A MONTH OF LIES, PERHAPS?

April is National Poetry Writing Month – NAPOWRIMO.   At least one new poem written each day fulfills the overall goals to practice, practice, practice your craft.  Immerse yourself in perfect word selection; proper rhythm and rhyme; obtuse expression.   I have ignored the whole challenge for a couple years now.   Gradually backing away from contemplation a little more every day.  No forced thought or projection.  No refining a tune.

I have not cared, nor am I certain I care now…but it is snowing outside, and the work computer website is down, I have soft jazz on the telly in the living room where Emil Catt has stretched out in front of the fire, so I might as well give the coming month some thought.   Choose a theme, perhaps.  Envision a book with a finely grained leather cover; a warm, mellow yellow with hand painted title; individually stitched pages of sturdy, but luscious ecru watermarked vellum – can vellum be watermarked?  Maybe an exquisite grey linen – fifty-pound, smooth slubs running through it – rich, but not haughty – with a dark charcoal cover…wide margins for readers’ notes.   Assuming I inspire note taking, or conversation in general.

So, I have thought of a theme, and a title.  ONE MONTH OF LIES – Real or Imagined.  What do you think?  Nothing maudlin, nor angry.  I am not in the mood to be angry…enough of that in politics.  No, this will be more like thoughtful observation.  Awareness offset with new answers.  Belly laughs.  Head slapping duhs.   Deep yawns.  Thirty days is a long time to focus on one theme…for me, at least, with my self – diagnosed ADD (it explains my tendency to flit from one topic to another without thought to the person trying to follow my train).

I was set just now to provide an example of a lie I might approach in a new light, but as quickly as I thought about its devastating impact on the whole of my existence, I grew bored with it.   How do people keep from boring themselves?   Hard to say.  I would likely not listen to the whole explanation anyway.  The older I get, the less interested I stay in pontification.   Expounding is for the young, excited with their newest discovery – something I’ve encountered at least three times in my sixty- eight years.   I get confused when I hear an up- and- coming intelligentsia earnestly describing the very latest thought.  Confused because I think I have heard it before, but if someone who is fresher, more formally educated, clearly in touch with the latest greatest says it is new, I must be wrong about hearing it before now, yes?

For instance, I watched a news show the other morning where the enthusiastic and earnest environmentally savvy  “journalist” traveled to the Arctic (or maybe it was the Antarctic) to see face to face snowy white baby seals, and to expose the watching public to the plight of those sweet, small beasts in the shadow of climate change.   I understood what he was doing, the “journalist,” sounding an alarm – putting a sweet face to the manmade horror of it all.    I then immediately recalled pictures of similar darling baby seals in the 1970s when the horror of it all was once again manmade – brutal bashing of their little heads for their fur.    I thought, my God, those poor animals have never had a time when something was not threatening them.   Then, as I watched the “journalist” climb into the helicopter that brought him out to the ice where these babies live, I was angered at the thought that in his effort to demonstrate the environmental damage perpetrated on these babies, he had ridden in a car – maybe electric, more most likely not – then taken an airplane flight, then hired the helicopter with its gasoline engine, and its long, loud blades disturbing the peace on the ice to get him to his story.    He did perhaps as much damage to the small individual beasties he used to make his point, as the whole of humanity is doing to their population at large.  He had his moment of awareness, just as we did in the 1970’s, and as our parents did in the forties, and their parents at the turn of the twentieth century.  He had his moment to make his point but dulled it by the means at which he presented it.   Tsk…same ol’ same ol’, Son.  That’s my take on it.  Robin Roberts, or whoever was the anchor, was thrilled.

I doblather. One thought leading to another.   Were I drinking scotch and sitting in a cozy corner with a friend, they would likely think I’d gone off on another tangent in which they have little to no interest.   They would not care, though, for we would be together, toasting, and simply enjoying the sound of our voices laughing together.

Here’s to the coming month of Lies.   It shall be fascinating to see what truth I pull from it.

 

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