Monthly Archives: October 2018

A Shaggy Endorsement

janie 86 chloe-futon
Vote for McGrath…woof!

Kanye West gibbering in the White House…

A man who repeatedly yells of his fondness for beer in the US Senate inevitably confirmed by that Senate to a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court…

Children in cages by order of the current US President…

People like the neighbors I grew up with, in an arena screaming “Lock her up!” as the current US President looks on encouragingly…

The tsunami of lies daily from the current US President…

The current US President…

A congress that supports the current US President…

My US Representative that has voted with the current US President 97% of the time…
These make for a raw day.

Or…a good day to talk to the dog.

I’ve written about Chloe the Wonder Pup before (see “The Homeward Three-Step”). She‘s not a beauty, ‘cept to me. She’s shaggy. You wanna grab some shears and make a sweater. She usually has debris spackling her face. She is flotsam and jetsam and blind love personified. She can howl like a banshee at squirrels…they shake…with laughter.

“Chlo, my girl, whaddaya think about this mess?”

“Piss on it! Is Chuck out in his yard?” (Chuck is our neighbor on the corner for whom Chloe has a totally inappropriate passion.)

“No, He’s working. I’m serious here. The country seems to be tearing itself apart because of this current President.”

“Is the current President here? Is Joanna here? (Joanna is our mail carrier for whom Chloe has a totally inappropriate passion.)

“No, he’s not. He’s in Washington. And Joanna won’t be here for another hour.”

“Why are you worrying about someone who’s more than five blocks away? How far away is Joanna?”

“Closer, probably. Are you saying I should worry more about the people nearby?”

“Well, duh. You can’t do anything about the far-away guy. You could however, change that local Representative guy. That might help.”

“So, you’re suggesting voting for McGrath?”

“Woof!”

And that’s my shaggy dog story for today.

My Un-Silent Planet

The planet on which I live is not a silent one.

It moans…
…parents of another language resort to non-verbal sounds of despair over their separated children housed in cages in the land of their dreams.

It keens…
…of past things loved and lost…times, mates, values (imagined and real)……whole species.

It shouts…
…for teams; “GO BIG BLUE!”…for charismatic leaders; “LOCK HER UP!”…for artificial seasonal landmarks; “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

It laughs…
…at the happy foolishness of friends…and…at the misfortunes of strangers…dammit.

It whispers…
…words of love…and words of mere seduction.

It vows…
…”I do”…”I will uphold”… “I will defend”

My planet does all of these sound-producing things and more.

It also sings.
It sings of love and death and life and hate.
It sings of celebration and it sings of despair.
It sings of birth and marriage and graduation and waking up on a sunny morning.
It sings of forests and highways and deserts and oceans.
It sings of God and it sings of the Devil and it sings of the people caught between the two.
It sings of the planets and it sings of the girl next door.
It sings to inspire and it sings to console.
It sings.
It sings!

My friend Dr. Everett McCorvey has a sign in his studio. It reads;

“God likes me when I work.
He loves me when I sing.”

I cannot attest to the scientific accuracy of his sign, but of all the gods I’ve read about and studied, this rings 100% true. I believe every breath and every cell in my body is made better when I sing. What god worth his salt wouldn’t cherish that? And if that’s true for li’l ol’ me, how much truer is it for the whole planet? Every breath, every cell made better by singing.

Singing is the best thing my planet does.

I sing every day.

I sing everywhere and for no reason at all.
I sing to the dog and the cat – they are bewildered by it and react to it like most humans confronted by things they don’t understand: they hate it. But since I feed them, open rebellion has been avoided. Lord help me if the kibbles run out.

My wife, Janie, tolerates it with saint-like patience. I am aware that obscure Sondheim lyrics while loading the dishwasher and the noir growlings of Tom Waits while driving the car can be unnerving, but so far, she hasn’t applied for a concealed carry license…that I know of.

Thus, I add to the un-silence of my planet.
I invite you to do the same.
Throw your head back.
Cut it loose.
Wail!
Sing!!!

GN 04

A Literary Lady

A Literary Lady

I love Southern literature.

Unabashedly.

Robert Penn Warren, Zora Neale Hurston, Tennessee Williams, Carson McCullers, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, James Lee Burke, Sharyn McCrumb, William Faulkner, Manly Wade Wellman, Anne Rice, Davis Grubb, — you list ‘em, I probably like ‘em.

What is it?

As usual, I overthink it a lot. But I suspect it’s simple; they’re good writers that lack winter.

Wandering in the sensual and furtive Appalachian hills of McCrumb, Warren, and Grubb. Exploring the night-time potential of New Orleans alleys and courts after a rainstorm with Williams, Burke, and Rice. Scanning the critter-filled wetlands with Hurston and Rawlings. Cataloguing the Behinders, Frogfathers, Shonikens, and Gardinels of the Smokies with Wellman.

None of these reading experiences require snow and that’s just hunky-dory with me.
Maybe the best of them all for me is Carson McCullers. Her MEMBER OF THE WEDDING, THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER, and REFLECTIONS IN A GOLDEN EYE are winter-less crucibles, in which individual human ingredients are combined with passion, and striving, and sweat, amidst leaves that never fall. Then those ingredients are swirled and re-separated back into their original human shells as changed people. Rarely are the changes clearly for good or ill…even death. Some are changed forever. Some revert to old paths and patterns and expectations.

In a land of no winter to close doors behind you, survival is generally not a concern, but in a land of no winter to close doors behind you, going backward is always an option…an option too often and too quickly employed by too many.

I have a new Southern author to suggest…at least, she’s new to me.

I met Judy Higgins at a meeting of an arts-related board on which we both serve. When I learned she was a published author, I obtained a copy of her first novel; THE LADY, and asked her to sign it. I read it this week.

There are many echoes of McCullers in this novel.

It is a coming of age story, set in rural Georgia in the late 50’s. Television reception is painful, if it exists at all. Entertainment mostly consists of conversations in the kitchen, a grand piano, conversations on the veranda, high school proms, conversations over dinner, visits from neighbors…you get the idea; no texts, no emails, no Netflix…no screens……faces instead. Class/race inequalities and privileges abound. Human strivings, some for more, some for any, abound. Winter threatens no one’s existence, but what will that existence be?

Ms. Higgins seems to endorse the advice of Joseph Campbell.

“Follow your bliss.”

For Ms. Higgins’ young protagonist, music is her bliss.

In her struggles Chopin, Schubert, and Mozart are her weapons and her solace.

Her aunt’s advice?

Don’t let anyone come between you and your music.

Excellent advice from another fine southern writer.