You win some, you lose some

I've come to the conclusion, or so I think it’s a conclusion, that friends can come and go like the wind, and heaven knows I’ve written enough about the wind this past year, to make this point clear.  It isn’t always nice.  I was going to talk about love, but I’ve also worn THAT subject out.

If you want to know who this hateful person is, never shying away from the human condition (whatever that is), who writes in metaphor, you need to learn to read between lines.  But I’ll save you the trouble - I lost one of my dearest friends because of my metaphorical writing. 

Was I too straight forward, too honest, to hurtful...to be believed or not, as I encompassed many people in that big lump of metaphorical dialogue?  How many read my blogs?  I doubt a whole lot, but this one person happened to that day; and the next day I had a change of heart, and removed it, dumping it into the trash, unknowingly along with our friendship.

Understanding metaphor is to understand a conundrum; puzzle pieces of minute intrigue.  My words can be harsh; seemingly uncaring in the lack of compassion, while getting across my inner-most feelings through this type of writing.  I don’t write compassionate metaphor, I aim for the gut, and most often than not, it’s my gut that is hit and splayed for viewer consumption.  Mincing words is just not my idea of honesty.

But, we all have our comparative notes on what honesty means, as we watched the candidates debate for high offices in government, sliding right through one big commandment, and into the valley of the Kingdom of Lying-Hoodwinked.  And, they honestly believed all those words they spewed to the American public.

Enough about friends, truth, lying, metaphor, and Hoodwinkleddom, it just means that the human condition isn’t always what we think it is, or should be.

  Honesty is put in the pockets of many, pockets with holes....falling to the ground, stepping over, on, or around, but none-the-less falling; falling out of sight - out of sight, out of mind.....falling as you win some, and falling as you reluctantly lose some.

Understanding my points of view

Writing poetry in first person; the hazards we face when switching the point of view in mid stream.

Last week, another session to read my piece, and explain my point of view of the writer.  I am getting the feeling, from fiction writers that these view points are not always accessible, or digestible, but another person in the group, a poet by nature, seemed to be able to see my perspective.  I also see his take on fiction writing, the nature of which becomes less obvious to him.

My explanations were not satisfactory, to either these people, nor to myself.  Digesting my own work is just that, work.  I know at the time of writing it all makes perfect sense, but when I step back, I see what others see.  It is a good exercise for me to see all sides; one as a writer, two from the casual reader, and then from a more complex point of view, the insides of interpretation of abstracts.

Switching from “you” to “I” in midstream...or starting in one case, and ending in another – The logical interpretation would be, first I’m speaking TO “you”, then I’m speaking ABOUT myself.  No, this does not have to be the case.  I give myself permission to step outside of myself, to speak TO myself.

We had talked about plot in one’s fiction, or the lack of plot; meaning it becomes character driven, having no real end to a story line, this becomes inconclusive in nature, not in action.

Poetry is much more than the obvious we find in fiction; it becomes feelings, the personal observation of one’s self.  And we can only observe by stepping OUTSIDE of our self, to actually be able to see in.

Keep making art

I remember that mantra, Keep Making Art, a few years ago, but now I'm reminded of it again. 

Art is like a funny little creature, popping its silly head out of the ground, only when it wants to pop.  I can lie on my belly, on that ground, and coax and cajole, with everything I have in my hand, but that little fellow is wise to my ways, peeking and winking, and jumping back down this small hole in the sand.  

I sit up, stand back, laugh, cry, and stomp my feet next to the sea, but that fellow in-waiting, probably is snickering silently inside of this den next to me.

I'm irked and provoked, and senselessly nonplussed, and of course these emotions have no influence on a creature without ears to hear my ranting and fuss.

I search and I search, to find the right food which appeals to this creature, a real challenge for sure, because some days it's a light supper, some days it's a full lunch, some nights it's a snack that might satisfy and lure.  

A questionable diet all around, when I, myself, have a thirst and a hunger, and an ache in the gut to witness those little eyes winking back at me silently.

I try to coexist, in a world topsy-turvy, with a creature that can’t hear, but only has eyes for me.

What novel Is right for you?



I’m pondering this question, as I’ve sorted through book after book, wondering what lead me to reading these, which were my favorites, and why. I’ve also wondered what makes me stop reading a book, shortly after I’ve started. How far do you read, before you realize that a book just isn’t right for you?

Recently, I bought a couple of books on recommendation, trust, I relied on someone’s judgment, wholly, knowing these people where excellent observers of the written word, and valued the importance of the existence of good story telling.

How much can we rely on others to make these choices for us?

I’m going to use one book as an example of my critical observation, Ann Patchette’s Bel Canto, and I’ll use two emails, one I’d sent to Lisa Tucker, and the other I decided not to, but found it to contain my reasoning behind this question I pose.

Knowing myself as well as I do, I look at this question in two ways; there are two types of learners. How do we absorb what we see and learn? There are visual, and audio types. And knowing that I’m a visual learner, I have to read and see concepts and ideas for my brain to be able to fully absorb. The saying, A picture is worth a thousand words, comes as close to the truth, as I see it.

As an artist, I pay close attention to details, and the more a writer can observe their own words as they write, the better for me to understand what they are trying to convey in their story. The tricky part to this is, a writer has to allow the reader to see, but allow the reader to make up their own minds about certain details concerning the actions of a character, or where the storyline is leading - in what is not said, again, allowing the reader to read between the lines, sort of speak.

Now, back to Bel Canto....I stumble, at times, when trying to express my own thoughts.

Email #1:
You say: Ann Patchett writes beautifully. I honestly don’t know what beautifully means to you.

Just in those few pages I read, I didn’t find anything extraordinary about her words. To me, they read like a weather report. I felt it was being contrived for the audience, giving data...informational....words saying things that should be beautiful, but she wasn’t emitting the emotion behind those words. I can tell you the sky is blue, but unless I tell you the color of that blue, and why and how it sets the scene to be not just viewed, but absorbed by the reader, it says nothing to me. She can tell me how beautiful opera is, how beautiful the voice is, but she doesn’t make me feel it. I love Opera, and I know how it makes me feel. I love to sing, and I know how that makes me feel.... I can tell you the emotional involvement it takes to feel those words. (But I won’t, because I know that you know) You get my point."My further thoughts, and the email. #2, I didn’t send, I’ll share with you:


Today I talked to the two people who recommended Bel Canto to me. I now feel as though I was perhaps being too critical of Ann Patchett. And I also felt that I was influenced after reading Varghese’s story and writing, and then finding myself enmeshed again with VW, before starting this book.

One of my friends said that he had a bit of a hard time getting into the Bel Canto story, himself, but he kept with it, soon finding himself totally engaged, and by the ending, it had a real emotional affect on him. The other friend said she admired how Ann took these characters and intertwined their stories. I can’t remember exactly how she worded it, but she totally loved the book.

I don’t like being harsh with any author’s writing style. (And that’s the primary issue I had with this book, the style).... I’m not the best critic, in that I have my preferences, as most people do, but it shouldn’t mean that I look at other writing as inferior. Ann Patchett’s writing is definitely not in that category....and I’m really sorry if I sounded as though that’s where it should be placed.

So much of what I read influences what I write. I have to be careful. If a story doesn’t move me, or say something to me, after thirty or forty pages, I wonder if it can improve my outlook after that point. If it doesn’t take me to a place I feel comfortable in my reading, I start to second guess why I’m reading further.

The main issue is there has to be values present in the writing style for me to enjoy the experience.

It’s like finding more on a color wheel than just the single three [primary] colors -Shades of colors, tones of colors, mixing the colors.... White and black added, bleeding the colors, shocking the colors! All of these steps, and more, lead to the process of finding value. Even though it’s all done mathematically, by formula [as some art can be], it’s still amazing to me to see how just three colors can expand! Yes, I find all art exciting, and that’s how I look at writing.In the end, what makes great art? What makes good art? What makes all other kinds of art? - that’s the question for us, as individuals, to answer."

In saying this, I had to look further, that’s what brought me here. What are these words we read on a page? There is the psychology, and the physicality of the reader that determines just what a mind can, and cannot, absorb? What does your own history have to do with what you bring to your reading?

Casper, In Loving Memory

Casper The Friendly Cat

For my friend, Becke, in loving memory

Taken from Facebook

Words by Becke Martin Davis

It's been a sad, traumatic morning. Casper has gone to join all the other pets we've lost. He lived 19 years, and survived some serious illnesses. We nearly lost him two years ago, but this time his body finally just gave out. The vet said the sudden inability to walk may have been caused by a blot clot - apparently this happens sometimes in older cats. She also thinks he's been suffering kidney failure, based on the amount of water he's been drinking.
Casper - more than any of our pets - always hated getting into the cat carrier and going to the vet. The local vet referred us to a mobile veterinary clinic, who in turn referred us to Laps of Love. Dr. Stacy came to our house, spent some time cuddling Casper, then explained to me step by step what she was going to do. She gave him some pain meds first, and a tranquilizer, which took effect almost immediately. We both sat and stroked him for another ten minutes or so before she gave him the final injection. I was sobbing all over the place, but at least Casper isn't suffering any longer, and he didn't have the additional stress from going out in this cold weather.

Dr. Stacy took an impression of his paw in a circle of clay, and clipped a piece of his fur and tied it in a ribbon. Then she wrapped up Casper in a soft baby blanket and set him in a basket, and gave us time to say our final goodbyes. As hard as this was, he died at home, in a place where he was comfortable, and he never seemed afraid of Dr. Stacy. She gave me a hug when she left, and treated Casper with respect and gentleness from beginning to end.

Thanks for all your good wishes for Casper. We're going to miss him!

Thinking about Casper this morning. He was a sweet cat but he was totally useless as a mouser. (His buddy Tiger, on the other hand, was lethal.) We had a big field behind our house - I think it was one of those deals where the owners got paid not to grow things. Once or twice there were corn and soybean crops, but usually the field was just plowed twice a year with no actual harvest. They'd come at night with the harvesters - it reminded me of ET. Anyway, after the field was plowed everything that fled the harvester would make its way to our yard (and to our neighbors' yards).

I wasn't fond of the (harmless but scary) black rat snakes and hog snakes that showed up in the yard, but the little field mice were kind of cute. They weren't like regular mice - the would sit on their hind legs and hop. One day, I was sitting at my desk and I kept hearing a rustling noise. At first I thought it was in the wall, then I realized it was in the cabinet of my desk. I left the door open and went out of the room for awhile. When I came back, I saw a cute little field mouse sitting by my chair, looking confused. Marty went to get a plastic bin to catch it and move it outside, but in the meantime, Casper strolled in. The mouse didn't budge. Casper went right up to the mouse, sniffed it and then gave his head a lick. It was like he was kissing it. The mouse hopped closer to him and they just looked at each other. Casper plopped onto the carpet and watched when Marty caught it and put it outside. At least he didn't catch it and bring it back in, which is what one of our other cats used to do.

You can see why I recommend Lap of Love!

Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice of Chicagoland
In loving memory of Casper, a handsome buff colored 19 year old cat. Although he didn’t care to be picked up, Casper was a very affectionate, loving boy. He liked walking on the back of the couch rubbing up against his mom or dad’s neck. Casper lived with various kitty brothers and sisters over the years and he was always so welcoming to new cats. He was particularly close to Tiger who he has joined at the Rainbow Bridge now. In recent years, Casper had Charlie to help keep him young with wrestling and play and grooming each other.

Casper was always a bit less coordinated than a typical cat, but recently his hind legs became very weak. His appetite was starting to decrease, too, and his mom and dad knew it was time to let their sweet boy go. Lying in one of his favorite spots, on a big, cozy area rug, with his mom by his side sending him so much love, Casper peacefully passed away. Rest well, handsome boy. You will be missed.

~Dr. Stacy

Freedom For All

I've posted on Facebook my support for the French people and for all free countries, and people in general, who make their own choices in the category of displaying freedom of speech, but what I would like to do now is clarify my feelings where it comes to the controversy in decency, but then another question arises, just what is decent and respectful in this day and age?

I know I probably won't be popular when I announce my dislike for what I call slanderous printed matter, most calling them "put-downs".  Our religions are obviously personal; our private lives should also personal, but of course with the freedoms we can use to express controversy, in this day, we become less and less touchable.

The bottom line to my issue is, I find there is a sometimes invisible line that is crossed, called decency and respect, and crossing over that line is repeatedly and blatantly ignored around the world today, whereas becoming ultimately hurtful to many people.  Stepping on toes is hurtful.

Satire is one thing that can put a spin on the truth, and that delicate amount of intrusion is kept to a hopeful minimum. But if the truth is no longer recognized, there lies my issues.  I, too, also have the freedom of mind and action to refuse to read these printed matters, unless it has to do with me, then I feel I must take recourse to legally retaliate.  There lies the operative word, "legally".

I respect our freedom of choices, but I do not respect the freedom to kill as a choice.

This is why I stand behind our good neighbors France, and all countries who find themselves dealing with gunmen, terrorists and killers, to show my support where this bold line is crossed; where human life is taken, where lawful recourse is now the only action we have to take.

http://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/paris-magazine-attack/pope-francis-prays-gunmen-who-executed-12-charlie-hebdo-n282056