Distortion As Metaphor

April 16, 2016
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Taking the light rail home from work means 45 minutes of sitting or standing around. Last night I had my iPad with me, and I killed some time with a series of selfies using its Photo Booth feature.

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This one is a good metaphor for how I feel at the end of a meat-grinder of a day.

 

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This is a metaphor for the transcendentally cerebral superstar I wannabe, but, given Marie Curie, Carl Sagan and John Von Neumann, among MANY others, know I’m not.

 

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Here the metaphor is We Are Being Watched, by from-elsewhere folk who see with heat.

 

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This one is apt in revealing how deep my depression gets.

 

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This Cyclops metaphorizes fixation; and it’s un ignorable that a certain procreative organ is sometimes referred to as Mr. One-Eye. (I can be a real dick sometimes. So can you, regardless of gender.)

 

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But sometimes the world’s kaleidoscope leaves us O-mouthed.

 

Lastly, there’s the seemingly Real Me, a one-off metaphor for Work In Progress.

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Episode Seventy

April 14, 2016
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We are so much Creatures of Habit that it never occurs to us to say “organisms of habit” or “beings of habit.” We latch onto phrases that sound good and soon they become comforting cliches.

And we like our entertainment to be predictable as well. The well-wrought movie IN THE HEART OF THE SEA got a lousy Tomatometer rating, I think, because the story didn’t cleave to cinematic cliche of intro/rising action/crisis/payoff. So critics and other audience members couldn’t fit its square pegs into their round holes.

Episodic continuity is not only in our TV shows and comic books, it is in our daily/weekly/holiday life. When you get up and have your morning coffee, it is part of a pattern that, disrupted, adds to your stress.

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Entertaining shopping sprees
Picaresqueness with a breeze
If the sins of Prez or Rev
Slump, then check out Campbell, Neve
Or explore a tomb well hidden
Don’t heed curses–Carter didn’t
Each and every means employ
Effortlessly to enjoy

Word balloon 1: Egad, Elmer! Ecclesiastical Encyclicals! Enjoy!

Word balloon 2: Pablo, please palpate Pam’s peritoneum.

Word balloon 3: I ignite ingots, Ignatz.

Word balloon 4: Savoring salads sows salubrity.

Word balloon 5: Oh, Oliver, our Oleander!

Word balloon 6: Dear Diedre, Dastardly Dick’s dead.

Word balloon 7: Egad, Elmer–ecdysiasts!

 

the man in the shower returns

April 13, 2016
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Some time ago I wrote “the man in the shower is dying.” While I was taking a shower this afternoon, I thought of more to say, including a punchline that makes any further “man in the shower” sequels unnecessary . . .

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the man in the shower returns

the man in the shower returns to his musing/obsession with dying and willful confusing;/he thinks as he’d done on that long-ago day/of the final release from the vertical fray.

then comes odd contentment, erasure of glower/as the spray hits his head in a shower sub-shower/and he pushes the knob, puts the soap on the shelf/–thinks “at least when I’m dead I’ll get over myself.”

aboveliness/belowliness

April 12, 2016
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aboveliness/belowliness

to damn or bless?
aboveliness
death from above
look out below
there’s hell to pay
the heavens know
belowliness
is not our lot
unless we live
neath whip or plot

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False duality plagues our thinking. Up is good, down is bad, right?  (Not if you’re in a hurricane . . .) To think of a sunset, a woman, or cesspit as pretty or ugly is to ignore most or all of the reality involved.

And we’re stuck with the notion that Above and Heaven, and Below and Hell,  are intertwined. If our distant ancestors had evolved underground, it might have been a different story, though not necessarily more correlative with big-picture reality.

If we manage to survive, and we resume our spacefaring ways in suitably expansive fashion, those who follow us will be more capable of shedding false duality. Zero-gee lends itself to a superior world-view to “this is Up and this is Down.” And, free of Earth’s false ceiling of sky, the three-dimensionality of our cosmos becomes evident.

Wish I were up there–oops. Wish I were OUT there . . .

The Cigarette Butt on the Sidewalk

April 11, 2016
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to the memory of Stephen Crane

I saw a cigarette butt on the sidewalk.

It noticed the attention I paid it, and it spoke to me.

“In the far future,” said the butt, “No anthropologist, however brilliant, would be able to deduce the misery, desperation and willful neglect that I alone imply.”

I told the butt that that was no doubt true, but that not all of us smoke.

“It does not matter,” the butt replied. “I also imply, lying alone and discarded on the sidewalk, that there will be no far future, and no anthropologists.”

Sapient Opioids, etcetera

April 9, 2016
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Last night was Caffeine Corridor, for which I took a day off work. (My friend and co-worker MaryBell filled in for me.) The acrostic came while I was on the light rail going to the event; the poem came this morning.

Solving insomnia and equations too
A equals B and calm minus care sleep
Pills dissolve and become fluid octopi
Intelligent enough to add cortical goo
Even as the patient snores on the lanai
Neurons seek new paths to alter mood
Then Morpheus sees that non-hope dies

Are smart pills in the future? Of course they are. Let’s hope they aren’t bitter, or rebellious . . .

REBEL LIOUS

April 8, 2016
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I was on the light rail platform, with a new 10-pack of mechanical pencils and a 100-pack of blank index cards, staring at the DO NOT CROSS TRACKS stencil. This is a warning that is constantly disobeyed . . .

Ringling loudly Freedm’s bell
Eddie earned V. Bertinelli
Boos to geese & old Magoo
Enervates THEM; jazz’s YOU
Lets occur a rendez-vous

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THIS OLD MAN, part 3: Skin Tags–the New Growth Industry

April 8, 2016
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When you’re a kid you may get a wart or two. (Your wartage may vary.) But when your skin passes its Sell By date, you get the epithelial equivalent of weeds–little outgrowths that are sometimes like browned marshmallows, sometimes like itty-bitty punching bags, but always disconcerting.

I have one near my left armpit that is crusty-white on top (perhaps due to callusing; I fervently hope it is that, and not something more dire) and getting-a-sunburn-pink at the root. If you’re squeamish, read and look no further–a photograph follows.

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Skin tags may be removed with nail scissors. I’ve done it exactly once in my tag-growing career. The pain is minimal, about the same as the pinchy stab you get when donating blood, but the odd like-cutting-cardboard textured sensation gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m going to let a professional do it next time I see one.