Skcenery

They say a picture is worth a thousand words so I have a head start on a 5000 word post. The "ancient" glyph on the top far right is a "water" color courtesy of my brother, Robert Janz. The striking bamboo art is entitled, "Harmony."

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The part of my brain in charge of spelling is innovative to say the least. There is something about words with "sc" in them that bring on la grippe. No, I am not prejudicial against South Carolina (well, just a little) but try and get the brain to spell licsense, defensce, or musclesc and I wonder if I shouldn't be composing An Olde Primer on the New Englishk. I have been told that this is a "learning disability" but I don't believe in such things. I think it's a different way of viewing the world. Some of us are scientifically oriented; others are whimsically oriented; some can bridge the differences and be a Whole Skchmear person. Spell Check is my hero, exkcept usually it doesn't know if I mean sole or soul. Doesn't it know by now??? I am want to give the sc's a "k" in there somewhere. K is elegant and it cloaks the rest of the sentence in an aura of a distant language. Whatever happened to the Esperanto idea? Or sticking with Renaissance quirks like magickal? I was drawing kangi (Japanese characters) on a postcard and thought perhaps the world wide web should take up an icon alphabet. I am certain a heart would be understood anywhere in the universes, eskpecially if it were flanked by "I" and "San Franciskco." eye/heart/cable car.
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I received a message which mentioned that the replier's favorite sonnet is XXX:

" But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end."
It is a sad sonnet but isn't the ending the best ever? And isn't it the wisest advice? Think on each other and be happy.
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...the blessings of hieroglyphic messages and harmonious encounters be yours...

A Good and Splendid Night

computer drawing, by special permission, from the collection of Henry Hobbs.

Micah's comment about my brain prompted this post. I like my brain, too. I never know what it has stirring. I once wrote a science fiction short story for Burt Prelutsky's class called, The Night Bunch, about who was manning my brain during the wee hours of the morn. Reminiscing about that wacky crew leads to one of my favorite topics. Night. Growing up where the heat of the day effectively drained away any energy I could muster and the siesta was the highlight of an afternoon, night took on a special drama. As in fairytales, midnight was routinely the time for falling into mysticism. Most of the people around were falling into alcohol and its companionship with foolishness so I spent my time stargazing. I think I named all the stars. Of course, I didn't know what any of them were really called and I was cross-cultural in my choices. The only constellation pattern I recognized was the Southern Cross. I'm fairly sure the Little Dipper had some Aztec name and I was partial to elaborate pretend Portuguese. Like so many things where the facts have become realigned, it doesn't matter. What matters is remembering the magic of those times and hearing my mother recite:

The night has a thousand eyes.
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
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The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of the whole life dies
When love is done.--Francis William Bourdillon (who wrote 13 volumes of poems but is remembered for this one by mainly moviegoers who saw the title in a 1948 flick starring Edward G. Robinson)
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...the blessings of the rhythm of ebb and flow, nearness and apartness, birth and death be yours....

Extra! Extra!

courtesy of Carolyn Meyer

from the ephemeral collection of

Robert Janz

sea water (Irish?)and igneous rock

arrow of unknown origin
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...."LOVE IS NOT LOVE WHICH ALTERS WHEN IT ALTERATION FINDS.".. ....

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Sondra Ball wrote to say she will publish my poem, After the End of the World, tomorrow in her online poetry zine. I'm not going to declare my poem as fine as Sonnet 116 quoted above of Will Shakespeare's but there is something similar between the two. Will's is more complicated but mine is just as deep. Sorry, Will. Some of us do lay claim to also "owning" the topic of love. I like the open-endedness of my poem. The reader has to decide for himself/ herself what the poem is. Is it a love poem? Or a prayer? Maybe it's a poem about the scattering of families by geography. It could be an unrequited situation with overtones of melancholy or an affirmation that the soul survives the worst catastrophes. It could be a sibling poem or a memorial to a friend. There's a good chance it's a mother/child poem. I know what I thought it was as I was writing it but I'll let you choose. Of course, I welcome your guesses but, shucks, I bet you already have guessed what Moi would write. To conclude my Valentine special edition, I will quote a letter from my dad who would have probably described love as the supreme human grace which comes from the capacity to live joyously. "Charley brought me three cucumbers, which I did not dare eat raw. So I boiled them hard, chilled them, and put lemon juice on them. Try it some time. It’s awful." Robert Janz, Senior Advisor on Visa and Immigration, Liberia 1953
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........today's blessing is a tip o' the hat to Emily Dickinson, Some Enchanted Evening, and Will....

...may Love surprise you, springing up from hidden coves to dance through meadows

and over hilltops and may it never let you go.....

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Of the Not Fully Recognized Class

I didn't want to hear about the cherry tree. Who says George Washington didn't chop it down? I've been to his house. I've seen the cherry blossoms across the Potomac. I know there is a possibility of the story being true or not true. Who's to prove one way or the other? Maybe that wasn't even George Washington's house. Did I have to be told Lincoln wasn't much of a writer? I am weary of sorting through facts, fiction, faction, illusion, and the surreal. Personally, I go for cosmic teachings but whatever floats your boat and doesn't harm children is fine to my mind. I think what I think and I like what I like and I don't like what I don't like. One thing I don't like is the presidential birthdays holiday. I like birthdays and I like holidays but I'm with Aaron Copland and his Fanfare for the Common Man. How about celebrating the birthday of ordinary blokes and blokettes? The day laborer, the charwoman, the behind the scenes guy, the gandy dancer, the tireless nightshift cabbie, the stay-at-home volunteer, the dogged rookie reporter,the grassrooter, the pure of heart--these have emancipated and shaped the country as much as anybody and with fewer sidetrips into questionable behavior involving killing. On Blob this Tuesday, I'm suggesting a cake in honor of the February people who didn't become topics of myth and history, the unsung people who go to work on their birthdays. Go to work! but celebrate with cake. You'll have plenty of company. No, I'm not baking the cake myself. The baker up at 4:00 a.m.(see photo) kept my corner of the Shire aromatic with spun cinnamon and shredded coconut. By special permission from Robert Sims, singing along will be my contribution....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1MarBtUvW4
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She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways

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She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy tone

Half hidden from the eye!--

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!"--William Wordsworth

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...the blessing of the ordinary, the reliable, the beautiful be yours....

The Art of Assemblage

TEST KITCHEN WINNER ....................................................................................FUTURE YOUNG ASSEMBLER OF AMERICA

<-----COUNSELOR BY THE SEA

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One thing you will never see on the Blob is a recipe. I don't cook; I assemble. In the 50's, girls were required to take Home Economics. Have you ever heard such a strange juxtaposition of words? To this day when people talk about the wretched economy, I think of the F- I received for Boil an Egg so that the Yolk is Centered. I attribute that to a compleat (as written in Olde English cookbooks) lack of interest. However, I snagged an A+ for my final exam effort: Pizza Totale. I practically invented the word, "Loaded." I'm a born matchmaker. I knew that pineapple and olives go together like love & marriage and all the relatives have to show up, too. While the other girls fussed over deviled eggs, I shone throwing my pizza. Recently, I visited a friend from France noted for her quiches. I was sampling a particularly tasty one and asked her what was in it. "Leftover spaghetti." Holey Molay. "Ah, sweet mystery of life at last I've found you!" It was instant bonding with a fellow Assembler. Did I mention that take-out is one of my favorite words?

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.......the blessings of good eats be at your table wherever you are.....

Tuesdays (for the most part) with Moi

Coming Soon: The All New Tuesday Blob Wherein Secrets are Revealed. So it isn't Tuesday yet. So sue moi. You didn't really think I'd last long in absentia, did you? My arm was twisted by Carolyn Meyer's comment,"What a sibling pair." This I found greatly amusing. I wrote a poem about my brother once in which I compared him to a scarecrow. And I'm fairly certain the haute couture photo he took of moi in high school was an assignment of revenge. When I was nine, I had a collection of saint statues on an improvised altar. We were living in Cali, Colombia where the flowers could be picked daily. I returned from a bouquet scouting outing with my Baptist missionary friends, who already had issues with my altar, only to discover my brother had painted all the statues vivid avant-garde colors from head to toe, including Santa Rita whose blood running from her forehead no longer contrasted with her saintly pallor. I yelled, "Merde!" My mother went into one of her non-sequitur lectures about how I should appreciate his artistry b/c he was the world's most wonderful brother. And, she added," You are the Little Sister." There was no winning in that household. When he accidentally set the Christmas tree on fire, I was outraged. My mother scolded, "He almost died!" We.. All... almost died! It is a serious and pleasing wonder that in our golden years, he and I are such good friends. Of course, I don't let him visit. It's true what the delightful Ms. Meyer said. Roberto and I are a sibling pair!
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may the blessings of childhood pranks and pleasures be with you (to tide you over till Tuesday) this day.....