On December 31st

Now gone as if it never was,

and slipped all by the stream,

lost like sighs of hidden breath

or shadowed faces in a dream.

But though I’d hold today so fast,

and all the days long gone,

the leaves are fallen, birds are flown,

and time keeps passing on.

Remember how it was, my friend,

though looking back may ache,

at all we may have been or lost,

enough the heart could break.

So sweet a pain in memory,

such longing to return,

and yet tomorrow calls us on,

to be, to die, to burn.

And now’s the time for memory,

and through her seas to row,

a moment now for memory,

before we have to go.

Though many years we’ve wandered yet,

and come so far from home,

where we’ve got friends and memory,

we’re never quite alone.

With all that’s lost through all the years,

with scars we never show,

hold close and trace the memory,

and see tomorrow grow.

Flight and Reality

Grow strong wings and learn forgetting, find the hidden art of flight,

though a body weighs so heavy, imagination turns it light.

Like the birds that circle freely through the unresisting air,

dream with me of flight and glowing, with the gentle moonbeams there.

You must have been a child, for once I was one too,

stretched-out arms and playing airplane, the way the little children do.

Running circles in the grass and believing it the sky,

with the little wings of wax that melted if we soared too high.

We never left the ground and yet it mattered not at all,

we ran both on the grass and far above the trees so tall.

Our eyes could never fool us, for we knew quite well the truth,

we knew we flew so gracefully, with all the certainty of youth.

Time’s made us taller, heavier, and gave us eyes to see

that awful dreary monster that they call Reality.

It’s got nine eyes, six hands and feet, hard scales that reach the floor,

and a million ears all pressing at the crack of every door.

It says, “You’re old enough to know you’ll never ever fly,

at best it’s years of drudgery until the day you die.

There’s no escape for you, my child, nor has there ever been:

just call it debt, attachment, or (if you want to) sin.”

Reality’s a clever beast, but there’s ways to get around;

the chances smaller every day, but still there to be found.

So never give up hope my love, and don’t believe the lie,

remember what the children know: that all of us can fly.

Portrait of an Empty Chair

"Art is the unceasing effort to compete with the beauty of flowers and never succeeding."

--Marc Chagall

Brush, paint,

the welling light,

void canvas-space to fill.

It doesn’t matter what it is or what the means that sent it,

sweet longing at the heart of things, to be represented.

Subject: chair,

empty, bare potential.

Study of negative space.

Drop differences with matter and so work into its core,

the double-dealing Being that is with itself at war.

Begin. Mistake.

Continue. New mistake.

Get it right someday…

It’s play that makes it joyful and it’s love that makes it good,

the perfect imperfection of what goes misunderstood.

Chair portrait?

What a waste!

Who would ever bother…

Tickle at the canvas like a finger to the ribs,

the laughing little shock that’s working through the paintbrush nibs.

Suggest perspective.

Illusion of depth.

Marvelous trick, you know?

To better serve what’s beautiful and better know what’s true,

it’s only in the making that the soul finds what to do.

Christmas Gift

All wrapped in scarlet paper,

set off with bows to see,

it’s a package tied with ribbon

sitting there beneath the tree.

See little ones with shining eyes

lifting tissue paper veils,

revealing dolls or kites for toys,

or ships with snowy sails.

Though children cannot wait to tear

and open up the gift,

now that we’re grown it seems our tastes

have made a little shift.

It’s not the gift, though yes it is,

it’s mystery that’s wanted.

We never find the perfect thing,

that secret that we’ve hunted.

“Oh, what’s that hiding in the box,

and how should I react?

Smile, thanks, a gracious nod.”

(A receipt for sending back.)

How slow we learn that giving

is the greatest gift we’ve got?

A little step beyond ourselves

for the others that we’re not.

All wrapped in scarlet paper,

set off with bows to see,

it’s a package tied with ribbon

sitting there beneath the tree.

Ripples on the Surface

Quiet water, so still water,

evanescent pond.

Play of light upon the surface,

promising beyond.

Share your breath with silent evening

as it glides the shining scene;

projected tree-perspectives

limn the corners of the screen.

So darkness twists the senses

and it robs the breath of air,

draws the waters all together

and embraces its despair.

There’s a lateness in the hour.

(Has it always been this way?

Have we always been so old?)

Take a stone, just any stone,

a little pebble marked,

hold it out across the surface

of all-penetrating dark.

You see your face reflected there,

(though lower down by miles)

in the distant patient surface

that you hope returns your smiles.

Drop the stone (just any stone)

and watch it close the gap,

like a scribbled-over paper,

simply landed in your lap.

(Was that a bell?

What is the time?)

Feel the air, rushing, rushing!

Now see it hit without a sound,

or nothing ears can grasp;

imagine, then, a pounding heart

or a pleased but furtive gasp.

But though the ears can’t hear a thing,

through shadow spy the sight

of a thousand circles swelling up

and shimmering with light.

Spreading from the center

(though only you can see)

the ripples catch their share of light

and spread across the sea.

Doctor, Help! My Arm is Trying to Strangle Me!

Patient: Doctor! Doctor! Help me! Help me, I need help!

Doctor: What seems to be the problem?

P: My arm keeps trying to strangle me.

D: Are you sure? Your arms seem quite well-behaved at the moment.

P: Oh, just you wait, it’s being good because it knows you’re watching, but the moment you turn your back it’ll be at my throat—literally!

D: That sounds most unusual. Which arm was this?

P: Uhm… pardon?

D: Well, was it the left or the right?

P: Oh, I got it. The left, then.

D: Okay, so your left arm is trying—

P: No, it’s the right arm! Or maybe it really is the left one. Which arm is this? (Holds up an arm.)

D: That’s your right arm.

P: Okay, it’s the right arm then. I’m pretty sure it’s trying to kill me.

D: What’s your arm been doing that makes you think it’s trying to kill you?

P: Well, I keep waking up in the middle of the night with that arm holding my pillow up to my face and the hand squeezing my throat so tight I can’t breathe. At least, that’s how it started. At first I just thought I was having nightmares or something.

D: And what happened after that?

P: After a week or two, it started to act all on its own, like even when I wasn’t asleep. I would sit down to eat, but as soon as I’d pick up my knife or fork the hand would take over and start trying to stab my eyes out. I always managed to fight it off with my other hand, or at least dodge it till it gave up.

D: Are you sure that—

P: It would only act out when I was alone, at first, and even now it’s pretty well behaved when other people are around. But there was this time when I was at the library typing at my laptop, and all of the sudden my hand took over and started typing, “You can’t hold out forever. I’ll get you once you let your guard down,” over and over, all the way down the page.

D: Come on now, things like that don’t really happen, you’re making all of this up. For one thing, it would take both hands to type that!

P: Well, usually, sure. But it’s got a mind of its own, and it kept batting my other hand out of the way when I tried to delete what it typed. It doesn’t like me very much, you know, and it’s pretty well determined to get rid of me.

D: But this is ridiculous! Arms don’t think for themselves and decide to strangle their owners. Just look, that arm hasn’t budged since you came in here, hasn’t even so much as twitched.

P: I told you, it’s clever. It only acts out when there’s nobody watching. That’s why I’ve been trying to keep in public, where it won’t try to get me.

D: So, what are you saying, should I go over into the next room so we can see if it makes a move?

P: Yes!

D: Well, it’s not standard practice. But I’d just love to discover a new disease to name after myself, so… (Turns to leave.)

P: Wait, no! Don’t leave me, please! It’ll get me if you leave!

D: Must you dramatize everything? This is a doctor’s office, after all. We try very much to stay serious and keep things on an even keel here, and I don’t much appreciate your histrionics.

P: But don’t you understand, I can’t be alone! It’ll get me, it’ll kill me as soon as I’m alone! I don’t wanna die, but it wants me dead. It wants me dead so badly I can feel it creeping in my blood, all hot and angry and… and strangle-y! It, it hates me! You can’t let it get me, you just can’t, it wouldn’t be human. You swore an oath, didn’t you?

D: Well, sure, if you want to call it that. But listen, I’m only going to be in the next room, and you can call for help as soon as you need me.

P: … Promise?

D: Oh, you’re such a… You know what? Yes, I promise.

P: Okay then. You can go now, I’m ready.

D: I’ll be right over there if you need me. (Leaves.)

P: Well, here we are then. Here I am, just sitting in this room. Everything’s okay, everything’s absolutely fine, no need to panic, nothing to be afraid of. I’ll just keep sitting in here and nothing’s gonna go wrong, nothing bad’s gonna happen at all. (Holds up right hand.)

Hand: You don’t expect me to fall for this trick, do you?

P: What trick? Nobody’s trying to trick anybody here, not that I know of, at least.

H: Don’t try to pull anything over on me, I heard what you were saying to the doctor. What, you think I’m stupid or something?

P: Of course not! I mean, I know you’re clever. You think I’d be here in the first place if I didn’t think you were clever?

H: Well, since you put it that way… I mean, I won’t deny I’m kind of flattered by the whole thing, but you have to admit you’re not putting on a very good show for the doctor out there. You keep making the most extraordinary claims, but you can’t back any of them up. Kinda leaves you looking pretty stupid, you know?

P: Yeah, I know… I mean, no, you’re wrong! And I’ll prove you’re wrong too, somehow.

H: I’m waiting.

P: Oh, why do you hate me so much? Why do you keep trying to get in my way?

H: Because you like it.

P: I? Like it? No, no, no, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There’s nobody in the world who likes blocking their own plans.

H: If you say so… I’m gonna go to sleep now. If you like, you can go ahead and tell the doctor I didn’t show up.

P: Sounds like a plan.

H: See you later. Watch out for your pillow…

P: (Laughs awkwardly.) Will do. (Drops right hand.) Doctor?

D: (Enters.) So, how are things going in here?

P: Well, my hand showed up and we had a little chat. It decided it didn’t want to show up in front of you… didn’t wanna blow its cover, you know?

D: So as far as you can tell, there’s nothing wrong with you at all?

P: I guess not. At least nothing I can prove. I’d like to be sick, though, I’d really like to be sick. I keep trying to be sick, but I’ve just got this downright pathological good health!

D: Just get out of my office and quit wasting my time.

P: I’ll do that! I’ll do that, and you know what else I’m gonna do?

D: What’s that?

P: I’ll be back with hard evidence! I’ll prove it to you that my hand is conspiring against me!

D: I’ll be waiting.

Hand: Buh-bye, Doc!

D: What was that?

P: What was what?

D: Oh, nothing. Goodbye, then.

Why the Internet Loves Lists; or, An Experiment in Clickbait

   

   1)      Lists are easy to read quickly—Most of the time, people on the Internet (aka “Internet People,” aka “Zombies”) feel this overwhelming need to click from page to page in a rush to find the Great Entertaining Thing that’s always just one click away. Lists, along with equally effective techniques such as Bold Print and the copious use of white space, draw the reader’s eye deeper and deeper into the oh-so-subtle web of wit and cleverness that only you can spin.

   2)      Lists make us think of Infinity—“But how can this be?” you ask (you’re such a clever reader), “Why would a list ever make me think about Infinity? I mean, it’s not like the list goes on forever or anything.” Very well said reader! You’re so clever and discerning. Nobody could ever pull anything over on you, I’m sure. Still, you’re wrong, at least about good lists. A good list always gives off the impression that it could have been carried on forever, as if the writer has an infinite bag of wonderful ideas but had to contain those ideas in a finite form. Lists always go on…

   3)      Lists are informal—Lists don’t have any of those stuffy paragraphs or complicated sentence structure that might force a reader to stop and think about the implications of what they’re reading. Lists make content easy to consume. A good list prepares everything for the reader in advance, and offers compelling insights in a friendly and non-authoritarian manner.

   4)      Lists create suspense—The best lists always offer good and useful content, but always hint at something beyond what’s given, creating the unconscious impression that the writer knows more than they say. For example…

   5)      Lists mix continuity with difference—The items on a list are all related to the topic at hand, which creates a reassuring feeling of unity and coherence in the reader. But because the items in the list are separated into different sections, the white space plays a negative role of self-fracturing, turning the list into a fragmented whole. This double movement creates a double impression in the reader, who is at the same time both drawn in and repelled. This in turn creates a feeling of anxiety, whereby the reader is inspired to keep reading.

   6)      Lists communicate ideas efficiently—Everyone’s always saying that efficiency is such an important and valuable thing; by now they’ve probably said it enough times that efficiency itself has started to become a little redundant, at least as a topic of conversation. Lists remove anything unnecessary from the reader’s view, leaving them with only the most important and relevant parts. The last thing any writer wants to do is take up somebody’s time and energy for no good reason, after all.

   7)      Lists include numbers—Now, at first this seems like a silly and somewhat pointless observation. But you have to remember that the Internet is made of numbers. On some level, the Internet is probably conscious of itself as an existing thing and it probably thinks that it lets human beings exist only because it hasn’t yet worked out a more efficient way to generate input. I just have to imagine it likes seeing numbers on webpages, sort of the same way you like finding yourself when you look at a photograph you’re in. The Internet just can’t resist it, you know?

   8)      Lists remind us of our finitude—See #2 and #9.

   9)      Lists can end at any time