Fading Away

Everything Is Temporary

The name of the bitter green
Fruit whose tart taste
Would pucker our lips
The street where our family
Built their first home
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We tend to think of inventions
As solid, malleable objects
That are brought forth
Through the cunning, sweat and impeccable timing
Of their creators
In truth, inventions are something
Much more ethereal
They are bridges between different types
Of knowledge and awareness.
They build on what has come before
And hopefully anticipate
What has yet to occur.

For many years, we have relied
On the measurable rubric
Of science to supply us
With our inventions

But the observable universe
Can only do so much

The literary prodigy Mary Shelley,
Who wrote what many consider a gothic masterpiece
At the tender age of 19 had this to say
About invention:

“Invention, it must be humbly admitted,
Does not consist in creating

Out of a void, but out of chaos.”

Would that we all had that poignant understanding
Each time we settle down to communicate a thought
A fact or an emotion.
The young author of the exquisitely sublime story of a monster and its creator knew of what she spoke.  Long regarded as one of modern literature’s first horror stories, Frankenstein is, in fact, a tale of what it means to be a woman in a man’s world.
If there is no cure, we all have the disease,

Noble Gases

The Mother Of Us All

The first rays from ninety-three million
Miles away begin poring through
The south-facing window
The birds outside are busy with their reveille schtick
The sky seems a blanket of puffy grey
Eider down floating silently
On its regal throne
The rain it may soon release
Will fill the earth
Nourishing all that grows

And feed a hunger
That never seems to subside
When we speak of creation
We intuit a life cycle of form and substance
It grows from what it gives
Like the majestic Redwood trees
Native to northern California
It towers above almost everything

Rising slowly but steadily upwards
To touch the sky
Take in the precious carbon dioxide
It needs to survive

As photosynthesis releases the paired atom
We take into our lungs to breathe

Though they often can’t be
Be seen, like us, their roots
Inevitably run deep into the earth
Which waits for us all.

The Other & Us

Beginning With Bergman

It is generally agreed among those who follow these things that Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman was something of an existential genius.  Using the established vocabulary of a true visual stylist, he confronted some of our most primal fears and assumptions.  About belonging.  About believing.  And finding a way to regard the material world in a way that made sense for a generation for whom sense no longer made sense.  He was an artist who constantly challenged our assumptions about what it means to live in a free society.  How we participate.  How we observe.  How we change and make the most of the time we’re given.
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The Prompt

The elevators, situated at either end of these long and seemingly photocopied hallways, give the erstwhile traveler pause.  The first is just off the main lobby, where he has trekked in search of toothpaste and an accompanying brush.

These hygienic accouterments were located without incident and a conversation thus ensued.  There were two young people at the front desk.  The woman, maybe twenty or twenty-one, had a cheerful demeanor and as she directed the young man who had been searching for a toothbrush, I noticed a weathered paperback laying open on the formica counter.  Playing Sam Spade, I altered the orientation of its dog-eared pages so that the text might be discernible to my eye.
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