Notes - get packing / a sudden jolt

        Late morning. You returned from getting a haircut at Great Clips – Mary Ann, your favorite beard-trimmer, did the honors. Seven weeks, she said, since your last visit. You told her to count today as September as you told Carol you would get your hair cut at least once a month – a long thirty days between early July and late August, but wordage wins the day, once in July and once in August. Next month, alas might be a ‘skip a month’ time of year if Carol is the least bit forgetful.

         Almost noon, Carol is talking on the phone to Alta about what clothes to take on the trip and you are sitting in the living room chair wondering about why people have second thoughts.

         One would think, with free will, one could make up herorhis mind and be done with it, but no, many times it leads to second-guessing. I remember this most on supposedly well-constructed multiple-choice questions. Many times there was a close second choice to what was deemed the correct response. I remember taking such state or regional tests once in a while as students were also taking the test. Later, the department chair and I would discuss our responses, particularly in the field of grammar. Usually there were between five and ten percent of the ‘correct’ responses that could be argued, that the close second choice was also ‘correct’. Once in a while, anyway there can be a second choice that is actually as good as and sometimes even better than the first choice depending on the conditionals within the structure of the multiple-choice question. . . . I don’t know exactly where I was going with this other than it is bothersome presently.

         You have second thoughts, even third thoughts about me, orndorff; it used to bother you but you let it go and really don’t give much of a damn who I am other than I appear useful as a counter-point for the sake of a somewhat intellectual exercise in blogging.

         I am thinking it might be good to stop writing, to stop the blog. Here is why. One can stop writing but when writing thoughts one cannot stop thinking or guessing, whatever. The thoughts go on and on and on. Being as asleep when dead sounds the best as long as there is no dreaming. No nothing. Just quiet and stone-minded. Peace, even if I am not conscious of it.

         Sorry, old man, you made a promise to yourself that you will attempt to finish three books. Notes cannot stop until they are complete and published.

         My mind goes on and on. I cannot shut it down.

         You are not alone, boy. It is a matter of survival that you stay alert, built in on switch, so to speak. Post, and get packing. – Amorella.

         On the last night in this August your thought are to your friend Bob and you wonder how he is. Is he alive? Is he conscious? You have wanted to call Patti but have not as you feel it is a private time for the family. You are reflecting on what Patti said as you left when you told her your Dedication was on sailing. She was surprised and said, Bob, just gave me the [line, or] lines he wants on his urn; words from Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium”. You want to include the poem here as a further remembrance of your friend. You have not lost a friend of this caliber before. Your heart is as the somber country church bell striking; the one that (in your unconscious imagination) touched the ears of John Donne and tweaked his cause to write “Meditation 17”.

         I did not realize the unconscious mind might have a sense of imagination.

         Raises the ante, doesn’t it. – Amorella.

         It is a speculation that would answer a lot of personal questions. What an idea, an unconscious imagination.

         What about the unconscious mind ‘toying’ with the conscious imagination, does that sound more realistic?  - Amorella.

         Speculation only, Amorella. I don’t think it is probable.

         What am I doing here but toying your imagination? – Amorella.

         Point taken, Amorella. Such a sense of wit. Amazing. And, Yeats, the crafty animal he was shows wit also. Wit open to interpretation. Time for me to shut my mind and reflect.

“Sailing to the Byzantium”

By William Butler Yeats

THAT is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees

- Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

***

         The poem gives you a sudden jolt, young lad. Didn’t expect that did you? Post. We are done for the day. – Amorella.

Notes - a friendly reminder / pause for thinking / considerations / 'my' point

         Cat play, breakfast and the paper. In fifteen minutes a painter will be here to give an estimate and this afternoon another painter will give his estimate. Carol is watering the front lawn on this cool Tuesday morning.

         You are sitting in the chair weeping because M— said D— cried when she read him the news about Bob. You are weeping because D— cried and this is something you have not experienced in such a long time.

         The empathy with my cousin D— is such – but I have not felt this level of connection before. Shutting my eyes before wiping the unsought tears I saw a flash of D—, I felt his face in my face, that is the grimace in the face, though I have not seen D— cry for a very, very long time – in childhood. I do not understand how, at times, I have such an empathetic imagination, such a transference to allow myself to become him just long enough to register consciously. It is embarrassing to think I am such a sensitive bearing fellow. I do not see myself that way at all, in fact, the masculinity in me rejects such a notion whole-heartedly. Why is this so embedded in me not to show that I have emotion? . . .  Now, a few moments later I read back over this paragraph and it seems silly and childish, like I am four or five years old and even at that age should know better.

         I would call this phenomenon self-hypnotic automaticity. This is something I am not. It appears to be akin to empathetically relating to the characters in the stories, to feel their joy and pain. Whatever it is, it is useful to a writer. . . . You see, even now you were afraid I was going to use the word ‘artist’ rather than ‘writer’ (Dali and Hemingway popped on your mind before artist and writer). Do you see? Okay, old man, let’s get a smile out of you, a little added gallows humor if you will.

         Imagine this is basic human behavior and a person who does not realize and accept this is meeting an angelic figure for the first time and the question pops up, “WHO ARE YOU?”

         You see, in the stories it is quite realistic to have an immediately effected heartanmind become enclosed in the protective pod of the soul in completely unnecessary SELF-TERROR. Post as a friendly reminder by a friendly inner advisor. – Amorella.

         It is rather comical when viewed by your conditions. Funny in a dark sort of Laurel and Hardy way.

        

        Mid-afternoon. You just reread the above and realize that you did not post “as a friendly reminder” and wonder if you should change it. Pray tell; think of the implications should I tell you to change it?

         That I do not have the free will to change it as you wished it to be? . . . Okay, so I’ll change it.]

         Back to the question “Who Are You?” – note the present tense. It is not who were you five seconds ago, a year ago, even a lifetime ago, it is present tense as the Angel asks the question. The “Who Are You Now?” is immediate an understood as such. An addition sometimes reasoned as ‘I am not standing on solid ground; thus, you the Angel are solid ground.’ The Angel is not standing on solid ground because the reflection is that the Angel IS Solid Ground. You see, this thinking was already in your head when you wrote the Dedication. If you or anyone reads back through it with this concept in mind will see it is inferred in context with the addition here that the Place of the Dead IS an Angel. Upon seeing the Angel (if you will) the heartansoulanmind realizes that without the body/brain components Life is a metaphor takes on a more perceptive meaning (even though this too, the metaphor, may also be a ‘false’ perception).

         I really don’t know how I/You do this. Yet, when I read the previous paragraph, it makes sense. It makes me wonder if “in the act of creating” it is possible for the heartansoulanmind, to pre-condition a future direction of the concept being created? An unconscious self-fulfilling prophecy of further creative effort along the same lines; the continued building of a roadway of thought out of scratch; a layer upon a layer of foundation on which to finally walk out an idea?

         To add to your humor, have this thought road Angelic, have it built of Solid Ground. – Amorella.

         Such humor. Platonic thinkers might like this. It brings a Mona Lisa-like smile on my face.

         To you it is humor. See how far you have come, naughty boy, slowly setting your inner self apart from the cultural foundations you were born and raised into. – Amorella.

         Being old, I don’t care as much where I stand, Amorella, but the more reasonable solid ground the better I like it.

         I see you have a good ways to go, but this gives you pause for thinking which is fine for now. Post. – Amorella.

         Late afternoon. You are sitting in the waiting room of the Mr. Clean Performance Car Wash on Mason-Montgomery Road for the green 2005 Honda to get a super clean and polish for the upcoming trip.

         I am wondering about how it is with Bob. I linger, not as he does and not in a morbid way. I feel like an old dog sitting by his master – this is my condition.

         You just thought about apologizing for such a thought as if this was an entertainment blog and you want to please your audience. Not the case. Such is the cultural conditioning in your mind and heart, but not in your soul, boy. I that is where I am addressing you from. People who read this for its entertainment value need to see where they are. Do you think your soul exists for your entertainment? Your soul, not Richard’s. This is a thinking blog. You see what Richard sees. He sees thoughts and considerations. He weighs and considers. That’s what this is about, orndorff. The honest thoughts go down to be shared, all but those I deem private. You always have the free will to erase. You have from time to time. These questions are for a species’ perspective because that is how you have to see the world in these books.

         I don’t mind, Amorella. I understand this. I would rather be more ‘attached’ to the species anyway. I might learn to see a different perspective on the world. It doesn’t have to be better, just different enough for the thinking and considering.

         Post. – Amorella.

         Night has settled. You and Carol enjoyed two of your favorite Monday night shows tonight after the national news – ‘The Closer’ and ‘Rizzoli and Isles’. Now you are settling in on a comment you declared earlier today: “. . . the more reasonable solid ground the better I like it.”

         I have a tendency to vacillate between Plato and Aristotle. If I feel I have gone too far in one direction I will move in the other for a more balanced approach. I really like the idea here of an Angel being a Platonic Form and the Land of the Dead hollowed out within.

         “Hallowed out” would be more appropriate. – Amorella.

         Like this blog and books ‘hollowed/hallowed’ out of an imagined personal experience?

         I hit a nerve. – Amorella.

         “WHO ARE YOU, ORNDORFF?”

         Presently, I have no idea. I have a body and brain and I have what I call a heartansoulanmind, but other than it being the kernel of my human essence I have no idea. This doesn’t even sound Platonic or Aristotelian either. Hypothetically, I am inside out. I have no name as such. Essence of human sounds like a perfume or smell depending on one’s point of view. Hypothetically, who are you, Amorella?

        . . .  I am not afraid to ask questions of myself or anyone or anything else? My mind’s eye is open. My heart’s voice is clear. My soul stands as an open gate. That is how I see myself hypothetically, Amorella. Who am I? Like everyone else who is human, an individual, I am an independent entity of the human species. I do not own a name on this level, hypothetically. I don’t need one. This is all I need for a response, whether I am living or dead, either way, hypothetically, whether you are a real Angel or not, hypothetically. 

         That’s the spirit, boy. Now you know how you would respond, hypothetically. Post. – Amorella.

         Self-testing me?

         Real enough to be real. A sign of an imaginary writer. – Amorella.

         But I am real, Amorella.

         That’s my point, boy. Post. – Amorella.

 

Notes - Amen

         Mid-afternoon. You are stopped at the Tanger Outlets Mall half way between Columbus and Cincinnati on I-71. Carol is buying extra socks for the Maine trip and clothes for Owen.

         You said your private good-bye to Bob and he to you.

         Yes.

         You look for words that are unnecessary. Patti said you could inform mutual friends. You had not because you wanted to check with her first. Patti also said there would be no funeral, that there may be a memorial service later in September after you arrive back, but she said she is unsure at present.

         I dreaded the idea I was going to miss the funeral so I was thankful there would not be one. Bob’s decision, I’m sure. I like it. I don’t want a funeral either. People have their lives – they can mourn in private. Bob said he would be cremated and Patti said he has a quote from Yeats that he wants on the cup holding the cremains. No burial. I can accept that too, though as we have plots I would like a small stone following that of my parents’ in law who we will be ‘resting’ next to us. I would still like the “Mostly Fiction” but in reality that probably won’t happen. This event sobers up my fantasy on the subject.

         Bob had talked his decision over with the family after he discover there were pitfalls in the back surgery he was to have today. Patti said he was ‘empowered’ by his decision to stop all hospital operations and come home to die in peace. She said it has helped to restore his dignity. This I could see. No more slight shrug of the shoulder when another trip to the hospital was in order. He may have a couple more days, but when we talked he apologized for his intermediate focus from time to time. We said our good-byes and he drifted off to sleep. Twenty some years since the kidney transplant that allowed for his continued life. Much has happened in those years – with family, children and grandchildren. We had our adventures also. Patti said as we were leaving, “You were there with us at the first.” I was as Bob’s best man at their wedding. It is sad, but everyone in the family in comfortable with Bob’s decision, a conscious act of dignity as to how and when he should leave this place. Bob has no regrets, and neither do I. Amen.

         Good. You stumbled on to the addition, the “Amen,” but humanity needs an “Amen” once in a while as a reminder of how things are in the real world. Post when you return home. No more today. “Amen,” is a good caption. Go with it. – Amorella. 

Notes - heartansoulanmind / Dedication and Requiem

        Cat play most every morning before coming downstairs. Breakfast and part of the Sunday paper read. Last night at bedtime you put your scanner app on New York City and Boroughs and have been listening to the Fire Department reports from time to time. The last you heard about an hour ago was that some streets had sewer lids blowing, no doubt from too much water.

         The app focuses on a large area so who knows where these things are happening. It is interesting because the calls are singular and detailed.

         You are over at Pine Hill park and have completed your walk. Not much fantasy this week. Your soul is closing you in by degrees, like your transitional lenses, orndorff. Even on earth the soul offers a degree of protection to soften the ensuing reality of this week’s final conclusion. People sometimes become confused when they are seeing  a loved one, a friend or family, for the last time. No need to be, boy. You have always been honest with Bob, no need to change that for politeness. Grief wells up. You both are captains of your own ships, so to speak. It’s a large ocean still, Bob has steered to port side while you have a ways to go. A shake of hands and a figurative salute with words will do. He would expect nothing more or nothing less from what you know of the man. Different ports of call, that’s all. Post, when you arrive home. – Amorella.

         I appreciate the clarification, Amorella. Thank you for the existential perspective, it is a solid base to reason for me.

         The existential perspective is heartansoulanmind, son. At this point the rest might as well be metaphor. – Amorella.

***

The Rebellion is dedicated to my brother poet

Thomas Robert Pringle

We two are twin-like brothers in soul and mind,

Our hearts, like shadows, are set on parallel paths;

Our bodies molded us with different keels.

Ship-like and Captains, we have steered similar waters

In search of words for that great magnificent White.

Similar sails, same waters, salt and fresh alike.

Sailing, we caught top winds with dignity.

In courage and humility you set your sail portside;

I sail on; rudder straight set for now.

Two different ports of call we go, that’s all.

Solid land will be what it is on that day,

Life will become a metaphor to heartansoulanmind

We wave good-bye in peace and good cheer,

I love you dear Robert,

In the greater reality of the humanity,

In my heartansoulanmind.

Land lubbers we all will one day be

Thankful to finally shake a leg on solid ground,

Thus say I, Richard, while on these rolling waters.

***

***

Requiem

Keep thy eyes, Robert, a-bright and gleaming, say I, Amorella,

“To the starboard green, my man, to the starboard green.”

In Chaucer’s immortal ghost I hand thee these lines,

So similar you are to a true Chaucerian hero:

A clerk ther was of oxenford also,

That unto logyk hadde longe ygo.

As leene was his hors as is a rake,

And he nas nat right fat, I undertake,

But looked holwe, and therto sobrely.

Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy;

For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice,

Ne was so worldly for to have office.

For hym was levere have at his beddes heed

Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed,

Of aristotle and his philosophie,

Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie.

But al be that he was a philosophre,

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;

But al that he myghte of his freendes hente,

On bookes and on lernynge he it spente,

And bisily gan for the soules preye

Of hem that yaf hym wherwith to scoleye.

Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede,

Noght o word spak he moore than was neede,

And that was seyd in forme and reverence,

And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence;

 Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche,

And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche

    

***

         The above is how it will be two pages in dedication. Post, and see Robert has a copy of these tomorrow with best of cheer and little sorrow. – Amorella.

Notes - not in your lifetime /

          You are at Pine Hill and have completed your leg of the walk. Carol is working on hers. Beautiful Saturday morning, slightly crisp, a reminder what season is coming up. You think Autumn but for many it is football season. You watched the news and the commercials stick out (Bob won’t be missing much, you thought). Commercials evoke an image you don’t really share. The haunting is from the Willy Loman character in Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Fiction turned your corner long ago. This is but one example of the fiction in your life, boy. Some of it has been real enough even if you never saw a live production. – Lots of runners out, mostly young women in pairs; you smile and think, young mature women, one of nature’s delights. Older ones too as far as that goes. Men would not get far without a woman in the equation, that’s your feeling.With this I wholeheartedly agree. – Amorella.

         A stop at Kroger’s for milk and bananas and dropping off four Kroger bags jammed full of Kroger bags for recycling, a periodic chore never mentioned.

         Then why mention it, Amorella?

         Because it is a reality, old man. Some of what you do everyday is real whether you think so or not. One day it won’t be. You got that, boy. – Amorella.

         I hardly need reminding.

         Then why am I reminding you?

         Later in the afternoon. Lunch at Smash Burgers, then home. You have been working on the yard, some mowing last night and you are in the process of finishing the rest now that the house and trees are mostly shading what remains to be mowed. Watching the weather scenes at the Carolina beaches you are reminded of the hurricane you caught the edge of at Tampa, sixty to seventy mile winds, sustained in the high fifties, being pelted by beach sand and salt water droplets, foam whipped from the wave being driven down the beach like large piles of soapsuds, six to seven foot waves with the water coming almost up to the condo wall and it would have if it had not had a mound of sand full of sea oaks to stop the water’s progress. The level-three hurricane was out on the Gulf and eventually hit landfall in north Florida.

         The point was that I could relate to the videos, but I have never been in winds more than seventy-five miles an hour. In those winds I could not hear the person talking to me who was by my left side and she could not hear me. We were both surprised.

         We are going up to Pringle’s in Westerville on Monday morning and will see Bob for the last time around eleven. I am going to tell him that book four, if ever completed, will have a special dedication to him from me and Amorella.

         No need to change the direct objects, orndorff, in fact I insist on it. I rather enjoy having the last word. – Amorella.

         When has it ever been otherwise?

         It happens, boy, but not in your lifetime. Post and let this not so subtle message settle in your soul. – Amorella.

Notes - class: Homo Sapiens / Dusk

         A banana and skim milk for breakfast. You have just completed your shortened walk at Pine Hill (over across the earthen dam to the far end of the shelter where the two ponds meet and back). Just nine o’clock, the mid-morning marker. Lunch with Rich and Bud at eleven-thirty at the Chinese restaurant, which just re-opened from a fire in their kitchen a month ago; four local fire department were called for containment as there are several other restaurants and shops in the long building that houses them.

         You had a quick phone note from Laney yesterday saying all is well in her life and you told her she is living her dream. You are very happy for her but secretly you miss her.

         Laney was my work companion at Mason High. When we needed another British literature teacher she is the only one who volunteered. I’ll never forget that. To me that was the best position one could have in the department, the very best, because you taught the very best. That’s how I look at it still. I would have fallen in love with her (as a friend) for that alone. We had/have a secret indefinable chemistry. I miss seeing her every day as much as I miss the classroom interaction still. Alas, here I am talking about myself.

         I brought Laney up, orndorff. I lead this blog. You know this blog is about you as a member of the species, not you alone. That is the reason I insist you always share, first with friends, and now with friends and fellow members of the class Homo Sapiens. Shortly you will be off to lunch. Later. Post. – Amorella.

         You are early at the China City Buffett. First one in as it just opened at eleven.  

         The setting is similar but refreshed. A few new lanterns too along with six ten-foot tables full of scrumptious food. Shoot, I think I’m hungry. Rich’s wife, Angie, is coming also. The Weather Channel is on the screen – the focus on Irene. It could be bad following I-95 up the coast from the Carolinas to Maine. Sometimes it bothers me that the focus always is on possible disaster, but that’s the nature of the news. There is not much counterbalance to the news media other than the weekly magazines such as Time and Newsweek which, to me, are better summaries of the actual importance of what is truly newsworthy in the world. “Nearly a million people are subject to evacuation,” is the subtitle headline. Amazing. How do you move a million people? How do you move the population out of Manhattan and the Jersey shore? Five to ten inches of rain predicted along the I-95 corridor. It sounds scary. We have a great respect for Mother Nature at our house. Bad weather is never trivial.

         A good lunch was had by the four of you. Good conversation too. Too much food, orndorff, you need a nap. Relax. Later, dude. – Amorella.

         Unwelcome news anytime. Patti called to say Bob is in hospice as he declined further treatments. You would have done the same if not earlier. He has no regrets and is at peace with his decision. Knowing Bob as you do you completely understand, or as completely as any friend can understand. You hope to see him one last time when Patti calls with a day and time.

         We have been close friends for all our lives after high school. Shared memories, some of them important in both our lives. I am out of words but not private grief. – rho      

  

         Honest enough for most human beings to understand. Bob has his dignity in that he has made his choice. That alone gives him blessing as far as the books, blog and I, Amorella, am concerned. A special dedication to Thomas Robert Pringle in the front of book four when published, that’s how it will be. Post, as it is dusk and not yet night. – Amorella. 

Notes - neo-classic pipe / open to worlds

        Breakfast and the paper. Carol is at a First Watch breakfast with her retired teacher friends. Today you are to price toilets at Ferguson’s and Lowe’s and let your contractor, Scott, know as he gave you prices for installation.

         I am thinking any readers I may have must assume I lead a very boring life. In a way I suppose it is, but I am content. I remember when I retired my then colleague; my friend and muse, Laney Bender-Slack, asked me if was content as we sat at a table in a nearby pub, the two of us plus the rest of the English department. At the time, during the festivities she turned to me and asked, “Are you content?” I have thought about that off and on over the years since that Spring in 2003. Laney had set up a party, she had shown a film she had secretly made of interviews of selected staff and a former principal about incidences remembered in relationship to my interactions over those many teaching years at Wm. Mason High. I admire her greatly for, with two children, taking on her doctorate. Now she is a professor at Xavier in Cincinnati. One enthusiastic and determined woman is Laney-Bender-Slack still. Whenever the word “content” comes up in context, she rolls up out of my heart.

         I then, wonder, like now, how is that? Where is she (as well as other friends) in my heart otherwise? Is it memory or something more? With questions always coming up I am not bored. Life is interesting, how we unconsciously catalogue (sometimes even more secretly) those family and friends we love.

         A period placed after “love” and you wonder where all that came from. You know it was triggered by the word “content” and a one time memory, yet the memory is coated with more than what it is, and the coating is not imagination. Surely, you think, as she is a ‘busy’ friend (school is in session) it is from your heart where you assume most friends reside. A “muse” does not reside in the heart, boy. Muses are free to come and go throughout heartansoulanmind as are all true friends. Too romantic-minded for you, isn’t it? You see, it is not so for me. Think about that, boy, and put it in your neo-classic pipe and give it a smoke. Post. – Amorella.

         Moving on dusk after another busy day, this time shopping and pricing toilets in the real world rather than online. You also met with the contractor and he will give an estimate tomorrow on the exterior painting (trim, gutters and garage door), which if you take it, they will begin next week.

         Also, you received a treat in the mail, an autobiography titled Grandpa Griff, by Glenn Griffith, the Vocational Agriculture teacher at Westerville High in 1960 and beyond. He was the father of Kay (the identical twin) who was your junior high school girlfriend; at least in your eyes she was. You asked to read it and Kay sent it. Just what is need to remind yourself that among other things, you are still alive, and open to worlds beyond yourself.

         Boy, that’s a great statement. So true. I am open to other worlds. It is going to be an interesting and fun read. I think the last autobiography I read was James Michener’s.

         That said, you are ready to shut up for the night. Just as well. Post. – Amorella.