"...the character of our Nation..."

Inspiring Words from Washington... ? Or a reminder we've gone astray. I think it's a little of both. Now that we've over extended our selves, such that our credit and our leisure are in jeopardy, there's little time to reflect upon our character really - or rather the character of our reflection is tainted, too. For example, I find myself becoming uncomfortably judgmental, beyond hastening to harsh impressions, whenever I see a supposed "working" individual not doing something while in their work uniforms. I get an inexplicable ache, and think to myself how many unfortunate persons would take that job in an instant and work incessantly to keep it. I think of how spoiled or complacent some of us are in comparison to many in other localities and nations where even food is scarce much less a "job." So what is this "character" of such a nation where on one hand those whom have "work" to do may have lost sight of the current value of it; and those without a way to provide for their children become bitterly envious and even "criminal" out of this current necessity; and finally those whom once may have been uncritical of strangers suddenly become activated by their new and perhaps provisional perspective that a nation has become weaker in character? Character. What other word suffices better than to refer to us as protagonists so long as we consider the "production" an absurdist play. But are we mere mummers mumbling "where is (God)ot when I need him" to explain the pain, the dread, the fatigue, the boredom? Are we so attached to the role we play that we forget to imbue it with an individual passion. Are we so type cast as not to see nor accept that the stagnancy is of our own doing? Now that the American pioneer spirit has backlashed and become cannibalistically internalized, the re-settled within us cry out: where is that snake-juice selling charlatan that sold me a ticket to this sham, let me at him! Let me out of here! But I say, never mind asking for the director?! We are each the only real authority on the motivations of our lives! Don't just read it. Re-write it and then Live it!

My Milla and Bella...

You can feel like crap physically but just one smile from your children can bring a healthy relief. Went to an open house at Milla's middle school. She really enjoyed giving us the tour. And today Bella got to choose her birthday cake for tomorrow. Bella wants a turtle. I guess we'll be keeping that at my studio. Don't want to tease the house cat, you know.

Hard luck - hard copy...

Before the computer, pretty much everything was a hard copy. You could say hard luck back then was routine. Today, when your laptop or website is down for maintenance, it feels like the universe is conspiring to defeat you as you sift and sort to find that last hard copy you're sure you printed... but only manage to scrape your knuckle on the cabinet.

If I had a Hammer- yeah, I posted this in two threads -sue me.

Why I woke up singing this song in my head I can't tell you. Maybe it's a guy thing, I don't know. After all, if I had to guess who wrote the lyrics - if I didn't already know - I'd guess it was a guy. Yup, it was a guy: Pete Seeger? But why a hammer anyway, I began thinking? Why not some other tool or object even. I mean if I'm going to fix something? Why's it the hammer the guy's gotta reach for first. Why not that little springy magnetized screw driver that comes in real handy for those of us who always manage to drop those very small pieces into the tightest of spaces. Now that's the tool I'd want to associate with fixing things - I mean come on!: do you really want to reach for the hammer when you're having problems with love, justice or freedom. It's almost embarrassing that this FOLK song comes out of the Progressive era. Okay, some of us didn't experience that - (besides it didn't really get widely heard till Peter, Paul and Mary recorded it in the sixties) so one might more likely visualize the salving meme of a flower being inserted into the barrel of a rifle, as opposed to a HAMMER or a sickle (it's kind of a socialist laborers' anthem, right?!: "Danger!" "Warning!" - Paul Revere would have appreciated this lyric, being a silversmith/dentist, AND a rebel)! But still it could have been a shovel, or a needle, or an anchor, or... I'm still holdin' out for the springy magnetized screw driver. But what the heck is that thing called anyway? And would I be able to say it fast enough or even remember it. So... now I'm imagining how easily heralded messages carried across the ancient deserts could have gotten misconstrued on account of such an imperfect word chosen perhaps only because it fit the meter? I guess we're right back to where we started: through Poetic License(?), however questionable, it would appear the poet does sometimes have the last word! So what if he smashed the distributer cap on your car - he can "buy a new one."

wiki- link on the lyric

What is it about the rain...?

...that clears away the muck and chatter
that clogs the entrails of my past;
the sudden rush of memories, the stinging
as they surpass my now. will I never catch up
with the past - the patter, the ringing, the cup at last?