New entry

Coming Monday 12/27 we'll have a new entry about Dora.

The Prism

The crystal prism is lying there

Passive and unmoving

It has no purpose, no function

Just taking space and doing nothing.

But when the sun rises

And the eastern sky is aglow

The prism becomes animated

Releasing a glorious rainbow.

Mending Fences

My guarded self has erected fences

To protect the inner me.

But there are times when fences get broken,

When who I am is plain to see.

Broken fences are all too common

As we display our inner souls.

The barriers are built for a reason,

To mask our pain and hide our woes.

When the hurt becomes too great,

The fences cannot contain it

Our agony seeks to find relief,

But the fences exist to restrain it.

Finding an outlet and breaking free,

The painful cries seem unending,

But since the pain’s been released

The fences now need mending.

O' Happy Day

She was wearing her best dress. The one she wore for Debbie’s first wedding. Frank had put on his tan suit complete with the brown tie. They had been sitting and smiling for nearly a half-hour already as friends, neighbors and family members stopped by to offer their congratulations. Fifty years of marriage was apparently a big deal. Maybe it was. Frank still had a lot of habits that annoyed her, but she had adjusted to her life of tolerant resignation.

She heard Midge before she saw her. That raucous laugh and gravelly voice were Midge’s calling cards. She saw her, then, and she was wearing that blasted lime green pants suit that was reserved for top-flight social events. Carol was with her. Small as ever. Carol never went through the “change of life” body spread like the rest of the women their age had done. Carol’s beautiful silver hair contrasted sharply with Midge’s pink-orange concoction. As usual, Carol’s big city Talbot’s wear looked out of place beside Midge’s garish double knit.

Frank burped then began to suck his teeth while continuing to shake hands and nod appreciatively. Dora quietly sighed. Even here, at their anniversary party, Frank couldn’t control his disgusting habits. “He’d better not stand and scratch his rear,” Dora silently screamed. She wouldn’t put it past him to do something so out of place. Frank had never had an abundance of social skills.

She saw Bill and Clara walk into the room just as she heard Debbie’s distinctive snorting laugh from near the punch bowl. Debbie seemed to enjoy introducing Chad to the old neighbors. Dora hoped that Chad was “the one” for Debbie. Heaven knows Jack and Larry didn’t work out too well. Debbie had a great job in the advertising industry, but for some insane reason, she was attracted to the starving artist type of man. Chad was a little better. He had a full-time job. A real job. He was the manager of a Big Boy restaurant. Frank didn’t like Chad. He thought that he was too effeminate although Frank said “Chad was sissified.” For Debbie’s sake Dora hoped that it worked.

Bill and Clara approached, and Dora noticed that Bill looked especially dapper in his grey pinstripes, white shirt and red tie. Clara was dressed to the nines in her Macy’s finery. The burgundy look was terrific on her. She assumed that they had been somewhere else before coming to the party because they certainly wouldn’t have dressed so well for this. “Still got my money?” Frank asked Bill who owned the Farmer’s Bank. “Oh my, Frank, I’ll have to check,” Bill retorted. They played this little boring game every time they encountered one another. Dora and Clara exchanged a knowing glance…don’t they ever tire of this? Clara was two years younger than Dora, but they had never been close growing up. Clara seemed to be their parents’ favorite, and Dora was the plain one who kept plugging forward. Shortly after Clara left for college at State, Dora and Frank were married. It seemed as if they didn’t have anything to discuss since then…50 years ago.

Blessedly, the line was thinning and nearly all of the cake was gone. Dora was anticipating that soon she go home and feed the chickens. Sitting here beside Frank and his bodily noises for two hours was about the limit of her tolerance. She knew that after they returned home, Frank would work in the shop until it was time for bed. They rarely ate supper these days because of the large noontime dinners that she routinely cooked. Sometimes they’d have cookies and hot chocolate before retiring to their separate rooms. Frank’s noises didn’t stop when the lights went out.

Three years later she was wearing her best dress. The one she wore for Debbie’s first wedding. Frank was wearing his tan suit with the brown tie. She had been sitting and smiling for nearly a half-hour already as friends, neighbors and family members paraded by. She overheard several of them remark that Frank looked so “natural.” She knew better. She was no longer required to be tolerant of his annoying habits. She was merely resigned to a future filled with lonely days.

More Voice

It occurred to me after writing my last entry about the writer’s “voice” that there are a few more elements that should be examined. If one’s voice is authentic, then it follows that it must truly be unique. For example, someone once told me that what they enjoyed about my political writing was that at times the rhetoric would soar, and then the reader would be jarred by a simple declaration or even a profanity. He appreciated the crescendo followed by the emphatic point. I mention this because it appears that he recognized a definitive style or voice in my political writing.

For the “voice” to be uniquely authentic it cannot be an echo. I once heard a songwriter being interviewed, and he stated that he never listened to music when he wrote because he was fearful that he might unintentionally plagiarize another work. This, to some degree, is a concern of mine. It seems logical that anyone who must write also reads…a lot. So, the submerged fear that one could “copy” another’s work makes the discovery of one’s own voice an imperative. If the writer has fully developed her or his own voice, the likelihood of an inadvertent copying of another’s work becomes less likely.

Modulation is an important component of the writer’s voice. Neither constant whispering nor perpetual shouting is effective for communicating ideas, concepts and emotions. The writer must develop the craft so that nuance and variance can be advanced, and yet, maintain the integrity of the voice. Indeed, there are times when shouting or whispering are critical for advancing the narrative, but they should be employed judiciously.

The final thought that I had during my contemplative moments was spurred by what I have just discussed. The writer’s voice should never be a monotone or robotic. Writers are people, too, and we share the broad range of emotions with our fellow humans. Where we differ from most people is that we are willing to share our most private thoughts with others. The willingness to expose one’s essence to friends, family and strangers is what the concept of voice addresses. The writer must be honest with oneself, and boldly share her or his discoveries with the world.

Comments:  earl4sos@gmail.com   or   cnpearl@woh.rr.com

With One Voice

When one discusses poets and fiction writers, the term “voice” is frequently mentioned. The writer’s voice is the persona or personality that is projected throughout the work. If an artist’s voice is distinctive and consistent, then one can identify the author of the work after reading a small portion of the project. Capturing or identifying one’s voice is not an easy task. One would think that a writer merely writes, and the voice will emerge on its own. That’s not necessarily the case, however. Rookie writers often betray their amateurism by the helter-skelter nature of their work. So, is “voice” a result of crafting or a product of thorough introspection? Yes…a little bit of each.

The “voice” of a writer is an elusive thing. Knowing oneself well enough to identify the inner essence is not an easily performed exercise. Most of us, most of the time avoid the type of introspective analysis that might reveal weakness or expose painful damage. Knowing oneself can be an unpleasant encounter, but it is a vital step in the development of a “voice.” The crafting aspect becomes important after one has completed the internal survey. The writer must command the tools that are vital for transmission of the voice to readers. In the final analysis, the writer must first identify the voice then skillfully share the persona with the reader.

Why am I wasting an entire entry on “voice?” It’s early in the life of this blog that is dedicated to whimsy and fiction, and I am groping to find my voice. When I write political entries for  www.littlestuff-minoosha.blogspot.com , my voice is rather developed. Some would describe it as a raving lunatic, but I prefer to describe my approach as a logical cynic who is highly suspicious and skeptical of government. My greatest hurdle when attempting to define or refine my voice for this blog is that I don’t want to be identified as angry. I do have warm feelings and positive passions. Just recently, I enjoyed a series of correspondence with someone from my distant past who helped to remind me that I haven’t always been so jaded. At one time I was innocent, thoughtless and stupid, but I had dreams…joyful dreams.

That is my goal. To find my lost voice.

Comment:  earl4sos@gmail.com  or cnpearl@woh.rr.com

Stereotypes

You probably have heard that Juan Williams was fired by NPR for sharing on the O’Reilly Factor that he became uneasy when he saw someone in full Muslim regalia on an airplane. He said that the 9-11 attacks changed him forever. NPR, being politically correct and publicly tone deaf, dismissed him for his “insensitive statements.” This episode caused me to think about something that we encounter everyday-stereotypes. Stereo means more than one, and type is a general classification, ergo a stereotype is a general classification of many. Although most elitists stereotype those of us from flyover country as mouth-breathing, incestuous rubes, the elite class usually condemns stereotyping.

It hasn’t always been considered a social error to view classes of individuals in a general sense. When our ancestors climbed down from trees and began living in caves, stereotypical assumptions could be the difference between life and death. A failure to assume the worst about an enemy or a bear could lead to your untimely demise. So, stereotyping has a legitimate historical basis for becoming part of our preservation repertoire. A behavior that in the Darwinian sense has contributed to the survival of our species cannot be, and should not be, casually discarded. While a stereotypical assumption about a particular individual may be faulty, it does not necessarily follow that the stereotype should be discarded.

Nearly all personal stereotypes begin with the particular, expands to the general, and returns to the particular. For example, if you are mugged by a smurf, you then internalize that all smurfs are muggers (even if you conscientiously know that’s not true). The next time that you encounter an individual smurf, you become wary and guarded. Bad smurf->all smurfs->the smurf.

My concern and reason for addressing this today is that attempts to extinguish stereotypical calculations are counterintuitive. It would be like trying to get us to stop breathing or eating. What can be done as we indoctrinate our youth is to teach them that a certain degree of wariness is warranted when one is in unfamiliar surroundings. Just as we teach them to look left, right, left when crossing the street, we can coach them to be cautiously reserved when in the midst of strangers who are different from them.

Comment:  earl4sos@gmail.com   or cnpearl@woh.rr.com