THE STORY OF HYACINTH AND APOLLO

While the FACS class was cooking up some pancakes, (I HATE the smell of pancakes), I overheard some student conversation and had to stop and tell them the story of Prometheus; before that we'd gone over Narcissus. Tonight I was searching google for Poe stories, reading Rosetti's Goblin Market, and somehow ended up with this poem. I feel like my life has been a series of coincidences lately...and I am too lazy to write, and somehow I feel like I might be WRONG about a flower having a face....! I hate it when I'm wrong. Must look up crocuses now. ;(

THE CHILD, THE SUN, AND THE WIND

IT chanced upon a summer's day,
Within a deep wood far away,
There wandered forth a little child
Midst flowers and birds and breezes wild.
Now running here, now resting there,
As bright, as light, as free as air,
The happy little Hyacinth strayed,
From flower to flower, by sun and shade.

A wind called Zephyr saw him pass
With skipping feet across the grass,
And ran before and clung behind,
And strove his tripping feet to bind.

Because the Zephyr loved him so,
He would not let that fair child go,
But kept beseeching, "Stay, and be
A little playfellow to me!"

Still Hyacinth had naught to say,
Nor would he with the Zephyr stay,
But skipped aside and left the wind
Another playfellow to find.

And next the sun up in the air
Caught sight of Hyacinth's shining hair,
As Hyacinth ran the tall trees under,
And King Apollo paused in wonder.

"Stop! Hyacinth," cried King Apollo,
"You run too quick for me to follow;
One little minute wait for me,
And I your playfellow will be."

Because Apollo from the blue
Had fallen in love with Hyacinth too,
So down he came with smiling face
And stayed upon a mossy place.

There sun and child in merry play
Sported full many an hour away,
"Who can throw farthest, you or I?
This ring I'll cast, then you shall try."

But Zephyr, creeping round about,
Spied their pleasant pastime out,
Which made him angry feel and sore,
And he grew angrier more and more,

Until a cruel purpose grew,
And he determined what to do;
His wicked will at once consenting
Unto the crime of his inventing.

For as the King, in act to fling,
Raised high in air the iron ring,
Zephyr ran and took his stand
Just underneath Apollo's hand.

Thence blew the ring back swift and straight,
Steady and strong with all its weight,
So that it struck on Hyacinth's head,
And lo! the pretty child fell dead!

Then all about the leafy wood
There streamed out Hyacinth's purple blood,
Which wrote in letters sad and plain,
"Woe! Woe! for Hyacinth is slain!"

Back to the sky Apollo flew,
And far away the Zephyr blew;
But on the ground where Hyacinth died
Sweet flowers grew and multiplied.

Hyacinths that, with happy faces,
Still beautify earth's lonely places,
Loved by the sun and breezes wild,
In memory of the winsome child.

Es tut mir leid...

Bailey is flying to Los Angeles soon for company meetings...I informed her that not only did the cat approach the porch today, it let me pull off one if its hideous hunks of fur. Not that I wanted to; gag. The poor creature. But if I'd of been using my head, I would have written the sign auf Deutsch--not only can it read, but is it bilingual?! This may become a running joke, as she thought I should now try leaving it some messages around the yard...

I think I may have to make yet another blog--for family items, as I am getting all jumbly again and this page is becoming more diary-like, instead of pathetiprofessional. New word for a pathetic attempt to write like I might know sumpthin.

I have a cop friend that called this afternoon wanting to know if I'd written anymore bizarre stories this year or if I had suffered any freaky experiences for 'new influences'. Unfortunately no. I mean fortunately no! Stalkerman moved (had to move) out of the neighborhood; messiah man hasn't been kneeling in my house; "Why, I should just write about the whacked-out woman YOU had last year", I told him. Then he tells me he met a new gal last week and she turned out to be a total nut-job. Can't wait to hear more about that!
I'm beginning to wonder...is that all that's out there? I know it isn't so; those of us that are mostly normal must have a teensy part of us that remains frozen in relationship fear...
Tired and sunburnt. Going to bed.

Vegetarian Chickens, Tears, and Literate Cats

I had already cried a few tears this morning, so when my daughter called this afternoon, I could detect the stress in her voice and though she was trying to be noncommittal at first: “Mom, I'm so tired...I want to quit my job...I just want to be an artist. And a beauty queen.”, She was going for humor, but I could tell she needed some motherly comfort and goodwill. We can pretty much laugh and cry at the same time...horrendous work hours with no days off—she'd just about had it. We tried to focus on the weeks ahead; I shared that I'd had tears all week on and off and apparently so had she... Hers due to nonstop fieldwork, paperwork, government regulations, and virtually no time with her fiance; mine—well, it seems whenever I drive anywhere this week the tears just stream. 'I was only driving across town,' I told her, 'and the thought struck me that grandpa wouldn't see my little Bailey get married.' She was his special little girl and they were so close...he would have been so proud. She shares that she 'wanted all the men to wear a certain lei during the ceremony...and grandpa wouldn't be there to place it about his neck.' (This was about the time of year when we learned that he was going to die. That my dad, the health nut, the marathon runner, the reader, the worker, the man that could fix anything, the patient man, the quiet man, the dependable man, the man that just retired and was finally, finally going to do all the things he wanted to do...was really going to die, and worse, it would be the most painful thing he could endure.) So naturally we choked up for a while (though I didn't include the other thoughts from days ago...that he didn't get to go to Tegan's college graduation, nor hear the exciting submarine stories that occurred on the Pacific Tour—he would have loved that and again, would have been so proud. That I often thought of how painful it was for him, the first week of May, to attend one of Brigham's trackmeets on a good day and hear his name called as he broke 4 records, gripping his stopwatch; his legs crossed in agony; proud nonetheless. And I bawl as I type this, thinking of my mom and how much she dearly misses him—her loss and longing is inconsolable).
But we weave our conversation in and out among other things...a new gorgeous fishing spot, seeing a naked man on the beach...etc.
She talks of darling Arthur, the tiny fluffball chick and how he, the runt of the litter, was her special little guy..teenier than the rest of the bunch, she only cared about him because he refused the little insects and mealy worms, preferring to race towards her, squawking and scrambling to drive his beak into the fresh papaya and banana that she offered. I'm laughing, thinking of the other chicken that fell in love with her, when she mentions that she felt bad because they hadn't noticed that a human hair had wound itself tightly about Arthur's toes. It must have been there for a few days, cutting off his circulation as he quickly grew, because she then noticed he didn't come racing towards her—oh dear, trepidation and dismay. He willingly ate his fresh fruit, but the next day couldn't move at all and was lying over. They'd tried antiseptic ointment after the hair removal (yes, I was giggling), but alas, it did no good. Nate took Arthur away today to end his misery. 'Mom! It was one of MY HAIRS that killed him! My favorite chick!' I was extremely compassionate but had to keep apologizing for laughing, but I couldn't stop—some mother I am!
I told her I was a horrible person; that I'd asked Brig's friend to shoot the cat; I'd hire him as a hitman if he'd do it when we weren't home and not tell me afterward. 1 bullet to the head=no suffering. It's a lovely fluffy cat in winter, but has the oddest hair we've ever seen: it mats itself into 2 inch thick felted clumps which hang roughly until they tear away. It does not have mange, but seeing what looks like a zombie cat scrunching around must surely scare the neighbors! It's sheer misery and nothing helps— no brush, nor scissors--just gradually peeling back the pelt like a sheep to expose nice new hair underneath. WEIRD.
Well, after I 'hired my hitman', I didn't see the cat for days, so assuming the deed had been finalized, I felt terribly guilty when it didn't show up for food. THEN I SAW IT! Or it saw ME! That cat turned and TORE across the yard to get away from me. 'I was shocked,' I told Bail, 'I was always nice to kitty—it HAD to have heard me and understood.' It still will not come near me and races away. Now it was Bailey's turn to laugh at me (though I still swear animals instinctively KNOW) and she tells me 'that there is no way the cat knows, but if you put up a sign and the cat READS it, then I will believe you! Ha ha! So here is the sign. If kitty lets me pet it in the morning, then cats not only have 9 lives but are literate too!
I'm not even going to start on the tears from this morning, but the above phone call helped! and sorry for this blog.

Catching Phrases

Yesterday I grabbed a John Irving book that Bail had left here—-an item to read while I waited during my mom's colonoscopy. I'd taken off work-- highly unusual. Lately I've been 'taken' with phrases and I am sure that the nurses wondered what the heck was so mirthful behind the curtained partition...I was trying NOT to laugh aloud, but surely you can relate...we've all dealt with this: talking to someone incredibly boring or repetitive, listening to someone impossibly incompatible with your tastes, (yawn) trying to maintain politeness, wondering how to get away... You all know what I mean! And then the book's scene--a teen-age boy embarrassed by his doddardly father that continuously puts his students to sleep; and the line...
“as if stricken by a passing coma....”

I'm sorry, but it just struck me as hilarious... can one imagine using that line out loud? “Pardon me, what'd you say? I was stricken by a passing coma...”

That seems like I'm mean, but c'mon--the corner of your mouth had to of turned upward!

and today in class I had to quell my laughter...I just happened to read the phrase off the Internet regarding men's compliments towards women or girls. (I prefer girls, as it maintains perpetual youth!): "flattering, insincere slickster”! Ha ha!
Eeek! We had one of those that used to walk around our building occasionally. A real 'slickster'-- Bryl-creamed, slick blackened hair, the roving bedroom eyes...us girls would just shudder and shiver—gross!--and giggle when he left—disgusting!-- He made you want to pick up all the imaginary clothes he'd stripped off your body and left puddled in a pile at our feet...!

COMPLIMENT defined: An expression of praise, admiration, or congratulation and a formal act of civility, courtesy, or respect.

Bar compliment: My eyebrows tend to raise when I hear “Whoa, BABY! !!You're lookin' HOT TONIGHT!”. (Screamed in your ear drum, of course.) If it catches you off guard and you can't step back fast enough, this is usually followed by a drunken arm around your waist or shoulder or someone lifting you up off the floor... This can be somewhat fairly amusing (or creepy), followed by the patient statement, “Oh really? ” as you make your way back to your friends. Though, now that I think about it, that probably is a VERY sincere compliment because the giver usually isn't in the position to think of anything cleverer than that, given his current state of inebriation! It becomes less ridiculous if the receiver of the compliment downs afew beers too—much better than the guys that sit around trying to smatter you with their woefully fake bullcrap!
I would recommend using compliments sparingly...only use REAL ones-- if you have to contrive one, most 'girls' can tell! As far as GIVING compliments: I've become braver in my old age—who cares!-- I WILL walk by someone and say “Gawd, I love your dredlocks” or “That's such a cool shirt!” because if they haven't impressed me, why would I notice?

At this point I could create an entire tome of false compliments; some of which I truly believed...however, this would lead to a story entitled 'Pet Peeves' or 'Liars' or ______. Hmmm. Can you tell we had an hour long TGIF at 3:45?
Which reminds me, as we were laughing about our day earlier...(and coincidentally Ballroom Blitz is playing on the radio), they are all curious to have Absinthe-- "So much fun you'll return stuff you never stole!" Ha ha--another funny phrase!

Fairy Tale: Shimmer & Sparks

As I tend to be alone most of the time, I spend quite a bit of my life lost within the realms of my imagination... scenarios, conversations, artwork, stories; colorful (or bland) threads of unique paraphernalia that remained trapped forever in my mind...
Should I pull them to the surface and release them? Sometimes they're more pleasing behind closed eyes...
Should I put forth the effort? I initiate many projects; should they go to their grave?
Should I place the ending to "Surreal, When Evening Comes" on this blog and hear the responses?
Should I begin to write the parody I've been kicking around: "One Day in the Life of Evan Dennison"? Should I try to write a book-- I started "Subjugation"?

Or the incomplete Fairy Tale I placed way down below? Is it all crap and resides nicer in my mind? Sigh.

When a non-writer wants to write...

Don't know why but for 2 years I have wanted to write about 'pain'. It will be quite a challenge. I want to write about the most absolute, debilitating pain; gut-wrenching, horrific--you know, like a teen's first love and loss; the utter devastation one feels when you're ripped to shreds, when the world as you know it is jerked out from beneath your feet--and I have discovered that no words can adequately describe this! It is frustrating—don't want to use damn cliches, or typical descriptions, but I'm afraid it's just not possible. I've tried to put myself into that sad state of mind for inspiration; to force one's self into that utter state of despair and depression—it almost has to become a fugue-- and I can think of a million zillion descriptions which I jot down as I lay in bed—-aggravatingly enough, they're still lacking in the morning...Does one know what I mean? Can anyone know? Everyone probably had a broken romance/a broken heart and has felt pain, but to what degree? To what depth? Were you devastated for years? For weeks? For a few hours then moved on to something else? How hard can an emotional impact hit or hurt? It has to be as individualistic as a snowflake. The thesaurus is no help; no single word or group of words that can represent that feeling. AARRGGH. Does anyone understand? I can imagine certain phrases, but they don't flow coherently; guess that wouldn't matter as a shocked mind is incoherent and irrational anway. Similes and metaphors? I just can't get proper terminology for that ultimate chest-crushing heartache...I imagine deep down like a microscope zooming in and in and in down to the very fibers of some foreign thin-skinned blob; rapidly reproducing within the walls of your heart; clawed and barbed cilia frantically waving, reaching/clutching/grasping/ripping every muscle fiber within your soul......Naw. That's not what I want to say either. When it hits you like a sledge-hammer or a ton of bricks (cliché) and your ankles go weak and your throat freezes up and your veins fill with lead so heavy that it would be incomprehensible to move, yet somehow you do manage to take a step and eventually actually speak though that is another person doing so inside you; that the real you is dying a thousand million deaths over and over again...(cliche)... Damn! "That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all." Thank you Mr. Eliot. Perhaps I can pilfer some words from you. 'Etherized' is a good start...

Look Right ... cause April is Poetry Month!