Who Has Time to Be Bored?

Not me.  In the last week I’ve come across so many interesting ideas that can be turned into books, that should be turned into books.  But where is the time?   I sit here now with my eyes closing, heavy with a threatening sleep.  But no! I want to write this.  I want to read and explore.  Time runs out it seems, every day.

I guess it’s a warning, that time is always running out, that I should use my precious portion with great care.  That doesn’t mean I have to use every moment to produce something material, but every moment should matter. 

That’s all.  I wanted to share that with you, as I sip my juice and read about horses and how they continue to change the lives of people today.  Just another idea, waiting for development.

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A New Short Story to Check Out

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I just published another story on my blog at Steemit.  The story refers to my brother’s brush with death when he was nine years old.  He had severe heart disease. One hospital refused to treat him.  St. Francis Hospital, in Roslyn, New York accepted him as a transfer patient.  The physicians at St. Francis saved his life.

I think my story is a commentary on the fragility of life and on the importance of seeking care at a topnotch medical facility.

I was five when my brother had his crisis.  Everything was clear to me as it unfolded back then.  All of us knew, my siblings and I, that my brother might die.  Although he came out of his acute crisis that first night, he struggled for months to overcome the heart disease that had plagued him for years.

My brother’s struggle became part of my developing psyche.  I don’t think I would be the person I am today without having gone through that early trauma.  While I was just a witness to my brother’s struggle, in a family there is no such thing.  Each person is part of the event.

If you feel like checking out my story on Steemit, please do.  The story doesn’t talk about my brother so much.  It deflects the panic of the moment onto an attending physician, who goes through a life-altering crisis of his own.

Thanks for reading my blog.

 

Recesses: A Really Dark Poem

 

 

Swamp public

I’m posting a poem here with a bit of hesitation.  It is a dark piece, and not at all representative of my writing.  I blame the darkness on my subconscious.  As readers of this blog may know, I grew up in challenging circumstances.  In a previous blog, A Burial, I refer to a grim episode in which several of my dogs were poisoned.  The family never discovered who poisoned the dogs.  Each poisoned pet had to be buried.  Since my father was absent, my older brother took charge, as he often did.

It was winter, and the ground was frozen.  My brother was obliged to improvise.  He found a bog, deep in the forest, in which the deceased animals’ bodies could be dispatched.  The mud would absorb whatever was thrown onto it.  This constituted a sort of burial, the best he could manage.

Years later, when I began to write, I searched my mind for inspiration.  The poem posted below came to me, almost in an unbroken stream.  There’s little doubt I was healing an old wound.  In the poem I imagine a murder, in a swamp, but this time the murderer doesn’t get away.  My subconscious metes out a rough justice.

Here’s the poem.  Beware: It is dark.

 

Recesses

In the rustle of the swamp reeds

In the ceaseless crackling clamor

Of the swamp’s pursuers and pursued

A very careful and interested listener

Might have heard

The faintest sigh

An expiration of breath

Blended casually and perfectly

With the flow of generation and degeneration

So its individuality

Its particularity

Was lost

 

No one heralded its passing

Except the swamp’s general chorus

Of insect and animal activity

Which signaled without prejudice

The birth and demise of multitudinous creatures

 

In the wetness of the earth

In the dark and malodorous puddles

Seeping through an eternity of swamp grass

The smallest rivulet of blood tinted the ground

Blended with greater streams and

Became indistinguishable

From the enveloping deepness of their color

 

Through tangled trees and weeping weeds

He fled

The mute rebuke of her still presence

Propelling him

The hours since he killed

Darkened the earth

Until night dwellers rose from their nests

And joined the uncensoring cacophony

 

He knew this dense and murky world

It would have granted him a bed

Had he stopped

He could not

Panicked by the specter of her face

He pressed on

Past the creeping oozing things

The silent crawling essences in the mud

 

He was wet

From his excretions

From excretions of soil and plant

His shoes heavy with moisture

His clothes clammy

He became as like the swamp as he could ever be

And it became less a friend to him

He who confided in the swamp

Discovered its treachery

 

He was lost

The absolving obscurity which had drawn him

To commit this deed

Ordained his destruction

 

The first rays of sunrise did not penetrate

To the depths of the swamp’s floor

Rather they gradually colored the dense undergrowth

And muddy pools of its recesses

Only moments before those traces of color appeared

He fell

 

His body slumped to earth

Perhaps his head hit a rock

Or an exhausted vessel hemorrhaged

A rivulet of blood

Tinted the ground

Blended with greater streams and

Became indistinguishable

From the enveloping deepness of their color

 

In the depths of a wild and immense swamp

Amidst the hawing and cawing

Of embattled entities

One predator and his prey

Rested

The swamp protected the secret of its protégé

And with the force of irresistible passivity

Received the final traces of his crime

Into the fabric of its all absorbing life