Tag Archives: poem

While I was Sleeping (It Off)…

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I’ve only twice thus far in my happy, healthy life been under anesthesia, at least when I was old enough to remember it. The first was during college, when I had my third molars removed, an act that I consider was more about wisdom on my part than on the molars’, despite their being commonly named “wisdom teeth”. It was good preventive medicine in my case, being the only invasive procedure I’ve ever had to have a dentist do and as a bonus, keeping me from getting them infected or impacted or, quelle horreur!, having them come in by shoving my naturally straight other teeth askew. I must have had a terrific anesthesiologist, because I don’t remember any particular suffering during or after the event, other than an unpleasant reaction to the first and only pain pill I took upon waking, and I was well enough after a day of devoted ice-packing by my mom to venture out to the mall the next day with the family, and dine comfortably on crisp green salad and toast.

The second time was when I underwent that happy coming-of-age ritual, the half-century tune-up of my chassis when I was given what felt like a really delightful extra night’s sleep so as to while away the time during which I had my colonoscopy. I, unlike other people, have no interest whatsoever in watching myself on TV in the process of receiving medical attention of any sort. Despite that potential glamor and entertainment of that approach, I felt myself cheerily fortunate in having a splendid nap instead, not to mention getting the desired clean bill of health in the bargain.

Though I’ve had limited personal experience with going under anesthetic, I certainly know plenty of people who’ve had all sorts of adventures with it, both good and bad. And I am all the more pleased, on knowing some of the tales of hallucinatory glory, that I have nothing to show for my own such trips but a gleaming set of straight choppers in my healthy jaws and an equally pristine stretch of plumbing in my abdominal regions. And I plan to have no further need of being anesthetized any time again soon, pretty please. Though I truly appreciate good medicine, I appreciate even more not needing any.Digital illustration + text: Psychedelia

Here’s News: Shoes Lose

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It’s probably nigh unto heretical to say so, but despite my stereotypical feminine admiration for shoes and my not-so-secret desire to own a zillion pairs of pretty ones, I seldom bend so far as to wear any that aren’t mighty comfortable in real life. Why, I have been known to fall right off of them and skin my precious knees whenever there was a handy hole in the pavement to snag my heel in for such purposes. But I hate pain, even the relatively minor pain of standing upright in high heels, so I really don’t often put myself in such danger.

In a similar vein, at times I am willing to go so far as to put on a little eyeliner, or suck in my gut to get a too-tight waistband to zip, or even give myself a semi-polished pedicure when I’m wearing sandals, but if time is pressed or I’m not in the mood, I’ll certainly never be bothered with such efforts. I feel more than a little ridiculous when I’m dolled up very far, and mostly I’m much too cheap and lazy and, well, un-girly, I guess, to enjoy the process, the expense or the artificiality of being ultra-feminine. Plus, there’s the risk of the people who know me best having a heart attack if I go all ruffly and spangly on ’em. That would just be mean and selfish on my part.Drawing + text: Shoes Lose

Fools & Their Followers

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I will never pretend that I am neither gullible nor misinformed. I am one or both of those on a very consistent basis, if not constantly. All I can say in defense of myself, with all of these lacks and lapses, is that I continue to ask questions, try to learn, and hope for the patience and kindness of my teachers. And for the ability to accept new knowledge and make the changes it requires, accordingly.

Photo + text: Fools & Their FollowersPower to the Precedent

Contradicting every rule

Is, sure, the hallmark of a fool

—Except in times and places where

The rules are stupid and unfair—

The problem, clearly: to define

Whose rules are foolish,

—yours

—or mine

Just My Cup of Tea

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Digital illustration + text: It's Never Merely a Sip or a Nip

Washed in Light

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The sunlight that pours in, falling over the sash like crisp, clear water, washing the walls, spilling over the coverlet and floor, refreshes like no rain has in years. I acknowledge the need for, even the longing, sometimes, for rain, but nothing comes close in rain, at certain other times, to giving me the reviving strength I find in showers of sunlight.Photo + text: Nearing Heaven

Pessimism is Its Own Reward

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—or recompense, at least!Digital illustration from photos: Gloom = Doom

Pessimism is Its Own Reward

The Last Rose of Summer

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The Thomas Moore poem that gives this post its name has lent its melancholia to many a song and story to follow it in the years since Moore first honed the image into such an iconic form in 1805. He wasn’t the first to recognize the symbolic substance of decaying, wilting blossoms at the end of the growing season, or to apply it to tales of longing and sorrow, not by many long and mournful years. And the idea is so ready and apt that I can only assume there will be endless instances of such fading bloom representing the grief and sadness of life.

When I see real roses at the end of summer, though, I tend to see another kind of meaning in them myself. For what could stand better as an emblem of perseverance and strength than a fragile, delicate tissue of a flower that clings boldly to life when all of its companions have given up the ghost, when the elements conspire to kill it, when all of the art of Nature dictates that it should not be able to survive? Is there an image more fitting for resilience and bravery and the hope of beating all odds? Certainly there are few representatives more perfectly suited that appear in as beautiful a guise as the rose.

The idea of being that kind of a last rose of summer appeals to me. I would like to defy the expectations of the world that I should cower in the face of death and its precedent cruel disintegration, and instead age gracefully into an ever stronger, wiser and more beautiful being. This is impossible if I depend wholly on myself and my own resources. But having chosen to surround myself with the generous gardeners whose kind tending can nourish and enrich me along the way, I think I might have a chance of flowering over time, too.Rose in Bloom

More Woolgathering, of Course

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Silliness is never an entirely baaaaad thing. I can always find more room for it in my life; it doesn’t get my goat, and I am neither sheepish in the face of it nor cowed by such things. So mooooove on over here and join me in the laughs.
Pastel drawing + text: Wool Gathering

Smooth Operator

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Photo: Silken Skies

Photo + text: The Perfect Fit

Photo: Smooth

Parked Her Carcase

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Digital illustration: Belinda Babbitt

Speaking as a person whose sense of direction can barely get me from my own front door to the kitchen and back without assistance, I have a certain empathy for even the fictional characters who lose their ways in the world. Not so much so that I don’t laugh up my sleeves just a little at their plight all the same, since they are, after all, make-believe…
Digital illustration + text: Parked