EHarMatchonyBlog.com

August 15th, 8:16 PM. Preparing to crack the seal on the raku kiln that is my mind.

Skipping through the electronic poppy field that is the Internet this fine day, I caught a blurb that made me nervous and made me laugh. I think it was in an email newsletter from a website devoted to the craft and business of writing, a 'Tip Of The Day' type thing that is supposed to reel you in to spend more time on the site. No problem with that, but I was skimming and distracted so I didn't go beyond the tagline.

The tagline was this: "Your blog posts should be like dating-site profile information..."

'Scuse me? (nervous laughter)...good thing I'm not writing to get a date.

I am not (fortunately for me) out on the dating scene, so I will not worry about that aspect. But I get the perspective being out forth by the writer of that little gem: if you want your blog to attract others, then it must be written to maximize your attractiveness. Am I understanding that correctly?

Hmm. This does present a bit of a quandary. We are told on the one hand to write authentically, to be ourselves and to write from what we know. Supposedly this is what "blogging" (in its nascent sense) is at its core. Yet dating sites, to some degree, are about salesmanship and packaging. They are about being attractive enough to attract ideal partners for whatever motivation one chooses.

So to push the analogy, in order to make my blog more attractive to ideal partners, I should write only the things that would increase my 'dateability' vis-a-vis the readership. The implication is that potentially less desirable things (quirks, foibles, emotionally-charged topics) should perhaps be avoided. Heavens, we wouldn't anyone to know those "real" things, would we?

This begs the question of authenticity, does it not? I'm all for maximizing the positive, but for what one hopes to be a long-term relationship, how can we ignore the reality of ourselves? It seems a bit misleading to put hyperbole before truth. Yet that little dot on an otherwise pristine page could lead to heartache and regret down the road. I know this to be true.

To be fair, I acknowledge that a blog has more latitude than a dating site. It could be said that the very idiosyncratic nature of a blog is what gives it enduring appeal; after all, it is your blog and you can do what you want with it. It doesn't have to be, and perhaps shouldn't be, perfect. That is because we are not perfect.

I didn't start my blog to attract potential partners, or set up a string of dates. I had no idea that is what I "should" (metaphorically) be doing. I started it out of a need for expression, as a way to get the noise out of my head and out into the universe. I didn't know any better than to be anything other than what I am, and hopefully the writing reflects that outlook. I don't need a date (I have great love and companionship), but I am very grateful for all of you who choose to come visit with me, and stay awhile.

And there's no need for a monthly fee, either. We are here because we genuinely want to be here. That is a lovely thing, indeed.

Tea and Coronation

August 6, 2012. Safe at home with the Dàgōng.*

Settling in after a semi-busy day hanging around with the Wee Lass. What an amazing thing to bear witness to the irrefutable knowledge that she is indeed my offspring. Went out to buy tea today, and ended up in a ceremony, just for us. If I had the presence of mind, I would have bowed before I sat down.

I can't set aside the notion that I should have bowed. There was no tea house door that demanded it as protocol, but still. To be a guest in what is after all a place of business is rare. Ah, that isn't quite right. The illusion of being a guest in those gray places is all too common. Market research has decreed it so, and perhaps I fall for it more often than not, a state of affairs that makes me sad and small.

But today, Wee Lass and I had good fortune in the tea shop. Not one, but two people with knowledge and enthusiasm engaged us in talking about, sampling and buying tea. The young lady who asked us how we were, what we were interested in, and sat down with us for tasting of samples. The joy of seeing a whole tub of fresh loose tea, and the invitation to smell the aroma. Wee Lass seemed to really dig it, if being somewhat shy about commenting. The owner arrived, and to my delight and surprise he remembered me from my one short visit to his shop months ago!

So there we were, a fine pair out for a day of sustenance, entertainment and the acquisition of small delights. We enjoyed tiny cups of green tea and black tea and oolong. The sort of thing I get a kick out of, but one in which you don't expect youngsters to truly enjoy.

But that Wee Lass, she has a wonderful knack of following a path of her own making. She wanted to taste the teas. She watched intently as the assistant and the owner brewed little cups and poured the samples. When I looked over at her, I was amused and delighted by the curiosity she radiated with her expression. I lifted the cups to breathe in the aroma; she closed her eyes and sniffed. I blew on the tea to cool it, and she did the same. We both sipped and swished and drank, savoring the tea and the moment.

It was wonderful. We chatted with the owner, who told us about the tea, and the farm in China where he gets it. We talked about green, black and oolong, sitting there surrounded by delicate porcelain tea kettles, fish and dragons carved of jade. We learned the price of some tea in China, backed up with anecdotes about the province of Fujian. My daughter professed her liking of Chinese green tea. And very much to my surprise, she declared the Ti Kwan Yin oolong to be good. I recalled that the name is a variation on the Chinese goddess Guanyin, sometimes translated as 'Iron Goddess of Mercy'. In a moment of fancy, I told myself that may not be an accident. Would it not be a wonderful thing to have associations with compassion and mercy?

Who expects a youngster to be interested in such things as good tea? Long ago as a child, on those rare moments when I managed to look up from my books or cease the questioning in my head for a few moments, I had inklings of the quirks that that would come to define my life. Later as a young man and adult, those inklings became full-blown knowledge, a knowledge that embarrassed me and led me to quietly hide it from the world.

But on an otherwise mundane afternoon, I entered a tea house of the moment as an ordinary man, and departed it as an emperor. As we stood to leave, I reflected on the confirmation that she is indeed the blood of my blood. A smart, beautiful diamond she is, and we shall have tea in the bamboo pavilion of my heart.

---
*I may be relying overly much on free translators, but to the best of my knowledge "Dàgōng" is a phonetic translation of a Chinese word for 'archduchess', which by extension would be the daughter of an emperor.

On The Occasion of Her Majesty's Blessing

Last night, and after dinner, there were brownies being prepared for the oven. The cleaning up of the kitchen was in progress. I was possessed of the small luxury of sitting down and browsing my email and social media outlets. With a full belly, and friendly banter laying down the soundtrack to a pleasant domestic scene, contentment was in the air. I arose from the computer, intent on getting a drink from the kitchen.

My daughter came bouncing through the doorway. She wore an apron that was long enough to be a dress on her frame, having been engaged in the making of the highly anticipated brownies. The smile on her face lit up the room. I stopped and smiled back. Her hands were behind her back and she had an impish gleam in her eyes.

"Daddy, I have an early Father's Day present for you!" she chirped.
"An early Father's Day present? What is it?" I said, sort of expecting a lump of brownie batter.

She stepped forward, bringing her arms around to wrap me in the fiercest hug Wee Lass has ever given me. She grinned and growled, making as if she were going to lift me off the floor. She shook me with a giggle.

"Happy Father's Day, Daddy!"

She was looking up at me with that smile like a cross of Mona Lisa and the Cheshire Cat. She hugged me tight again, then let go to scamper off back to the brownies. I reckon the grin on my face would have lit up a room or two after she let me go. The warmth in my heart was proof positive of the gift I just received.

I'm a blessed man, jewel o' my heart, because I get to be your dad. Happy Father's day, indeed.

New Day, Monday and Gratitude

Life here in the People's Republic of Gumbolia, and for yours truly, the President-For-Life of said republic, has been breathtakingly busy lately.  Between that which I do to earn my daily bread, personal biz and of course the writing...oh, and matters domestic (like lawn care)...my head is spinning.  I'm real dizzy, dear readers.

Part of that busy-ness is correspondence.  I get a reassuring amount of personal emails, many of which are the result of comments left by many of you kind folks out there on the hot mess that is Irish Gumbo.  I am grateful for the connections, and it has been a grand avenue to getting into the thoughts of others, exchanging perspectives and ideas, and sometimes just plain silliness (more of which I could use).  As many of you may already know, I am almost pathologically incapable of not responding to the digital equivalent of a letter.  I like to answer as many as I can, and most of time I do, within the limits of time, energy and technology

However, even with that success rate, I regret that I haven't been able to respond to all, especially in a timely fashion.  One thing that has compounded that in the past week is the pleasure and honor I had to be selected as a BLOG OF NOTE, which certainly surprised me.  I was amazed and astounded by the number of comments and new readers and new followers that joined me on board this strange and wonderful trip.  As you may imagine, I haven't been able to keep up with responding, and with the current level of activity (see first paragraph) I have a feeling I will miss getting back to some folks.

So if you don't hear from me, know that it is only because I'm caught up in a mad stampede running downhill on the Mountain of Life.  Please know that I am humbled and grateful for the attention, and when I catch my breath, I'll try and stop by and say hello.  Thank you, from my heart.

Happy Monday, one and all!

I Interrupt This Poetry Slam To Say...

...that gosh and begorrah, it seems that the Google Blogger Team's "Blogs of Note" page has gone and selected...

...Irish Gumbo...

...as the Blog of Note for June 7th, 2011.  Click on the link just to see, and to browse some other good things out there.

How about that?  Irish Gumbo: It's not just a blog, it's a digital Post-It!

(Poetry slam continues tomorrow)

This Tree

We are on the road again, my daughter and I, heading back to my house after an all too short stay at the ancestral homestead.  A hazy Sunday afternoon somewhere in the Middle Peninsula region, with the Rappahannock River whispering to us from beyond the trees and fields to the east.  The trees are in full leaf now.  It is a very different scene from that of the winter, of the Februaries I wish to leave behind.

It was an occasion to celebrate life and a growing of the good green things in our souls, rather than assemble in the woods to mourn the falling of yet another mighty oak.  It was the first time in many years that I had the blessing of being among extended family for the sole purpose of being in one another's company because we could.  I saw some cousins I had not seen in too long, and met the next generation of the family.  Wee Lass was able to meet some kin she had not seen before, and I...well, I had the honor of basking in her glow, while she played in the pool with the other young ones.

I had forgotten how good that felt.  Back in the day, we used to have these gatherings all the time.  As you may have guessed, I didn't fully get how cool that was when I was right in the middle of it as a boy.

But I know now, yes, I do.  I knew it with each hug given, each kiss on the cheek and every laugh shared.  I felt in in my core as I watched the kids playing in the pool.  I live too much in my own head most of the time, which is really no true home; there in that backyard and for a few precious hours, I was home.

I had the singular gift of holding a four-month old baby, the beautiful daughter of of her equally beautiful mother (a second cousin of mine), and when that baby snuggled her face into my shoulder I felt a circuit trip somewhere in the earth.  The current I could feel flowing through my veins and into my heart.  It was still humming along when we had to leave the next day on our road trip home.

The corn and soybeans are beginning to sprout in the fields.  The crows and the hawks watch over everything, and the trees stand green and proud and harboring deer and rabbits among the undergrowth.  I could see those stands of trees across the green-gold of the planted acres, and it was then I felt another circuit close in the blood of my blood, the laughter in my ears, and the arms across my shoulders.

In the white gold sunshine of the eastern Virginia countryside, I had a revelation. I know how the tree feels to sink its roots deep into the soil from which it sprung.  I know how the tree feels when it becomes aware of the forest, and knows that it is home.

---

It is Memorial Day, and a time conducive to meditation amongst the cookouts and the sales, and the hoopla of modern American life.  I had plenty of time to think while driving home on Sunday, about what we are supposed to remember, and what we seem to actually do.  I've never been one prone to overt displays of patriotism, but neither have I totally lost sight of what this day is about.  Regardless of where we stand on the subject of the wars and aggressions America has initiated or been drawn into, it is certainly true that quite a few have given so much, including their lives, in the service of an ideal that does represent the best of our desires and intentions.  That service, in part, has made it possible for me to live the life that I do, and for me to enjoy being with my family.  For that, I am truly grateful. 

Cough

Television off, and the radio,
this house a temple tonight
not a mausoleum

A heart's distance away
she lies asleep and dreaming
with me awake and wishing

Breath sounds, softly below
a train horn muffled through walls
keeping cold out and love in

She coughs, my heart races,
wondering at the cause,
sheets rustle, small angelic sigh

the world becomes sacred

---

Ladies and gentlemen, if my math is correct, this is my 200th consecutive post in 200 days. I don't know how I arrived here...it's been a long, strange trip. Whew.

The Poles of Life and Death

It is probably my favorite jacket, dark blue cotton with a leather collar.  I've had it for ten (?) years at least, I think.  It is a little threadbare on the cuffs, but has the look of something well-made and wearing well.  I had this jacket when my twins were born so long ago; it carries memories just as I do.

On the left lapel of the jacket there are two ribbons.  It is a duo of small satin curios, each one made of pink and blue fabric intertwined.  A small safety pin in each assumes the fastening duties.  Each ribbon is also getting frayed, the result of years of me wearing them.  I picked them up at an annual memorial walk, given each year in honor of children who have died.  It is a way for the parents and families to remember the little ones.  Each year they have ribbons available, and I have yet to take mine off.

A co-worker of mine asked me about them today.  This is the first time anyone has asked in months, if not a couple of years.  My co-worker didn't know my story yet, and I think it was deeper than he was expecting.  It is a testament to how far I have come that I can now answer that question evenly and with peace instead of grief.  I find it less draining to tell the story, and I am grateful for the chance to share.  It was also a perfect segue into talking about my lovely daughter, too, and she is a welcome topic of conversation.

On the drive home, I was musing on all that had transpired.  It occurred to me that I don't need a ribbon for my daughter, because obviously I have her, in the world here and now.  For the twins, the ribbons are what I have, at least in a form I can easily carry around with me.  I have a person and I have symbols: all to be treasured for all the hours of my days.

Rolling down the highway, under a hammered-pewter sky,  I felt myself in a delicate state of tension.  It wasn't a stressful feeling wrought with anxiety.  I fancied it to be that which a finely-tuned piano wire feels as it is stretched out in the instrument.  Taut, sleek and brimming with potential.  I found myself in a new, bright country of the soul.

I was caught between the poles of Life and Death, balancing ever so carefully in anticipation of that decisive moment when I am struck just so, to vibrate with Beauty.

she is my am.eric.an girl

Walking from kitchen to the next room,

the voice of an angel singing softly,

I turned the corner and my heart burst

into crystalline vapor in the Christmas air

North light through the windows, opaline grey,

the flower of my heart stood, singing,

a doll in her arms, held like a sibling

and I managed not to raise hand to heart

A nursery rhyme of unknown origin, cherub smile

to melt glaciers and split stone: I did not gasp

but stood, dumbfounded, to see such grace,

fighting the lump in my throat and tremor in my lips

She holds the doll tenderly, brushes a hair from its cheek

I chew the insides of my cheeks:  Please, my girl

never forget this, never forget such care, such bliss,

someday when you found your own dynasty

She sings, my composure slips its fragile leash,

the room blurs,  I find a space she cannot see,

will not know my heart has shattered, instantly,

refired in the kiln of her innocence

Dabbing at liquid eyes, towel between clenched teeth,

I hear her say "You are so pretty, the doll I always wanted"

knees near to buckling, overwhelmed by beauty:

I resolve to live forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have to say, the above prose poem (is that a phrase?) is not yet the piece I wanted to write.  It is crude, unrefined, compared to that which was in my head and inspired me to write.  I want to try it again.  Writing it over might do it justice.  Then again. it might not.  This is the dilemma.  It is almost a certainty that there are no words, no matter how skilfully arranged, that could do justice to what I saw Christmas morning.  I am also glad I had no camera with me at the time; to stop and photograph that angelic countenance, in such a golden moment, seems to me to border on a minor blasphemy.  The look on her face, the softness of her voice as she sang...

If I could truly describe, dear readers, the glimpse of the divine that I was granted I think you would agree that words sometimes fall far short.  I am reminded of "High Flight",  a poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., the last line of which reads:

"...Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

That poem is about a brush with the Divine in an entirely different setting, but it comes very close to what I mean.  Perhaps that is the essence of all genuinely moving experiences in life.  Words can bring us right to the edge, but in the end, we stand mute before Beauty.

Lions Through The Crest

We were lions once, long ago and far away.

That summer the golden-haired boys we were ran along a beach of white sugar tinged with caramel. My Big Brother striding the sand and talking to the girls as if he owned the ocean. My timid self hovered at the edges of the hormone clouds and thought my little island a grand place.

Grand, if it bothered one very little to be alone and feel apart from everyone, all the while wishing that somehow the courage could be found to kick open the candy store door and grab some sweetness.

I was much too polite to make a scene.

Big Bro always found a way to do it. To this day I’m still unsure how, because I never really saw it happen. He just seemed to know people, or know how to start talking to them. On the beach, or at parties he would be chatting people up as if the introductions had been made long before. It was a skill I envied deeply. He made friends; I made time until he could make some friends for me. I resented it, sometimes, but was too grateful for the attention I did receive to bite the hand that fed me.

Can humans do what prophets say?

And if I die before I learn to speak

Can money pay for all the days I lived awake but half asleep?

That summer I was awkward and chubby. Like an overgrown penguin without the cuteness. I tagged along with Big Bro because I wanted to be a part of things, I wanted to have a life, get a girlfriend. I wanted to drink beer in the sun and pretend I was all that. Bag of chips, optional, because I ate too much as it was anyway.

Big Bro let me go with minimal fuss. I thought maybe he was taking pity on me. Behind the mask lay a sensitive kid who felt bad that his little brother was possessed of weapons grade dorkiness. He never said it and I never asked. The truth probably would have shamed me into hiding in my room twice as much as I did. I was living my life half-asleep, soporific under the effects of shyness I had not the courage to overcome.

It was at the beach that really started feeling the effects of oncoming puberty. All those pretty girls, tanned and curvy gulls flocking around my brother and his friends. Problem was, I failed to understand it. To me, it was like a perpetual state of that near-sick, that awful whirling dizziness when you can’t decide if you are going to puke or just need to lie down. I solved the problem by avoiding the groups, hovering on the edges and hoping for a glance or a word. Of course, I rarely did get one. Not surprising when most times it happened I shied like a nervous foal, floundering in the sand and pretending sudden interest in the beach glass and seashells. I usually ended up in the surf, even though the opaque emerald sea always worried me. Sharks and jellyfish were never far from my mind.

A life is time, they teach you growing up

A million years before the fall

In the water I was generally alone and felt little of the social pressure I did on land. I bobbed around, a human shipping container overboard in heavy seas. I never had a boogie board or a jet ski or even a wetsuit. My version of body surfing resembled a semi-svelte log tumbling over in the waves and smacking into the sand. There was no grace.

Eventually, I created my own peculiar ocean sport, which consisted of standing in near chest-deep water and waiting for a wave to break at just the right time. I crouched and pushed off from the bottom to launch myself through the face of the curl. Timed appropriately, I could ride the face a little and then burst out the other side in an cold jade rainbow of spray. For brief seconds I could be weightless and hovering over the water, no awkwardness, just grace. I was blessed with a slice of time free of the bonds of gravity and teenage angst.

My brother, he body surfed like a pro.

You ride the waves and don't ask where they go

That summer I rode the waves as much as I could. Jumping through breakers burned off some nervous energy. Eventually, I could get back to land with enough courage to work my way into some conversations, usually with my brother’s words “this is my little brother…” at which point the older, pretty girls my brother knew would usually would say “Aww…”. From the outside I suppose I looked like a goofy puppy. The chick magnet guys on the make bring to the park to get the attention of the ladies. Of course, I was so desperate and so much of a goober I never saw the leash. All I knew was the pleasure of being scratched under the chin by curves in bikinis smelling of coconuts and beer. In other words, heaven on earth.

You swim like lions through the crest

And bathe yourself in zebra flesh

That summer I had no clue that my Big Brother needed me just as much as I needed him. He needed a shield, a cattle catcher to help ward off collisions between his overloaded mind and the social pressures bearing down on him. He needed that shift in attention sometime, I know, because maintaining the façade of the Cool and Collected is exhausting. Jokes, beer and weird thoughts only get you so far before you have to retreat and let someone else be in the light. He was cool, he was The Shit, but every now and then, he coaxed me onstage so he could take a break from being the construct people expected him to be.

That summer, we swam the crest and the zebra flesh between our teeth was nothing less than life itself, a clandestine gift from one brother to another. I throw back my head to roar, and his voice echoes back to me. He may have been the heart of the pride, now and again, but he wanted me to be a lion, too.

Italicized lyrics are from “Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand” by Primitive Radio Gods. My plane took off from Baltimore, but hasn’t landed on Bourbon Street…

She Knows Not What She Holds

A bear to her, perhaps...but I can feel those hands around my heart.

L' Toilet C'est Moi: Three Thrones for the King

“Who’s that, then?”
“I dunno. Must be a king.”
“Why?”
“ ‘e doesn’t got shit all over ‘im.”
-from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’

His Majesty looked at himself in the mirror. The royal visage peered back, shirtless, pale, a little out of shape. The royal right hand held the royal toothbrush, which in turn was scrubbing the royal pearly whites. It would not do for the King to have less than shiny, clean choppers. His Majesty continued to brush, his royal gob all fresh and minty.

The King grew thoughtful as he stared at himself in the mirror. A faint gray field of stubble was across the regal cheeks. Time to shave. His Majesty was not prone to that belief that a beard was essential to the royal presence. Too much trouble to maintain, and he had never liked all the crumbs and vermin that took up residence in a beard. “I suppose I could cut back on the number of royal feasts if I decide to grow another beard” he said to the fellow in the mirror. He slapped the slight flab girding his stomach with both hands. “Ha! That would probably do some good for the royal gut, as well. Yes, it shall be so. We shall eat less in the coming year!” No mention was made on the amount of beer to be consumed. The royal conscience told His Majesty that we shall wait and see. A lot to be said for the nutritive value of a fine stout.

His Majesty picked up the King’s razor to shave. The metal was cool against his cheek as the tiny blades munched their way through the salt and pepper stubble. The regal cheeks began to shine under the ministrations of the razor. As he scraped and pushed, a thought occurred to the King.

What, then, is that which made him a King?

Was it divine right? The King grunted, half laugh and half cough. No, it couldn’t be that. The King appreciated that God may had something to do with his ascension, but given the number of times they had butted heads, the King didn’t think so.

Was it the number of subjects? The King sighed. Subjects? What subjects? A Queen who would bristle at the notion of his being King, a Princess who wasn’t yet fully aware that she was really the one in charge, and two cats of neutral gender who cared not a fig who was running the kingdom as long as the food bowl was filled every day? Subjects, my royal left nut.

Perhaps it was His Majesty’s professed vocation. Yes, a career, a daily investment of time and energy in the noble pursuit of making buildings! Not for nothing that Architect was derived from ‘Master Builder’, he who is charge of all details great and small. Mind and hands that shaped the very fabric of the towns and cities of this fair land! Yes, that’s it…..

The King sighed. No, that would not be it. Recent events had shown otherwise. Barbarians spilling over the borders, marauders from far distant lands had rendered His Majesty incapable of pursuing his craft. It didn’t help that the border provinces had been in mild revolt, combining forces with the invaders. Another heavy sigh, and the King admitted to himself that maybe, maybe that was a sign that he need not be, nor could he be, a Master Builder anymore.

Shaving complete, His Majesty placed the razor back in its cradle. The royal cheeks gleamed, pink and soft as the proverbial baby’s bottom; presumably, they smelled better. The King assumed so, it not being easy to sniff one’s own cheeks. He felt a slight twinge in his lower abdomen. Hmm, time to void the Royal Bladder, he thought. He strode over to the gleaming white toilet in the corner of the room, unzipping the regal fly on the way.

“Your Majesty, your are like a stream of bat’s piss.”
“What?!”
“I, um, I, ah, I merely meant, Your Majesty, that, ah, you shine out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark.”
-from ‘Oscar Wilde’ by Monty Python

The King laughed, the Python skit playing in his head as he maintained aim on the bowl. The Royal Cleaning Crew was good, but pee is pee, regardless of pedigree. As he stood there, whistling ‘Londonderry Air’, a new thought dawned on him.

In his house there are three rooms dedicated to personal hygiene and sanitation. In each of those rooms, there is a toilet: a white porcelain toilet complete with a fuzzy little cover on the lid. Three toilets. In the context of his country, this was perhaps not so remarkable. After all, toilets were commonplace. But when the King considered that there are many places in the world that do not have the blessing of indoor plumbing and public sanitation, three toilets seemed unusual. For that matter, there were many places in the world that probably had no special room for a toilet, much less THREE of them. The King wondered, amazed at all this luxury.

Three toilets, all there for him to park the royal bum on whilst contemplating the news of the day. It wasn’t exactly money in the royal coffers, but the King could not help but feel that in some ways, he was a very rich man indeed. Some might even consider him to be divinely graced because of those toilets.

The King knows however, that he is really just a lucky man, to have an empire the size of a three toilet house.