

·    I can’t get out of bed –diagnosis: Major Depression (alternative diagnosis: I stayed out drinking until 4 AM);

·      I can’t find my car keys –diagnosis: Dementia (alternative diagnosis: I have too much shit littering my house);

·      I feel the need to clean my house –diagnosis: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (alternative diagnosis: Remember all of that crap that was littering my house so I couldn’t find my car keys?  If you don’t remember, maybe you have Dementia … or perhaps Dyslexia?).

The point –and I am trying to make one –is that all of the so-called symptoms I’ve described are signs of something, but what they signify is up for interpretation.  You may have your suspicions, but for a well-considered interpretation, you may want to discuss your concerns with a professional who has received something we call ‘training’.  No, I’m sorry, your Ph.D. does not constitute the right kind of training unless it’s a Ph.D. in something like Genetics or Infectious Diseases.  Your MBA and your MFA sure as hell don’t mean shit.  And you’ll excuse me, but Dr. Smartypants’ years of education, residencies, and work in the field trump your high-speed Internet access every single time.  A medical professional’s knowledge and experience allow them to rule out some conditions, know where to start with further testing when needed, know which interventions to try, … it is a long ass motherfucking list.  They’re even trained to pick up on ‘malingering’ –if you’re not sure what this is, ask the goddamn World Wide Web. 

I’m glad we could have this little talk.  After all of this, I’m still pretty certain I don’t have Tourette Syndrome.  If it will make you feel better, though, I’ll ask my primary care physician about it.  I’ll ask, but he’s going to tell me to fuck off.

Update:

All of this vulgarity was originally committed to paper in February 2015.  Two excellent pieces written recently by Piercarlo Valdesolo for Scientific American and Harry Cheadle for Vice –summarizing a study out of Marist College in 2015 –have suggested that my extensive knowledge of sweary words may be a sign of intelligence.  Yes, I read that on the Internets.  Yes, I am choosing to accept the diagnosis of smart and creative.  I’d be an asshole not to accept that diagnosis.  Thanks, guys!  You are doctors, right?      

Links:

http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/is-swearing-a-sign-of-a-limited-vocabulary/

http://www.vice.com/read/fuckers-who-curse-a-lot-arent-stupid-says-science

https://mcla.edu/Assets/MCLA-Files/Academics/Undergraduate/Psychology/fluency%202015.pdf

deadly scandal by kate parker: a review

Full disclosure: the author is my mother. 

Further full disclosure: I don't care --I'll be honest with this review. That's the way we roll in our family.

DESCRIPTION:

"A carefree young Londoner in the 1930s has her life turned upside down when her husband is killed. She takes a job at a large daily newspaper and finds herself not only investigating her husband's murder, but also getting embroiled in perilous European politics."

REVIEW:

Deadly Scandal is the first in a series. Mrs. Olivia Denis, aged 25, is recently widowed. Her husband, Reggie, has committed suicide --or has he? By the first chapter, two features that make this book an excellent read have been established: 1) plot --there are masterful twists & turns and I was tempted to classify Deadly Scandal as a thriller, even though technically, I think it's a romantic mystery; and 2) character --Olivia Denis is a terrifically smart main character, and the other characters are well-rounded.

The time period and political situation (pre-World War II London) described are full of intrigue and uncertainty, which provide for page-turning drama. The Nazis are on the rise in Germany but have yet to invade other countries. We (as readers) know how it turns out, but the characters in the book have no idea. A story of espionage and questionable loyalties unfolds with surprises around every turn --I wouldn't have seen Chapter 6 coming, for example, if my Dad hadn't spoiled it for me (thanks, Dad ...). Olivia Denis is uncertain about everything and everyone, except for her one certainty: her husband did not kill himself. The book follows her on her search for the truth about her husband's death. She's good company in a complicated world.

There's a dry wit to the book as well. It's not all drama and romance and intrigue. Thank goodness. I'll be honest: I prefer my books with humor, and this has it, although it's not laugh out loud funny. A lot of the wit comes through Olivia's take on the happenings and people she meets along the way. She's a very practical heroine and good fun.

I would recommend Deadly Scandal, even if my mother hadn't written it. I might not have read it in the first place because it's not typically a genre I choose, to be honest, but I'm glad I did. I enjoyed it thoroughly. If you like political intrigue and history with a touch of glamour and romance, then this is the book for you. 



AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY:

Uh, my mother.  

Besides that, "Growing up in a family of mystery readers, Kate Parker read Agatha Christie while her classmates read Dick and Jane. To this day, she can't see a routine place or event without cloaking it in mystery, complete with a dead body. Kate is fascinated with brooding historic buildings in Great Britain and Europe and the people who once inhabited them. This led her to create characters from other times to live, commit crimes, and seek justice in these beautiful old towns. She began writing to allow the cozy thrillers lurking in her brain to have their own existence. The Victorian Bookshop Mysteries are her first published novels, now being joined by the Deadly series of pre-WW II mysteries."

Deadly Scandal and its sequel, the newly-released Deadly Wedding (which I haven't read yet, but I will) are available online in both paperback and ebook.

everyday heroes: humility

My everyday hero today is not a person. It's a song. Songs can be heroes, right? I'll assume you said yes and keep going ...

The Rolling Stones' You Can't Always Get What You Want is a kick in the pants. Every once in a while, people need one of those. I know I do. When I do, I turn to Mick Jagger & company for a reminder.

We all want things. We want a comfortable life. We want the latest gadget. We want people to love us. We want money. We want shiny objects. We want beauty. We want to have fun. We want fame & fortune. We want, we want, we want, ... 

And, at our worst, we think the Universe (substitute God, Allah, fortune, chance, ...whatever your belief is is fine with me) owes us what we want. The truth is, though, we are owed nothing. The Universe is vast. We are all just tiny little pieces of it --even the mightiest among us. It's not that the Universe doesn't care, but it's got better things to do. If the Universe were fair and listened to what we want, I'm pretty sure it would give safety to the children in Aleppo before it would give us a book contract. The Universe is not always fair in a way that makes sense to us as individual beings who are here for a brief blip of time. For this reason, it is important to remember humility.

The Rolling Stones captured this truth --with a choir! Sometimes, we get what we want. When this happens, it's an amazing thing. Those moments should be celebrated. Sometimes, though, as in the song, what we want is counter to what's best for us (she went to meet her connection ...). We may get it, we may not, and it could possibly be harmful. And still other times, even if we want something that is reasonable --health, housing, love, food, it isn't available. These moments must be tolerated and we try to move past them.

Humility and the Rolling Stones tell us that, if we are presented with opportunities, even if they are not what we imagined for ourselves in our moments of grandiosity, we should seize them. "But, if you try sometime, you find/ you get what you need." You try. You can't always get what you want, but what you maybe get what you need. If you are humble, you realize this. You accept it. Humility leads to contentment. You are satisfied to get what you need. And (good news!), the Rolling Stones don't say you can't be gifted with things you want --just not all of the time. People who get everything they want tend not to be grateful people. People who can turn disappointment into contentment, or who can be thankful for the small gifts they receive, are much more well-adjusted.

The irony of the Rolling Stones being used as examples of humility is not lost on me. I only mean the song. The Universe approves.  

national poetry day: poetry about poetry

Happy belated National Poetry Day! I saw that it was National Poetry Day on Twitter this morning and thought I might celebrate by sharing some poems I wrote focusing on different poetic styles (after I finished wondering exactly which nation was celebrating poetry ...).

What do we gain from poetry? 

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but poetry manages to convey its pictures in far fewer, carefully-chosen words. 

I love that poetry isn't afraid to paint using language.

I love it when poetry uses humor and pushes boundaries. Conversely, I love how lovely it can be, and I enjoy playing with form.  

For me, personally, I love that poetry plays with the sounds in the words. The linguist in me loves assonance and alliteration.

So here we go: poetry about different poetic forms that I wrote which will never be published anywhere but here. They are goofy --be forewarned!

Couplet by a Writer Who Spent More Time Typing the Poem’s Title than Composing the Poem

I really don’t have much to say;

The title’s better anyway.

Dialogue in Verse by God and Man (Who, Although Capable of Rhyming, Has Other Skills to Develop)

“Hello, Mankind, and how are you?

I’ve come to pay a visit;

And here!  I’ve brought you presents, too,

Both sacred and exquisite:

A summer storm, a charming sneeze,

The scent of babies’ skin,

Good chocolate, Brahms’ Symphonies,

A sense of calm within,

A cricket’s chirp, that old book smell,

A clever turn of phrase,

A day-long hike into the woods,

Those lazy winter days,

Absurdist jokes, the blessed meek,

The dewdrops lightly glistening, …”

“Oh, sorry, God, did you just speak?

‘Cause I really wasn’t listening.”

Limerick by a Guy Forced to Rework the World’s Filthiest Limerick in Mixed Company

There once was a man from Nantucket

Whose … head was shaped like a bucket.

He said with a grin

As he peered at his chin,

“Oh!  There’s that hair.  I should pluck it.”

Ode (Terza Rima) by an Individual Who Struggles to Comprehend Meter (But Who Does So with Enthusiasm)

I love eight little syllables;

I love those iambs grouped by four,

And otherwise, I’m miserable.

I do admit that I adore

When verse is written in this way –

So beautiful, the stuff of lore.

No force on Earth could halt or stay

My love of half octameter.

My feet join joyously to say:

“I love to use pentameter!”

That’s five feet?  Not four?  Oh.  I guess

I love to use tetrameter?

I am confused, I must confess;

Good thing I’m better using stress.

Triolet by a Child Who Wants to Write Silly Words Despite Parental Admonitions

My mom told me I shouldn’t make up words,

But I will.  Made-up words are no big deal.

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with words like “blerds”.

My mom told me I shouldn’t make up words,

But why not?  “Stumbleserk” and “snerglejerds”!

There are way worse words that are really real.

My mom told me I shouldn’t make up words,

But I will.  Made-up words are no big deal.

Villanelle by a Cranky Old Poet Who Seeks Assurances from the Literary Establishment

A poem’s even better with rhyme done well.

It’s difficult to write but not to read

An ode, a sonnet, or a villanelle.

Those free verse writers, they can go to hell –

It’s just the place for them to smoke their weed.

A poem’s even better with rhyme done well.

It’s tough to get this kind of verse to gel;

I sweat, and yet, I’m never guaranteed

An ode, a sonnet, or a villanelle.

There’s prose, lord knows –and I don’t want to dwell

On rhyming verse, but pay these words some heed:

A poem’s even better with rhyme done well.

Though hard to write, they’re still a harder sell.

“A rhyme is cute and all, but we don’t need

An ode, a sonnet, or a villanelle.”

Will rhyme survive?  Well, only time will tell.

Please listen up.  So here’s the case I plead:

A poem’s even better with rhyme done well –

An ode, a sonnet, or a villanelle.

Once again, wishing you a Happy National Poetry Day!