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Just Shelley

Thanks for the birthday wishes

Many thanks for the birthday wishes. I didn’t have a cake tonight, but I did treat myself to two margaritas when my roommate took me out for dinner. And I’m also treating myself to a whole raft of movies, including some classic sci-fi recommended by a friend.

(Speaking of movies, we watched Shrek 2 tonight. I hope I’m not the only adult that loved Puss n’ Boots in this movie; or laughed themselves silly during the hairball incident.)

It’s odd, but I normally don’t remember dreams quite as vividly as the one I recounted earlier. I can’t help thinking it would make a nice centerpiece to a book, or at the least, a short story. If nothing else, it was better than dreaming about being naked in front of an audience, or showing up for school, not prepared for an important test.

It was a good dream, though. Everytime I think on it, I smile. There was something about the book store and the choice, whatever the choice that had such a positive feel to it. And I can agree with Dave Rogers that all the main characters in the dream could be variations on myself — but the man I’m kissing? That sounds just a little too weird, even for a dream, even for me.

Again, thanks for the wishes.

Categories
Just Shelley

The oddest dream

I had the oddest dream last night. I dreamed that I was in a small town located on the ocean, I’m not sure which ocean. I was there to attend a reunion of all the people I’ve met online through weblogging and have wanted to meet in person.

I was sharing a dorm room with a couple of other webloggers, two very young and very attractive young women. We were all getting dressed to go to the party, when I realized that all I had with me were my muddy, old hiking boots, my jeans, a blue jean shirt, and a white t-shirt underneath. I looked at one of the young women, and she was dressed in silver satin and black velvet that was cut down to here and slit up to there, exposing her long, trim legs and sleek belly, and firm, youthful breasts. As she primped, she chattered away about how the next day, she was going on a river float with some of my favorite webloggers. As I listened to her excitement I looked more closely at her face, and realized that she looked a lot like I did twenty-five years ago.

A large car was outside, waiting to take us all to the party. I strained to peer inside, through the darkly tinted glass, but couldn’t see into its depths at who had arrived to pick us up. As we started towards the car, I suddenly turned toward the young woman in satin and velvet and said I wasn’t going. She was disappointed, being a sweet young woman as well as pretty, and asked me why. I said it was because I didn’t want to disappoint people who were expecting her, and got me, instead.

After she entered the car, I watched it drive off and then started walking through the town. I entered, in turn, a small cafe, a tavern, and what might have been either a church or a school. None of the buildings seemed very distinctive, and all were misted in gray, with the people odd lumps of shadows standing out from the walls.

Towards the center of town, I entered a slightly disorganized bookstore that also had bits and pieces of art hanging from the ceiling and cluttering up the floor. A man entered and even though I could see him clearly and sharply, I couldn’t see what he looked like. He was the owner of the shop, though, and the creator of all the art. I started to ask him about it, when he came up to me and kissed me on the mouth. Not a friendly peck either: the kind of deep, sensuous kiss that looks good in the movies and feels wonderful, but when you see yourself doing it looks a bit sloppy, which is probably why we keep our eyes closed.

When he had kissed me thoroughly, he stepped away and told me when I was ready, the shop would be there, and the choice was mine. The choice of what, I didn’t know but I knew it was something important. Something beyond him and the kiss, but I couldn’t figure out what.

I left the building in the opposite direction I entered, and found myself on a porch that had a glass wall, and there were a few people sitting on barrels and chairs looking through the glass. On the other side of the wall, were people dressed in ordinary clothing but doing extraordinary things.

They were juggling, and tossing each other about, and riding unicycles, and all manner of wonderful stuff, and I asked one man sitting on a barrel–he was an older man, an indian, wearing a feather in his braided hair, and a leather vest over a homespun shirt–what was going on. He replied that the circus was in town and the performers practiced daily, just on the other side of the window. He and the others would come down and watch because this show was free, unlike the show that went on in the big tent.

It may have been free at one point, but I noticed an older woman looking at me from the other side of the glass, and she seemed grumpy and mouthed words I couldn’t hear but could sense, something to the effect that didn’t I realize that these people worked hard? I felt guilty and I reached into my pocket and pulled out an old five dollar bill and held it up to the glass. At that she seemed satisfied, even though she made no move to collect the money.

At that point I woke up: before I saw the dog act; before I returned to the bookstore to find out what my choices were; and before the young woman in satin and velvet returned from the party to tell me who had been there and whether I was missed or not.

I don’t know what the dream means, other than today I turned 50.

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Writing

I’m not sure where

..but I came across Letters to an Unknown Audience some time ago, and have been enjoying it ever since. When I saw this site’s version of the ‘political maps’ (here and here) I thought it was past time to expos…no…introdu…nah…shout…oh brother, that’s overused…drop this site on all of you. Because.

taste:

Some went unmarked because of the austerity of the road. When I travel light I bring only a toothbrush, a change of underwear, and a set of brass knuckles. When I travel heavy I bring two suitcases: one full of clothes and the journal, and one packed with fist-sized rocks which I leave along the route, as my way of undoing the damage I did to the Earth by topping my kitchen counters with marble.

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Just Shelley Photography

In Memoria

I had finally gone through all of Dad’s books and decided which to keep, and which to give away. I called the library, but they weren’t accepted any new book donations until April.

The lady I talked to asked what kind of books they were. I said they were mainly mystery and detective novels. She suggested I call the local Veterans hospital and see if they could use them.

The hospital said they’d be grateful for the donation, and I went down to drop them off at the Jefferson Barracks Medical Clinic. The weather was fine today, and the place was very pretty with the old barracks buildings and their peeling paint. I asked the person who helped me unload the books if I could take pictures, but she I better not — the place is also the local Homeland Security office.

The hospital is right next to the National Cemetary and I stopped by it to take photos. There were several funerals underway in various places and I could, from time to time, hear the faint echo of shots being fired.

It never fails to move me to see the row after row of white gravestones, especially so soon after my own father’s death. I was grateful for the camera, because through it I could view everything dispassionately. I managed fine up until I heard the single trumpet playing Taps.

cemetary stones

Categories
Writing

Elements of Poetry

I sometimes think that a poet is really a frustrated engineer. Or is it, an engineer is a frustrated poet?

Researching what kind of metadata one could capture about a poem, I’ve found that there are a goodly number of rules and restrictions when it comes to poetry. More than I’m aware of from my limited education in the form.

Thankfully there are sites such as this one, virtualLit an online, free, and interactive poetry tutorial that covers the elements in poetry, using three poems as examples of each: “The Fish” by Elizabeth Bishop; “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvell; and “My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke.

What I’m discovering in my researches is that one uses one set of elements to find a poem, but a different set to understand it, both mechanically and sensuously. For instance, wanting to find poems that use the concept of birds as freedom would use the element of metaphor; but once found, then other elements, such as the poem’s poetic form could not only help the reader appreciate the art of the poem, but better understand the craft of poetry.

It is through better knowledge of the craft that we discover new ideas, such as a poetic form that’s based purely on visuals, called concrete poetry, where I found a link to this site that features extraordinary visual haiku.