Journal: Al Franken Speaks

Al Franken last night, at the Paramount Theater in Seattle… Not only heartening to hear a political speaker making sense, but to see the enthusiasm for him and the size of his audience was also very encouraging.

I particularly like his suggestion that they should give Trump the nuclear codes–but change them, first. Then after he pushes all the buttons, hurry him down to the bomb shelter and leave him there for a while. There was more, but that was the main point.

Not surprisingly, there were a few protesters outside the theater, and a short gauntlet of tv cameras. 

Personally, I see quite a gap on the continuum between bad taste and boorishness, and criminality. And I am very glad no one is interested in exposing my youthful stupidities, as I am sure many of us are. 

Franken’s blindness to ‘making anyone uncomfortable’ is hardly to his credit, and typical of his generation–which is also mine, by the way. Many things have been scrutinized with more sensitivity, and sense, in fact, since the 50s.

Back then, drinking and driving was no big deal, and public intoxication was played for laughs. Spousal abuse was clucked at and socially despised, but not considered within the realm of community business. Children had no defense from the community for abuse, either. And patting women inapropriately was… not admirable, but part of social “normal.” And Franken was a joker which gave him more social leeway to be occasionally and opportunely outrageous. 

We have learned over years, and have changed the norms by which we define acceptibility. Some of us who were raised with other established notions have kept up with the changes, even welcomed them and worked towards them. Others–not so much. 

But there is still a wide range on that spectrum between “inappropriate” and “criminal.” The center of that spectrum also has shifted considerably, that line drawn between acceptible and unacceptible. This is how community consciousness improves, and how new generations are taught to be better than those that came before.

Franken did not speak to this last night, but he did open with a few words acknowledging the situation and his own personal responsibility.

JOURNAL: 4th of July 2019

This was what I wrote this past July 4th, usually a day of proud celebrations and a night of brilliant fireworks commemorating the birth of the United States of America in 1776. It bears repeating now, three months later, as tides are turning…

I have mixed feelings this Fourth.

You who read me here, you know I am a practical progressive, believe in compassion and justice, and utterly deplore the current administration’s  delusional justifications for it’s program of malicious mischief. With the anti-Americanism rampant throughout Trump’s cabinet and appointees, it is embarrassing to be an American, these days.

It is shameful that more rational and humane voices are drowned out in the mob’s chorus of nationalistic fervor. These years will be named in history as the era of White Supremacy empowered by massive ignorance and greed. It is the era of toxic capitalism, as evil a thing as the toxic socialism: they both create chaos in their extremes, in which there is nothing but growing desperation for the majority of American citizens; and desperation is a root cause of rising suicide statistics, of escapist entertainments and distractions, of losing our grip on civilization. 

But that’s not the whole story.

We are in a time of wakening, of growing awareness of the beliefs that have bound us to tribal thinking, and every day thinking, caring, and the acceptance of responisbility move us towards a higher level of civilization than technology has ever achieved on its own. 

I read a quote yesterday, an assertion that America’s true greatness lies in our ability to see and correct our faults. Adding that, however far from them we are at a given moment, this nation strives towards the ideals stated in the Pledge of Allegiance, the Declaration of Independence, the Gettysburg Address, I agree.

I believe that this mad era will pop like a noxious swamp bubble, that we will claw back our humanity and wisdom; for another generation or two, the best of what we are will override the worst, until our children’s children’s children have forgotten what we are remembering now: that it is our responsibility as adults and as citizens to keep an eye on the flow of power and to keep it from bursting its boundaries and flooding catastrophically again. That will no doubt happen again, because there is nothing like success and well-being to fuel complacence, and the taking-for-granted of blessing earlier generations bled for.  

After all, we have been here, exactly here, before. If you doubt it, do some research on The Gilded Age. There are some excellent documentaries on Amazon Prime.

So today, the 4th of July, 2019, I will be figuratively and literally be turning my back on Trump and his imitation of power, his imitation of the authoritarians he looks to as role models. I keep faith with those who think and care and take on the responsibility to rise above the swamp sucking at our feet. Every day, more of us awaken to the atrocities this administration perpetrates, and there are more of us than of them: all we have to do is vote, and vote smart. 

That’s what this day will be about for me, today, and tonight, every fireburst in the sky will be light blasting away the darkness.

Violetta 15 Years My Friend

It is not you my sweet friend
I lay to rest upon a bed of flowers,
cover over with petals 
of pink and yellow and white
and all the gentle colors of the rose…
because I could not simply consign
your empty body to the earth, 
lying on, surrounded by unlovely dirt.

It is not you there in the garden
under the cairn we built 
to mark the place, I know because
I see you in my heart, with mind’s eye
romping full of life and spry again
in a meadow where the wildflowers
bounce and tease and play with you
and all the others who have gone before.

I know you are not there because
I glimpse you from the corner of my eye
from time to time about the house
behind the door or on the stairs…
or feel you snuggle in the night 
in your accustomed place 
against my shoulder, and I can almost
hear your calm persistent purr

especially in those moments
when I would miss you most 
if I did not know that you
like all beloved pets
do not abandon us when 
your ill or aging body dies
but stay nearby as long
as we still need you to be here. 

2015

Tolkien Tribute: Erebor


Born of fire, the Mountain rose, alone amid the plain,
and stood there steaming for an age, cooling in the rain
that fell and gathered in stream and pool and marshes, fen and pond
until a lake lay at its feet, and stretched over the lands beyond.

Came a hearty race of wandering folk
that sheltered there out of the night
bringing songs and tales, and hammers and ales
and eyes so very bright!
Caverns they found in the Mountain’s folds,
and made themselves at home,
delving chambers and corridors
from the Mountain’s patient stone.

The Mountain yielded treasures of gems,
of gold, and of silver gleaming,
an endless source of beauty and wealth,
as it lay there quietly dreaming.
And Aule’s Children, they cut and carved,
and made of the darkness a wonder
and lit it with lamps of the glittering gems
they’d from the Mountain’s heart plundered.

Other folk came to the lands round about
and planted town and crop,
That rippled, reflected in the shining lake
alongside the Mountain’s top.
In alliance they feasted and raised fine toasts
in many a mighty flagon,
And while they sang and the Mountain slept
there came like a storm, the Dragon.

Woe and sorrow, for all that died,
for the wealth and the glories lost–
The few that lived, ran for their lives,
to the tempests of fortune tossed.
The Beast, he bellowed and gathered together
a glittering golden bed
of all that the Dwarves had left behind
when those weeping survivors fled.

Grim the years, and cowed the folk
who lived on the lake in the gloaming,
ever in fear of the Dragon’s penchant
for malicious and fiery roaming.
But as the time passed, the Dragon grew older
and fat on the fruit of his malice,
and finally mostly all that he did
was sleep at the roots of his palace.

In lands afar, the vagabond Dwarves,
they made what poor life they could
but ever they dreamed of return and revenge
and knew that someday they would
defy that great Dragon, that arrogant Wyrm,
and drive him away from their hall–
They dreamed and planned in exile far,
though their resources were small.

The Mountain moved not, nor noticed nor cared
who dwelt in the halls nor how former lords fared;
Alone on the plain, it slept away ages
while Men, Dwarves and others filled History’s pages…

A day came indeed when the Dwarf-kind
returned and the ancient Dragon was roused
and goaded and teased until he stirred
from the halls where he comfortably housed.
He flew off towards the town on the lake in a fury,
his outrage errupting in fire
and there at the point of a long black shaft,
did the wicked old Wyrm expire.

Parades there came of Men and Elves
and Dwarves and Goblins and all
the races that live in Middle Earth,
old, young, and short and tall…
Armies met and clashed and killed
and died in defiance and rage
in a Battle that heralded the opening blows
of the end of another Age.

Hammers and swords, songs and laments
have echoed on the Mountain’s side;
Lives have been lived there in joy and despair
and many a death has been died;
Great and mighty have dwelt in its deeps
from swaddling clothes to shrouds…
The Mountain drowses alone on the plain,
where the reaching earth touches the clouds.

Tolkien Tribute: Speak, Friend, and Enter

Some years ago I was active on a Tolkien-based site that featured writing and poetry contests. This was a dialogue-writing competition with set parameters:
Characters: an elf and a dwarf
Setting: outside Doors of Moria
Theme: Speak, Friend, and Enter
I gave myself the added challenge of using the dialogue alone
to show the scene and the action.

—Greetings, friend Elf!   What’s that th’art doing, kneeling by the doorstep of Khazad-dum?  Elf?  I speak to thee– Wilt not look up and greet me?

–I do rise now, Friend Dwarf, and I greet thee, too.  I was conversing, as thee came out through the great doors.

–Yes, I did perceive that.  But not to me.

–No, not to thee.

–That’s as well, Elf, because I do not understand thy language. And yet, there’s no one here but thee and me.

–Is there not, Dwarf?

–I look there…  I look here…  See, I even look up…!   I see no one else.

–Ah.

—Ah? What, ah? Don’t thee look down thy delicate Elven nose at me, friend Elf, and say Ah, as if thee knows all of my kind, and all of my nature!  I beg thy pardon if I interrupt thy converse, I do so but in ignorance.  And if thou would but introduce me to whom thee speaks, mayhap the chat can encompass us all!

–I bow to thee, friend Dwarf, and humbly I beg thy pardon.  I did not intend rudeness.  Let me introduce thee to these two holly trees, just now planted by the doors: I water them from the gate stream, just so…   and nurture them with words.

–These two wee twigs?  They are to whom thee speaks?

–Indeed, they are!  Twigs they are in seeming, but they are trees, too, great and lovely in the fullness of Time, and in the heart of them even now. It is indeed to them that I speak.

—Why?

–Ah, do forgive my mirth, friend Dwarf, but the tone of amaze in thy voice and the bafflement upon thy brow remind me that though we are friends we are not kin, and not all things are understood between us! 
I speak to them because they are young : and newly planted are their feet in this soil.  Because they are uncertain and shy.

–Are they?

–Aye, my friend, they are– and I would not have them shrivel, feeling that, being so  slight and meek,  they do not belong in this place by the great  Gateway to the wondrous Realm of Khazad-dum! My words to them awaken their strength and courage, and remind them who they are.  For they are already what they will be.

–And they–these wee baby trees– they understand thy words, do they?

–I speak to them in their own language, that they shall…  Every Elf knows the tongue of every living thing. 
Why now thy creased brow, friend Dwarf?

–It is a mystery to me, a Dwarf, my friend, this language of twigs and trees.  And now I understand thee, I am sorry that I cannot give to these young lordlings the gift of nurturance, too, for I also wish to see them, one day seasons hence, standing brave beside the Door.  It grieves me I cannot bless them as thee does, though they grace the doorstep of my home.  Therefore, I sigh, and thee sees the furrowing of…  Wait a moment, though…  Ha!  Make a little room there…

–Of course… but to what purpose does thee kneel?  Dwarf? Dost thou hear me? Dwarf…? Why does thee bow thy head beside thine own door?  Dwarf…? 
Very well then, I shall wait…  
Elbereth’s stars are wondrous bright this night, and light the new letters Narvi made…  These letters and these words, together, shall speak the welcome of friend to friend down the ages of this Middle-earth, and give honor to the love and respect of the Free Folk, each for the other..  Fades the daylight from the sky, and the Moon, she rises great and brilliant among them and Narvi’s work blazes…! 

—Ahh… Oh!  Stiff knees, Elf… May thee never know them!  I see the Sun has gone through the Gates in the West,  and the Moon, she climbs the sky…    I did not realize…  I did not mean to keep thee waiting…  By Durin’s beard, look at how the words shine out above our heads!  Oh, but, again, thy pardon, Friend Elf… 

–No matter, Dwarf, there is plenty of time in the world!  And the lights of the Doorway are good to see…  Did thee speak to the trees?

–Nay, that I cannot do in any tongue they could hear.  I leave that to thee and thy kin..  I addressed myself to another.

–Friend Dwarf, now it is I who see no other. 

–Ah!  Thy quick and lively kind see and speak to the green and growing things, and those that scurry about all across the land, but it takes a Dwarf to converse with stone!

–With stone?  Stone? This is a marvel!  I had not thought stone had will to hear, or speak!

–Yet, my friend, it does! One must have not the quick ears of the Elf, , but the deep ears of Dwarves, to hear it.  And the language of stone is one that every Dwarf knows!

–And what words had thee for the stone, friend Dwarf? for I am mightily curious to know!

–Gladly, then, I shall ease your curiosity!  I asked the wild rock of the mountain, and the tamed stone of the door and the step, to welcome and make way for the roots and branches of the wee trees; to share the nurture that they are made of, with these younglings, to shade and cool them when the sun beats hard, and shelter them from pounding weather.  I asked  the stone to give of the warmth it soaks up from the summer sun, when winter freezes the land, and to give the blessings of the mountain’s own roots to encourage and instruct these trees, that their own roots will hold fast and be strong and go deep.
This is what I spoke to the stone.

–Ah!

—Ah, indeed!  Now, we have both spoken, friend– Let us enter, and sup together in good-will, and raise a cup that our friendship shall last as long as the stones and the trees!

—

OCT 2004

Tolkien Tribute again: The Duel

Two persons met on a narrow trail,
one short, one tall, and neither frail.
The wizard flourished his magic staff–
“Now, let me by and don’t be daft!”
The hobbit stood firm, he was no fool–
and that was the start of their magic duel.

I bend my back to look up at you,
in your great tall hat of wizardly blue
and dig my toes into the ground,
where a hobbit’s magic’s to be found.
for it’s the magic of growing things,
from soil and water where new life springs–
Can you, in your fine tall wizardy hat,
do anything that’s better than that?

Fires and lights are my domain,
and words to give a balrog pain,
My wisdom and knowledge can out-do yours,
derived from all Middle-earthian lores
But, little Hobbit, I bow to you,
and tip my hat of the sky’s soft hue:
Your magic is better and longer will last
than any of mine, for my time is past.

Companions in peace,  they happily stroll,
one to the West, and one to his hole.

Tolkien Tribute: Beren and Luthien

Beren and Luthien were a mortal Man and the daughter of an undying Elf and a Maia. They were bound together by love, and together, they fought the great Evil of Middle-earth, and won, though at great cost. Finally, Luthien, also called by Beren, Tinuviel–the Nightingale–chose to remain with him and live a mortal life.

Beren and Luthien were the ancestors of both Arwen and Aragorn.

A Kyrielle: Beren’s Treasure

I, warrior weary past all measure,
wandering lost in a lonely spot
came upon a priceless treasure…
Love does what Power and Time cannot.

I saw there a star in the green glade gleaming
She stilled my voice and filled my thought!
She fled and I followed, as if in dreaming…
Love does what Power and Time cannot.

I gave my love to the shining elf maiden
and knew her for all that I’d ever sought.
I bent my knee to her, heart full-laden…
Love does what Power and Time cannot.

King’s daughter walking in world undying…
A mortal’s suit must be for naught–
But Luthien was in my arms lying…
Love does what Power and Time cannot.

The brightest star of Elven-kind’s morning
fled from all the Elves lived and taught
to come with me, immortality scorning…
Love does what Power and Time cannot.

Ballade of Tinuviel

Dance, dance, the night is singing!
The stars in the sky like bells are ringing,
like ice, like crystal, like light on the mountain–
I am the dance and the singing fountain!

The music falters, the night is broken–
a word on the edge of the glade is spoken…
A Man, the weight of long wars upon him
gazes agape at beauty beyond him.

Fly, fly! The Man pursues me
into the dark as if he knows me,
as if an Elf-maid under the stars
would fancy a mortal man fresh from the wars!

Bright, bright, his eyes are shining–
The heart of the Elf-maid, suddenly pining…
Suddenly for the mortal’s touch yearning…
A fire in my ice-pure heart is burning!

Grief, grief, the Elves are weeping
for I have chosen the final sleeping.
I have given myself to mortal life
To love and to sorrow as Beren’s wife.

Thingol and Melian’s hearts are broken
from one word by Beren spoken.
Years on years now, Time is fleeting
since Tinuviel’s and Beren’s meeting…

Yay for Money!

Money is a battery for storing the energies produced by human work. It’s a transformer, too, changing human work into stuff. When the potter trades pottery for the farmer’s grain, it is a device for equalizing any difference in the relative values for the goods generated by the work. In itself, it has no value, only carries the energies of things that do have real value: the affirmation and confirmation of the worker’s worth.

Money and the energy it holds can be very useful stuff.

Accumulation of lots of money allows for acquisition of very high-energy (expensive) stuff like roads and market-places and the other infrastructure and developing technologies that helps the potter and the farmer get their goods out into the world so they can feed and clothe their families and get adequate education for their kids.

That’s, of course, why taxes: Governments–central authorities–pool the smaller amounts to a large lake of an amount to accomplish things for the benefit of the larger community. Those who share in the benefits from such accomplishments, ideally, have shared in the expenses which, if you think about it, is fair.

Money comes out of a community. It is produced by a community and stored in specially-designed containers like banks. And banks are like flower pots: Money can be invested and it can grow outward from the banks like a wild vine, out into the world, join up with other vines and become global. But the basis of all money-generation is the worker and the community. So–it seems reasonable that a certain proportion of it should, even must go back into the community, to keep the energy flowing. Think of feeding the goose that lays that gold egg.

If someone diligently collects all the golden eggs but feeds the goose on the cheapest fare, or as little as possible, or simply lets it wander around eating what it can find, and takes no care of the goose to keep it strong and healthy, that is… well, stupid.

Just sayin’ .

Tolkien Tribute in honor of Frodo’s & Bilbo’s Birthday!

These next two poems are pantoums, a minstrel’s form, intended to be sung and designed to be remembered. It is a form most suited to Hobbits, who, according to Tolkien, enjoy playing with words and forms in their poetry.

THE GUEST OF HONOR

Old Bilbo Baggins is eleventy-one!
For a hobbit, indeed a respectible age.
Though he loves to sit out with his pipe in the sun
He acts like a lad in his tweens, not a sage!

For a hobbit, indeed a respectible age
He’s well on his way now to match the Old Took!
He acts like a lad in his tweens, not a sage–
In his eye there’s a bright bit of rascally look!

He’s well on his way now to match the Old Took
With a spritely spring in his wandering stride.
In his eye there’s a bright bit of  rascally look
And it’s long been suspected, there’s a Took inside!

With a sprightly spring in his wandering stride
He is like to go off with a bang and a flash
And it’s long been suspected there’s a Took inside
A-craving adventures foolhardy and rash.

He is like to go off with a bang and a flash
Though he loves to sit out with his pipe in the sun,
A-craving adventures foolhardy and rash…
Old Bilbo Baggins is eleventy-one!

SHADOW OF THE FUTURE

The lanterns they glow with a comforting light
as they hang in the boughs gently swinging
illuminating the gathering night
and the company, happily eating and singing.

As they hang in the boughs gently swinging
they shine warmly down on the dearest of friends
And the company happily eating and singing,
never thinking that sometime a festival ends.

They shine warmly down on the dearest of friends
in their merriment and their dancing and glee–
never thinking that sometime a festival ends,
that the lamps will, finally, burn out in the tree.

In their merriment and their dancing and glee
it’s a world replete with wondrous delight!
That the lamps will, finally, burn out in the tree
holds nary a worry, or thought of a fright.

It’s a world replete with wondrous delight!
Celebrating the peaceable passing of years
holds nary a worry or thought of a fright–
No thought that the future holds danger and fears…

Celebrating the peaceable passing of years,
illuminating the gathering night,
no thought that the future holds danger and tears:
The lanterns, they glow with a comforting light…

Journal: Dreaming Wonders

I dreamed the most marvelous thing!

An oak cabinet, about the size of a dining room credenza, opening up wide to a scene of such perfect and intricate detail, like the very finest miniature house, but with mechanical and electrical devices that worked, and the perfectly sculpted tiny people in it. Each cabinet was built to a literary or historic or purely imaginary theme. The hand-carved oak details glowed with warmth and welcome… and even as I write, the dream fades as dreams do, and I lose the specifics–but I remember what it was, and I can imagine…

I imagine a cabinet of my son’s workshop. (This isn’t meant as an advert, but he does have a site here on WordPress called The Fire Thieves Studio.)

His ‘cabinet’ in my imagination has shelves of supplies, of teddy bears and post-apocalyptic and steampunk and just plain peculiar odds and ends, and racks of distressed garments. There is another corner where he builds theater props, there hangs an ungainly, 4-foot tall black crow puppet, and on their own shelves, a cardboard cathedral, and a weasel next to a giant Twinkie… There is a barrel full of boffer swords and halberds and such, and a big box of branches and twigs above which little twig-creatures, puppets and poppets hang from the ceiling like mobiles gently moving in the air… There is a tiny vacu-forge in another corner, in full tiny operation… And of course, there is a tiny figure of himself, hard at work at a workbench beside a window that opens onto a mountainous Colorado landscape. The light changes as the day passes from morning to night to morning, and as the weather changes, maybe even as the seasons change. That’s how perfectly detailed this cabinet would be, just like the one I dreamed.

I imagine a cabinet of my elder daughter’s closet, with every detail of her Renaissance finery, Celtic dance costuming, and the gem-bright silks of her Silk Road Dance Company time… She dances there in the center, like the ballerina in a jewelry box, and the music is bright and flowing like the silks of Uzbekistan… and her son and daughter dance there along with her, when it is a Celtic number. Her husband can be seen through the window, grilling marvelous things on the patio barbecue.

My younger daughter’s cabinet has several windows. One opens to a changing landscape of New Zealand, the next looks out across the Ribble Valley of England, and the third, to the towering forest of western Washington State… At one side, there are all the accoutrements of a dog-training studio along with her two dogs, a little Lancashire healer, and a gangly big mutt with shepherd and mastiff in him. At the other–all the furnishings and toys of busy toddlers. She is in the center, playing a flute, swaying with the rhythm and melody. Her husband is coming in the door carrying coffees.

Pull back and see: these three cabinets are sections of one, mine.