Category Archives: Writing

Celebration 6

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Snoopy

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Today is my birthday. Six months ago I did not think I’d see this day. But here I am, celebrating Stephanie’s smile, the morning’s first sip of coffee, snowflakes (just a few, but hey!), modern science, the wisdom of Snoopy, friendship, love, and yes, my continuing existence. I am a lucky man.

Prayer

Death does not choose you at random
but approaches at your pace, rumbling
downhill or floating in the air,
debris or dandelion fluff,
concealed yet evident.
Listen: a small cloud bumps another,
merging into one larger being —
can you hear its ecstasies?
All the world’s souls, gathered.

“Prayer” was first published in Soul-Lit.

Celebration 5

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nine

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Woe is me! Break out the tiny violins! I am in full-whine mode!

Numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers. Add, divide, multiply, subtract. Take note, shift columns. Despair. For months, the numbers have been backhanding me, to and fro, up and down. Bullying, mocking, teasing mercilessly, always heading in the wrong direction. Property taxes have increased. Life expectancy has plummeted. The bank account is steadily dwindling. With my illness, work, or a job, isn’t really feasible, though occasionally I sell a book or two (not mine, mostly scholarly or collectible tomes), which brings in a few bucks. And inflation! Everything costs more. Just a few years ago I seldom paid more than a dollar a pound for chicken thighs. Nowadays we’re lucky to pay four times that amount. And so it goes.

But, a few weeks ago, the numbers finally stepped in firmly on my side! In May, scans showed that my lung cancer had spread to the brain; nine small lesions were found, cause for concern, as you might imagine. Now, nine is a fascinating number, majestic, mystical, some might say. Multiply it by two, and you get 18. Add the two digits that comprise 18, one and eight, and you get 9. Multiply it by three: 27. Total the two digits forming 27, and you get, yes, 9. Multiply it by four, by five, by six, by seven, eight or nine. Fifteen. Twenty. Add the digits that comprise the sum and you return to nine. Interesting, no?*

But I’ve digressed. Nine is not the digit one wants to hear when discussing the number of lesions manifested in one’s brain. That was the situation a few months ago. But now, apparently, the numbers have taken my side, and I no longer need concern myself with that figure. Recent scans revealed that the lesions have resolved; they’ve disappeared! In other words, the treatment is working. Oh, the cancer is still with me elsewhere, but after months of bad report after bad report, the news is finally trending in the right direction.

So today I praise the magical number nine, which, in my case, has transformed itself into nothing, a circumstance most worthy of commemoration. What numbers do you celebrate, and why?

*If this sounds familiar, you may have read my essay originally posted here in February 2014.

Celebration 4

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ashtray in desk

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In my desk, nestled among the odd assortment of books and keepsakes (including Hashimoto, my stuffed toy dog companion of nearly sixty years), sits an old, chipped, cut glass ashtray bearing eclectic objects. The ashtray was my mother’s, and was one of the few possessions she was able to bring with her to the U.S. after she married my dad. It’s a rather ironic keepsake, as my mom, a heavy smoker for some sixty years, died from lung cancer, and it appears that I will, too, though I’ve never smoked. Nevertheless, it remains one of my most prized possessions. In it, you’ll find an old, broken, silver pocket watch (a father’s day gift to my dad in the late 70s), a lock of Stephanie’s hair, my dad’s original army dog tags, multiple mandolin and guitar picks, including one given to me by Kinky Friedman, author, musician, and one-time candidate for governor for the state of Texas, and various polished stones. Not one of these items has great monetary value, yet they’re all priceless to me. They all have stories.

What are your treasures? How did they come to be so valued? What are their stories?

Celebration 3

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desk photo

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I have always loved books, their smell and heft, bindings, illustrations, and of course, the stories within. But I don’t recall the title of the first book I personally checked out of the library. I was five-years old, in first grade. It was a Friday, the book was replete with color illustrations, and the story was, perhaps, about a little bear. So long ago. But I read and reread that book all weekend, and I felt (and still feel!) the awe and wonder, mystery and power of that glorious artifact.

Nearly sixty years later, that awe has never diminished. The books behind my desk’s glass doors offer glimpses at rare beauty and yes, secrets. In front of me sits a U.S. first edition of Remy de Gourmont’s A Night in the Luxembourg (Boston, 1919), which may be an interesting relic in and of itself, but this particular volume bears the bookplate of Jun Fujita, historical figure, poet and photographer extraordinaire. Alongside it rests a much thumbed copy of The Book of Symbols, a source of great contemplation, insight and forehead slapping.

On the shelf above that a volume titled The Anthropology of Numbers, also a treasured resource, nestles just to the left of Kaleidoscope: Poems by American Negro Poets, a landmark 1967 anthology edited by Robert Hayden, the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 1976 to 1978. Should your eyes wander down this shelf, you’ll also discover an inscribed copy of David Wevill’s Other Names for the Heart: New and Selected Poems 1964-1984, Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts, and Kenkō’s Essays in Idleness, translated by Donald Keene.

Why are these books here? How have they come to be gathered in this house in Indiana, on these particular jumbled shelves? Who are the authors? What is their significance? Who knows them, feels them, understands them? What wisdoms have they endured?

Share with me your favorite books—from the volumes you’ve read time and again, to the ones you own simply because you were compelled to possess them, and those that have great significance to you, even if you’ve not read them and never will.

Celebration 2

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Mise

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Lately, the word “doing” has taken on increased importance in my world. Yes, I’m ill, but it’s not in my nature to sit idly by while others do. I abhor incapacitation. I enjoy, I celebrate, I NEED the encompassing rituals of doing, of preparing dinner, of the measuring, peeling, chopping, shredding, organizing and facilitating the timing of it all. So even when I’m not at my best, even if I have no appetite, I dice those carrots, deseed the poblanos, shred the cave-aged gruyere. I stand in front of the stove, ensuring the proper sear on the cubed beef. I flip the eggs, turn the meat, stir whatever needs stirring. I take kosher salt between thumb and forefinger, sprinkle it on the julienned peppers. As long as I’m able, I do.

Where do your compulsions lie? What doings must you do?

Celebration 1

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Coffee Cup

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Today I celebrate the betweens, those fragments, those intangibles captured in the micro-instants between flicking the switch and the arrival of illumination, the thoughts wedged within action and its aftermath. Parentheses opened and closed. That moment directly preceding the first sip of coffee, right after you’ve smelled the dark roast’s fragrance, but before the liquid touches your tongue. Sunlight. Clouds. The anticipation of your loved one’s smile mingling with the male red-winged blackbird’s morning proclamation and the realization that more will follow. A chef’s knife callous and its long history. All that’s blossomed since that first kiss. And other conjunctions nested together. Laughter. Wind chimes. And more. Always, more.

Tell me, please. What are your favorite betweens? Where are they?

Fifty-Word Review: Forth a Raven, by Christina Davis

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(Originally appeared in December 2013)

Christina Davis’s Forth a Raven offers stark, textured, intelligent and lyrical pieces in a stripped-down yet ultimately complex, reflective language. Encompassing the tension of different realms – the spiritual and the secular, the extraordinary and the mundane, her work, quite simply, astounds. Read this book. Seek out her work. It’s sublime.

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Onions

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Onions

My knife never sings but hums instead when withdrawn from its block, a metallic whisper so modest only the wielder may hear it. Or perhaps the dog, who seems to enjoy the kitchen nearly as much as I. A Japanese blade, it’s a joy to hold, perfectly balanced, stainless steel-molybdenum alloy, blade and handle of one piece, bright, untarnished, and so sharp as to slide through, rather than awkwardly rupture and divide, its next task on the board.

We’ve never counted the chopped and rendered onions, the fine dice, slender rings and discarded skins, but if we could gather all the corpses we’ve produced together over the years, we’d form a monument to our work, cooperation of metal and man, a Waterloo mound in memory of the bulbs laid there, the planning involved, the missteps and serendipity, and the tears shed along the way.

The blade doesn’t care. It is. It works. It moves things, it lifts, it parts them, and in return is cleansed, and later, in the quiet room, maintains its edge with a silvery rasp, angled steel on steel in a circular motion, over and over, until finally it hums its way back into the block. But it never sings.

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“Onions” first appeared here in 2015. Hmm. This reminds me (again) that I need to sharpen knives…

Alas, my bout with COVID-19 has rendered me incapable of, or unwilling to, cut into onions. COVID-induced parosmia is still affecting me, and onions and garlic are still difficult to eat. But at least bacon, peppers, arugula, chocolate, and hoppy ales are once again palatable. Damned pandemic!

Osso Buco

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Osso Buco

The reconciled, the residue of one’s
virtues displayed or absorbed

that within become the basis for
talk: furtive movements, the knife’s

gentle persuasion, wine
afforded the quality of enhancement.

We must preserve the truth, and other
disingenuous phrases, as if we may

admit our tastes only at great cost
to our politics and sense of being.

And fruitful loss – the reduction
sauce, or stock evaporated – which

attaches in dissipation
the grace of subtlety. To be more

with less. To be apparent yet
concealed. To be, in turn, aware.

 

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“Osso Buco” first appeared here in March 2015.

 

Numbers numbers numbers: NINE

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Numbers numbers numbers: NINE

Early on in my other life I was hand-picked and hired to assist with budgets, to work with numbers. One of the higher-ups remarked that my spelling score was quite good for a “numbers person.” This amused me to no end, as I’d no inkling that a) anyone in the world considered me fluent with numbers, or b) that the mundane labor that comprised my livelihood had been noticed, much less evaluated, by someone beyond my small, three-person office (certainly no one noticed the writing I’d produced and published). More than a quarter century later, I’m still amused. And still working with numbers, which even now remain mysterious, magical, and even inspiring.

Take the number nine. Multiply it by two, and you get 18. Add the two digits that comprise 18, one and eight, and you get 9. Multiply it by three: 27. Total the two digits forming 27, and you get, yes, 9. Multiply it by four, by five, by six, by seven, eight or nine. Add the digits that comprise the sum and you return to nine. Interesting, no?

It appears everywhere. In Islamic cosmology, the universe is built of nine spheres. In Ancient Mexico, the netherworld consisted of nine layers. The magic square consists of nine parts. Beijing was designed as a center with eight streets. Hindu temple foundations contain jewels and nine distinct grains. The human body has nine openings. The number also appears in both sacrificial and healing rites. The River Styx bends nine times. I could go on (we haven’t scratched the surface), but will refrain.

And if this piece piques your curiosity, you might find this poem inspired by zero (a truly fascinating subject) of interest:

http://www.cladesong.com/okaji.withtheseninefigures.html

Or this one, “That Number upon Which the Demand Lieth,” which takes up the number three.

This first appeared on the blog in February 2014.