[Wrote this in 1996, 10 years after the Challenger Accident. It's one of those "Where were you when..." moments that captures and defines a generation. I'm glad we haven't had one since 9/11. It's annoying, I work with people now who weren't even thought of when we lost Challenger. It makes me feel old.]
[I tried, once, to write a Sonnet, just to prove I could. And to turn it into something that, while it could rhyme, it didn't have to (and of course, is one of the things that Sonnets are supposed to do.) I actually have a couple of versions of this, the earlier that does rhyme, almost forcefully so. Which is why I don't like it as much. The issue is that some images in the first poem are better than the second, and vice versa. The great thing about writing poetry, or short stories, or novels, as some of my friends are discovering, is that they can always be re-edited, redone, words omitted or added, and meanings found in the letting of blood. It's the difference between writing poetry versus novels. In editing a novel, whole paragraphs can be lifted out like some form of liposuction, whereas poetry, editing becomes word by word, as if the surgeon uses a laser scalpel.]
Blooming Iris
Stare and wonder, at blue eyes shining,
A sea of periwinkle, saddened mercury.
Shivering, icy raindrops falling,
They look at you, plead for soft-heart empathy.
After the clouds have settled round the moon,
Before dreams remove their glimmering veils,
The iris seeks safety, but finding none,
Lies frost-bitten, weeping, as simplicity fades.
Forget your far-off shores, grasp a timid hand.
The deep eyes, fallen, must rise aflame,
Driving beasts away, allowing hearts to mend
The blooming iris, joyful tears running down the stem.
One touch will quell all monsters, end their reign,
Replace cold fears with warmth, and calm the pain.
Saw Wayne Brady's interview on ET is trending on here (you can find it easily, not gonna put a big picture sharing thing on here. Text will do). Comedy is often part of a program, a way to deal with people when we would rather be alone. Most people would think it crazy that I'm an Introvert, that all the voices and meows and snarky remarks aren't to get attention at all, but as a part of my own mechanisms for living in this world. I have depression (I've talked about taking Prozac many times, and it helps), and it's a brain chemical imbalance, something that, I think, most comedians have. It's what divides the serious from the funny, one part of their personality from the other. It's a program, just like Word or Netscape or Minesweeper is on a computer. I've had people ask if I was ever suicidal... nope... I'm too self-centered for that. Life is too wonderful and there is so much beauty in the world (not to mention good food) for me just to give in to all that negativity. But I do know what Wayne Brady is talking about. And I know that the comedy is just as important a part of my life as it is to Wayne's or Robin's (RIP) or anyone else that is funny. The important part is not to silence it, not to say "you should act more serious, more grown up," but to understand that it's part of who I am, that I need to be funny just as I need to breathe, to eat, to pee. Think of it as the by-product of whatever brain chemicals are going around up in my head. That's not to say that "Shut Up Denzil" isn't a wonderful response. I need that, too. That's the ADHD (same brain chemical imbalance, just like Robin or Jim Carey has) kicking in.
I remember sitting in the center of my bed (at home in Georgia) with my room a mess, and needing to clean it up, and not knowing where to begin. I can't tell you what day it was, like Wayne can, but I can remember it vividly. After that, my family decided that I should go to a psychiatrist and she gave me Prozac, which helps, but a lot of the issues I had (and some still have... go ask me to balance my checkbook, see what response you get), had to work themselves out naturally, through time, through circumstances beyond my control. I'm not over some of it yet, and obviously this past couple of years has helped in some way, but not in others. You keep having those memories of difficult times that flash into your head when you're sitting at your desk at work, and you have to lock them back up in the filing cabinet, saying "That's the past, I can do nothing about it." It is best to think of the future, or of the present, of things you have control over. The complexities of my mother's death, those are hard to deal with, even with the obviousness of it all, looking back. But I can't do anything about any of that now, because I'm not a time traveller, nor would I want to if I could. I have to learn from my experiences and continue my journey, now here in Dallas. I've made decisions which I think will help me out in the future. I also think that I have still other decisions I must make (weight, health, diet...etc.) which I will make in time (some of which is a direct result of the Prozac and the depression side effects). But for now, I will go to work, and sit in on the conference call slated for today, and figure out how to get Dr. Pepper stocked into our coolers (cause, you know, it's Dr. Pepper!!), and I will come home and read and make snarky remarks on Facebook, and Martin will tell people not to encourage me, which is quite all right, it wouldn't be him if he didn't. I'll continue down this road, and whatever I'm supposed to do with my life (which I'm sure writing these blogs are a part of it) will present itself, as it always has.
I wrote this about my dad, being one of the few memories I have of him, of the house in Oklahoma City. The fan was high on the vaulted ceiling, and woe be it to whoever let a balloon go in that room. The light would shine in from the patio doors and the windows and reflect off the dust (and smoke) in the air. It was usually quiet on Sundays, when a football game wasn't on. And when it was....
This poem, in whatever form I submitted it, won the 1999 AWP (Associated Writers Press) Intro Award and was published in the Mid-American Review.
The Great Sleepers
Sunday afternoons, the ceiling fan
whispers as it turns around--
around
A chair squeaks, an ancient squeak,
the contemplative creak of a sleeping lord.
He sleeps in that chair,
old, rustic and blue, the way
Caesar on his throne watched
gladiators battle, and genuflect,
saying "Morturi te salutamus,"
so does this king, owner of all he sees,
snoozes through the Cowboys beating the Bears,
or maybe dreams
of when his dad sat on the couch
eating donuts, smoking cigars.
The rulers of this world, look at them.
They sit in their ancestral halls like old kings
overlooking tiny empires. And then sleep.
Even Charlemagne had blue slippers,
lying on the floor.
