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Waxing Poetic

4/9/2012

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Well, as I grow older, I find myself returning to some of the interests of my past.  Back before I was a lawyer, I was a fine arts major for four years.  I have a BFA in Photography.   Pointless now, since it was a BFA in chemical photography, which has now gone the way of the daguerreotype and left me with a bunch of formerly priceless cameras that are now, well, priceless in a whole different way.  But in addition to my love of music, I'm beginning to feel a reawakening of interest in the fine arts - painting and photography, and the existence of some small art galleries in Waterville, like the Common Street Gallery.  I'm such a loser I haven't actually dragged myself down to the Common Street Gallery, but I like to follow their Facebook page, and I like knowing that it's down there just in case my inquisitiveness wins out over sloth and hectic family schedules one fine day.  I also enjoy watching the photography posted by some Facebook friends, as it is their hobby or true passion, and I reminisce about the countless hours I spent in critiques over those four years of my past, discussing every possible way a work could be interpreted until you wind up all the way back at either "I like it" or "I don't."  

Anyway, last week at Rotary we were reminded by the Waterville librarian that it was National Poetry Month.  So I thought to myself, "Alrighty.  Next week I'm gonna use a happy dollar* to read a favorite poem to the group."  Why?  Why the hell not?  Life is short and I'm 42 now and time is running out, so why not read a good poem?

* - a "happy dollar" is an opportunity at Rotary meetings for member, for the fee of one dollar, to command the podium (and the microphone) for the purpose of announcing something that makes them happy - such as an anniversary, a birth, a wedding, a sporting victory, a nice vacation, an accomplishment, etc.

Well, first I thought I'd pick "Jabberwocky",  "Ozymandius", "The Tyger", or "The Charge of the Light Brigade."  "The Raven" naturally leapt (or fluttered) to mind, of course, but it's a bit long for a happy dollar.   But then the streetsweeper drove by my office and inspiration struck.  I have long railed against the sanding of the roads (to dramatic excess) during the winter here.  And then against the cleaning up of that same sand in the spring.  So I wrote a poem about that madness instead and read it for a happy dollar.  No word yet on whether I've been kicked out of Rotary.  I've added a Poems page to the site, and put it up for your viewing pleasure.  Titled, "Streetsweeper Sysiphus."   Maybe more will follow.


(by the way, from junior high through law school, I wrote a lot of poetry, from serious attempts, to journal-like catharsis, to random silliness; it was a great way to kill time during boring classes at every level of education; during undergraduate school I even took a couple of poetry courses and had the distinctively poetic experience of having a graduate-student teacher commit suicide two thirds of the way through the semester - by shooting himself no less;  it was truly tragic - he was a great poet, and a great instructor)
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A Random Memory

2/16/2012

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Today, I told my kids about an activity we loved during recess in elementary school in the 1970s.   The school had some stone and concrete walls outside, along the playground, stairs, and ramps.  The large stones embedded in the concrete were sandstone, a pretty soft sedimentary stone.  When you rub a sandstone rock with another stone, of sandstone or other material, it wears it away and produces fine rock dust.   Everyday at recess, a lot of the boys would select a good rubbing stone and get to work.  We found the dust pleasing to touch and to make little piles of.  We also enjoyed producing depressions and holes several inches deep in the stones embedded in the walls.  It was a tactile pleasure mostly.  It would get a little competitive to see who could produce the deepest hole or the biggest pile of rock dust.  I guess I might question my sanity if the activity hadn't been shared with many of my friends.  Well, we were crazy with youth I suppose.  What all this boils down to is that, when I tell my children we didn't used to have iPods and Gameboys and Nintendos, and they say "Wow.  What the heck did you do for entertainment?", I can literally say "we sat around and rubbed two rocks together."
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    The Daily Consternation 
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    Tom lives on the east side of the Kennebec River and works on the west.  He relocated from Arizona to Maine, by pure choice,  in 2001 and loves music and history.  He may change any viewpoint expressed on this site at will and without warning.

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