A Simple Song

This was written in 1971, as the Viet Nam War was winding up. I was 16 y/o.

Beauty lingered

Why?

I know not.

All I know is that

Serenity persisted and

Drowned

The sounds

Of bombs

Exploding

Outside

My window

Anyone Have a Pen?

Truth be told, I am embarassed to tell you how many pens I have. They are an instrument of magic for me because of their grand potential to change, sadden, influence, create, spread joy, etc. As someone once said, the pen is mightier then the sword. (Edward Bulwer-Lytton). I do abide by this sentiment, though I fear it has been run off the road by all things digital.

I’m not saying that digital is bad, but when many young people today don’t appreciate the joy of a pen gliding across the page and discovering ideas and thoughts that awaken and surprise!

The fact today is that cell phones rule. When I was teaching at the college, I’d marvel at the number of students who’d walk across campus while on their cell phones. No human interactions, no enjoying the surroundings, no being in the moment, and amazingly, no falls!!

Consider:

Nearly every student clutches a phone in one hand as they traverse the University of Central Florida campus, even while walking in groups. Laptops and tablets are lunchtime companions, and earbuds and headphones are routine accessories. While waiting for class to start, many students sit in silence, drawn into their devices. (Courtesy New York Times — excellent article)

Alas, I have been on this pen crusade for more years than I care to share, but I think what it symbolizes is more important today than ever.

Here is the little post I wrote many years ago:

In Pursuit of the Perfect Pen

I was watching the TV show Hoarders last night, and as usual, horrified by the deplorable conditions of the featured homes. And while I watched, I sat there with a self-serving sense of satisfaction that I was NOT a hoarder, that I did NOT live in deplorable conditions, and that minus a few knick-knacks here and there, we lived in a rather neat and organized little home, albeit a bit dusty. (What’s a little dust?). As I gloated, and made some comment accordingly, my daughter dearest looked at me with her curled-lip smile, which is never a good sign, and said, “Pens?”

Gulp. Oh boy. That’s a “got ‘cha.” I never thought about my predilection for pens as anything more than an “I love pens” thing. Other people love pens. I’ve heard them say it. In fact, I’ve had conversations with people where we compare makes, models, and ink colors. But even in these conversations, I know I am a breed apart because in addition to these basic things, I concern myself as well with ink flow, how far out the writing tip extends from the pen, and what its weight is (the heftier, the better). I do not dare bring these things into these conversations as I suspect it would be stepping over the edge.

Man oh man, I guess the jig is up. I’m a hoarder. A pen hoarder. I have boxes of pens stored throughout the house. I keep my current favorites in front of me at all times, and if someone disturbs them, I know in a second. No casual pen-borrowing from this hoarder. Those poor souls who’ve most innocently tried will never do so again.

Indeed, I have tried and probably have just about every brand, make, model, out there. I have driven in blizzards to get a pen. I order pens online. I give pens as gifts. I am in ecstasy when I get a pen for a gift.

I have spent much of my adult life in a quest for the perfect pen. A perfect pen is like the Holy Grail for a writer. However, there exist two issues with this: it’s expensive and just as with us mere mortals, there is no such thing. So, I have a choice – continue my quest, go broke, and run out of pen storage places, or accept the inevitable and succumb to the all-electronic brigade. NOT GONNA HAPPEN.

Well, see you later. I’m off to Staples!

Cozy

Throughout my entire life, the word cozy has been a word that often creeps into my vocabulary and gives me a lovely warm feeling as I think about one of the ten-million visions of “cozy” I have in my head. Consider: a warm corner, with an old, cushiony chair, a small, beat-up wooden side table on which sits a tea cup, and book, and the whole thing infused with soft, relaxing light. I would be completely content to call this little corner forever mine.

Now let’s bring AI on board and see what they have to say about the word “cozy.”

Being “cozy” means being in a state of comfortable, warm, and snug physical and emotional ease. It implies a sense of being safe and secure, often in a small or intimate setting, and is associated with feelings of relaxation and contentment. The term can also describe pleasant, friendly interactions or activities.  

Snug is a perfect word. Safe. There have been just a handful of times in my life where I have felt safe. Snug and cozy, yes. But safe was always elusive, largely because I did not do a good job of keeping myself safe. But that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, these are times when to be cozy is essential. Go find your little corner of the world, make it uniquely yours, grab a good book, and read on while the tumultuous world spins wildly out of control around you.

Saga of a Doorknob

Yep, a doorknob.

When I was a child and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was: a doorknob.

That’s right. A doorknob.

It’s no surprise that me saying I wanted to be a doorknob worried my parents

However, it’s important to note that I had given this matter a great thought. It’s true that I wanted to be something that few, if any, people had thought about being. But I also wanted to be something meaningful. I thought that doorknobs provide entry into other rooms, other places, other worlds! And I wanted to be one of those things (a doorknob)  that did that.

So, I decided to see what Copilot (AI) has to say about my childhood predilection, and I was delighted with the answer.

I wrote:

What if a child wants to be a doorknob when they grow up?

Here is the AI response to my question:

That’s delightfully imaginative—and honestly, kind of brilliant. If a child says they want to be a doorknob when they grow up, it’s not about becoming a literal piece of hardware. It’s a window into their creativity, curiosity, or maybe even their sense of humor.

Here’s how you could interpret it:

  • 🌀 Symbolic thinking: Maybe they see the doorknob as something important—something that opens doors, connects spaces, or helps people move forward. That’s poetic!
  • 😂 Playful absurdity: Kids often say things to be silly or get a reaction. It could be their way of exploring language and logic.
  • 🧠 Exploring identity: They might be testing boundaries—what does it mean to “be” something? Can objects have roles like people do?
  • 🎨 Creative expression: This could be the start of a wild story, a drawing, or a game. Maybe they’re imagining a world where doorknobs have personalities and adventures.

Instead of correcting them, it’s a great moment to ask, “What kind of doorknob would you be?” You might get a story about a golden doorknob on a castle, or one that tells jokes every time someone turns it.

Want help turning that idea into a short story or a comic?

Now, I did not respond to the query to move on to a creative tract produced by AI – I’ll leave that to my own creative juices at another time in the future

Find your passion, explore your world

I just finished reading an article in The Atlantic where researchers pose that to encourage students to “find/follow your passion” could set them up for future failure when they discover that their true passion may not exist in the working world.

I was one of those professors who extolled the virtues of discovering one’s true passions to find a career in which one could find success. Truth be told, I still think this is good advice. However, I do see the point that encouraging students to find “perfection” in their passion journey is a setup for failure. There is the issue of reality in a working world of rules, structures, and bosses. The truly passionate student may be shocked to find themselves in a place where following one’s passion is a pipe dream.

What this article presents is a theory I will call “explore your world” where from childhood, people can be interested in numerous subjects. As I think back to my own childhood, I loved math and received the math award in 8th grade while also getting A’s on all my English papers. In play, I adored my electric trains as well as my Barbies and their Dream Car.

I do think it’s important to examine options and other areas outside of one’s “passions,” but when the time comes to hang a hat on the hook, I do think one needs to follow what one’s proverbial heart suggests.

In sum: Find your passion and explore your world — why not both!

Again

Enough reading and raging over everything going on in this country. Enough feeling helpless. Enough watching things like Charlie Kirk, government shutdowns, and innocent people being seized off city streets. There is something to be done, and that is write. No matter how small the audience is, even if only one soul engages here with my thoughts, I’ve made a difference.

But I think the secret is to stop reading, watching, and raging. I believe it is to shut down, shut off, and listen to the wisest songs and lessons of all, those from nature. She has been calling me lately, yet I have blithely been ignoring her call as I remain obsessed with the cesspool of a government led by a true despot.

So, dear reader, it is to the quiet of nature and the pages here before you that I attempt to carve out a tiny piece of joy and serenity, for you and for me.

Paul Resika Painting

Many moons ago, I participated in a writing workshop that took place in our local art gallery. The charge was to find a painting, sit in front of it, meditate on it, and then write a piece of poetry. I chose “Boats, Blue Square,” a painting (below) by Paul Resika, and here is my poem, “Backwards Life”.

Backwards life

Like the painting,
Boat without oar
Sail without ship
Transfixed in time
Paralyzed puzzle pieces
Forever . . .
Screaming . . .
Out of synch, out of rhyme

Requiem for a Little Horse Named Buzzy

It was a long and wonderful ride. Literally and poetically. I never thought it would come to an end. It did. I am devastated.

He was 32 – an amazing accomplishment after all he’d been through in his four-legged life. My beloved horse, Buzzy.

A stalwart little pacer, I adopted him right off the harness racetrack in Saratoga, and brought him home on a cloudy, cool autumn day. And from that day on, the saga, and disasters began. He was 8 and looked like a handsome little Morgan. He had a strong constitution and a basically calm demeanor, except for when he didn’t.

Still, whatever the case, my Buzzy took care of me, and was always there as my spiritual advisor. He was a wonderful listener!

Because there were so many adventures, disasters and sagas, the rest of his story is slated for a book.

Blantant Age Discrimnation

Ever since I’ve joined the ranks of the 70-somethings, I’ve noticed people speak louder, slower, and more simply to me. Okay, I can deal with that. But what I can’t deal with is what happened to my dearest friend.

My friend is in her late 70s, sharp as a tack, and has been working full-time for a company that boasts its commitment to employees and customers. It is, in fact, a health-care-based company. Ha!

So, my friend has been there for almost 2 years and was happily working away while saving money to pay off a few things before she retired in another year. Not!

On a Thursday, she was in the midst of a Zoom meeting when she got a phone call. She told the caller she was in a meeting, and the caller told her to leave immediately. The caller then told her this was her last day and that she was to pack up her computer, which would be picked up the next day, as she worked from home.

Boom! Slam-bang-thank-you-mam! The reason? Cutbacks. Right.

BTW, her boss, a fifty-something black woman, was also let go. My friend was told she’d be paid through November, but then on to the unemployment lines.

There is so much about this that reeks of all bad corporate things. (I have never been a corporate type and have had my own issues in the past, but never in my 70s when I planned the short rest of my life around my job.)

So, how is my friend coping if I’m in shock and incensed over this? She’s alive, not necessarily well, but as a child of the 50s and 60s, she will survive, at least I sure as hell hope so.

But what can she do? The sad fact is — nothing. To hire a lawyer, if even possible, would be exhausting, not to mention cost prohibitive, and the corporation would through their endless resources at any legal action she might bring. It’s possible she might get some sort of payout, but that’s also unlikely. Sadly, this is an outrageous example of how we treat people today. Especially our elders.

View From the 70th Floor

A captivating view of modern skyscrapers reaching towards a clear blue sky, symbolizing a vibrant and dynamic life.

Okay. It’s time. I’ve been hard-pressed to “come out” in announcing my entry into true senior-hood, but now that my high school class is planning a big bash for all of us turning 70-ers, I decided it was time to emerge from my closely guarded age closet.

When I was a kid, most people my age now acted old. They looked old. They sat on their front porches drinking tea, or maybe something more potent. They knitted, they played checkers, they napped. Not that any of these things are bad, it’s just that the people doing them back then acted … old!

I do not consider myself old. I do not sit on my front porch all day, don’t complain about my aches and pains (not much, anyway), and don’t look especially old, minus a few wrinkles here and there. I don’t feel any different than when I was 50, 40, and even 30, (in my head, that is).

So, as I share my view from the 70th floor looking down, I savor the sight of delicacies of lovely memories while avoiding a sea of woulda, coulda, shouldas. I have turned my experiences — good and bad — into precious learning devices, while flushing all the gunky stuff away. What a gift … what a life …

The view looking up is full and robust, filled with my beloved humans, canines, and activities: swimming, reading, writing, friends, and playing with dogs and grandkids. Eating my partner’s gourmet meals. Drinking dark, chocolatey wines. Biking through a canopy of lush summer trees. Hiking on trails full of fall color and the musty smell of fallen leaves.

When my body decides I’ve had enough, I’ll take my swimming easier, finish writing the novel that’s been in the works for 20 years, and cuddle with my dogs while reading a good book in front of the fireplace on a snowy winter’s night.

And when that winter’s night decides to become more permanent, I’ll leave with a smile, knowing how much I enjoyed the views, both up and down, from the 70th floor.