Thunderstorm

The clouds had been huddling/conferring throughout the afternoon. The air remained calm but grew incrementally dense and dim. One could feel portents in the hair on the arms and the nape of the neck.

I sat down at my desk to accomplish (hah!) a bit o’ work. All the doors and windows in my home were wide open...as they’d been all week...
a week redolent of summer’s absolute perfection.

Thunder growled in the distance. Thunder boomed just a few steps from my welcoming door.

The rains came. The windows remained agape for (curiously) there was very little bombast from Aeolus as the clouds beat their breasts and doused the parched earth.

I could hear it all, feel it all, regale in the multi-media experience.

And then an aroma ascended from the earth. The perfume of humus and foliage welcoming the rain. It’s a familiar fragrance, every bit as magical as it was that first day, in my infancy, at my first wide-eyed encounter...my primal, initial exhilarating inhalation.

I can’t describe it. I won’t even try.

It’s the aroma of life and joy and hope everlasting.

* * *

Such a Jumble!

I haven’t posted much lately. Please accept my apologies. I truly hate to see friends drop by without finding something coherent to read. You deserve better than that.

Again, my apologies.

As it happens, my brain is jumbled. That’s not unusual (’specially when the moon is full). I’d prefer to offer you a cogent thought or two, but the brain pot is jumbled. There’s simply too much goin’ on.

I’ve been visiting/sampling health clubs in the vicinity (and not-so-near vicinity). I’ve got to find me a home where I can be a happy gym rat again. I had it made back at my old place. I truly did. I was a fitness instructor at my local community health/sports center. Those days are gone...never to be recaptured. Still, I’ve not lost hope in finding a respectable home and regaining a modicum of all that I’ve lost. So far, I’ve found two reasonable facsimiles. Decisions.Decisions.

It’s high time I reclaimed my health (as best I can). After all, I can’t traipse about the planet in the shape I’m in today. I’ve gotta put quite a bit more sweat equity into this ramshackle body of mine.

The journey has begun.

I’ve become politically active, again. It feels as if America is fighting for her very soul. It’s that age-old war between greed/power and simple human decency. Greed and power have held sway here in America for the last three decades. Personally, I’ve had my fill. I’ve had a craw-full. I’m outraged by the damage wrought. I believe it’s time to exhibit a bit o’ wrath.

Then, of course, there’s the Tour de France. I’ve been a devotee for three decades running. I find it THE most compelling, intriguing, complex and utterly breath-taking sporting event on the entire planet. I record each day’s exploits for subsequent viewing during the wee hours of night. I haven’t slept all that much these last two weeks.

The all-too frail human body, the indomitable human spirit, the sheer beauty, history and wonder of France has kept me agog for two weeks now. I’m bleary-eyed and excited each morning when I clamber atop my bicycle in abject homage. I’m immediately reminded that I’m no longer an athlete.

Sigh.

And then there are various and sundry thoughts about relationships. A whole lotta thoughts about relationships precipitated by correspondence, events, poetry, music and synchronicities galore. It’s a total mish-mash within this skull of mine. I DO have a working title, though: "Relationship Kabuki". Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that all too many (most?) relationships degenerate to theater, roles and role-playing. And...masks...impenetrable (unfortunately)...masks.

* * *

I began this entry by stating that I wished to post coherent thoughts.

Again, I’ve failed.

Forgive me

* * *

Hate Me

It wasn't my intention to cast a pall. In truth, I was searching for a particular poem about flowers. I kid you not.

In the process, I came across a poem I wrote a few years ago. Those of you who know me (if only just a little bit) know that I don't often post a poem that I, myself, have composed. It's just 'cuz I'm no poet...
(and friends don't let friends read bad poetry).

Still.

I decided to post this particular poem. Not that it's good. 'Cuz it's not. Not that it's sophisticated. No. It's doggerel.

But it's honest and true. Sometimes, that's enough. Sometimes...
there's precious little else.

HATE ME

Hate me for my sins
Hate me for my flaws
Hate me for my doubts and failures
Hate me for my fears and weakness
Hate me for the man I was
Hate me for the man I am
Damn it, hate ME!

I am not a fabrication
Not your wayward father
Nor a resurrected ghost
Not a best-forgotten lover
Nor a nightmare
Or a scapegoat
I am not a machination
I am NOT your creation

Go ahead and

Hate me

Hate me with fire
Hate me with passion
Hate me with fists
And curses and venom
Hate me intensely
But, damn it!
Hate ME!

* * *

Musical Musings

I’ve experienced a musical renaissance of sorts. I truly have. Aided and abetted by the likes of Crazy Diamond and mysterious Mary, I’ve started listening to music again. Really listening. More than listening, actually...thinking a bit, too.

* * *

Studies indicate that a human fetus begins to hear/perceive external sounds in its fifth month of development.

Imagine that.

Sonograms, holograms, technomagicwhatever...we can now observe the embryo react to music and sound as the neural networks grow and develop and imbed themselves within that incredibly sensitive fetal brain.

And I wonder.

There was a time (’bout 200,000 years ago), when the developing proto-human dimly heard the sounds of Nature as it was developing a brain, growing in its own awareness. Now, granted, the sounds of Nature are not always soothing and benign (have you ever heard a rabbit scream?). Still. There was a time when the only sounds to be heard were songs, chirps, whispers, growls, thunder, rustles, rain and the hum of the cosmos.

And then I think of a fetus growing within a contemporary womb
(say in Baghdad or Kabul) where screams and gunshots, bombs and wails pierce the silence...and I wonder...

Does the modern newborn cry louder with the first breath, having already heard and felt the terror?

* * *

Studies show that music and language "light up" different regions of the brain, sharing a few neural connections to be sure, but altogether different, nonetheless.

I descended from the vaguely suspect Aeroflot jet that carried me from Moscow to Vilnius and traipsed dazedly into the bland, cinder-blocked, oh-so-tired airport lobby.

Two elderly women approached each other. They could have been sisters. Couldda been twins. The first had flown with me. Arrived and traipsed with me. The second stood there waiting.

They came within arm’s length of each other. Both stopped. Tears streaming down both pairs of cheeks, they began to sing. A peasant’s song of love. And as they sang, they began to sway from side to side, weight shifting from the right leg to the left and back again. And they sang. Softly. Beautifully.

I stood there. Dumbstruck.

My mother explained. “There are peasants from the highlands who traditionally sing their greetings.”

Music and language different, eh? Not that day. I’ve never heard love expressed as beautifully as I did that day.

* * *

Quantum physicists have their “string theory”. They believe that the essence of an atom is a “string”. A vibration, a sound, a note.

Imagine that.

I’ve stated often (and with absolute scientific certainty) that we are all stardust and infinity. I’d like to amend my definition:

In essence, we are all stardust, music and infinity.

Yes. We are.

Do we truly need more reason to love one another?


* * *