Pouring Music From a Cup

In the heart of the night, at the base of Guadalupe Peak, I sit listening to the soft cool wind sweeping up from the desert, heading toward the secret, hidden places high above us on the mountain. Overhead, the canopy of space is filled with stars, as if an invisible hand has thrown diamonds across the night sky and then trained a sharp white spotlight on them from the wings. They sparkle with cold, familiar certainty; the worlds and dimensions among them enlighten and entice me, for I'm sure I've been out there among them before. The moon will be up soon, and when it rises among these glorious stars, I will be watching. My son sits across from me, outside our tent in the middle of the desert, unperturbed by the beauty that surrounds us; he is absorbed by something he's been designing on his small laptop for weeks, but I think I understand. Sometimes, when our senses are filled to overflowing, it can be overwhelming. Easier to look away for a little while and give the m...

        When I first posted this back in the summer, I got a number of responses amounting to faithful readers scratching their heads and saying, "What the hell is this supposed to be about? Where's your romantic, cloud vaporizing dreamy karma drivel?" I tried answering a couple of them, but I realized pretty early on that if I had to explain myself there was no use explaining it at all. Instead, out of deference to those readers, and figuring that for each person who was choking on the cryptic meter of "Missing" there had to be ten who were just as baffled but weren't saying anything, I pulled it. Then I got to thinking. I don't write this blog for anyone except me. Anyone who reads it is an invited, benevolent, literary voyeur, welcome to visit my teepee anytime, as long as she understands she's a guest, not a resident with a say in how I run my camp. If she likes what she reads she comes back for more, and she tells her friends, "Hey, ...

        Let me be honest. I'm living a hand-me-down destiny. Please don't mistake me for someone you know, or someone you want me to be, because I think the way I think, and I listen to the music I want to. I don't live in the past, but I have many, many pleasant memories there. Like good and faithful friends, I like to visit with them often. I am what I am, and that's all I ever can be. I doubt I'm the one you thought I was, and if I am, you didn't pay attention when you signed on. With apologies to the Bob Dylan, whatever it is you're looking for, it ain't me, babe. Unless you're one of my children, I won't die for you. Societies and countries don't work for me; I won't pledge to a flag. Words are words, and are more powerful than any weapon humans can devise. The Republic , The Bible, The Koran, The Magna Carta, "Mein Kampf," The U.S. Constitution . . . "Hamlet," Catch 22 , "Like A Rolling Stone,...

     Okay, let me start by saying that it’s not your fault. You didn’t start the trend. You were an innocent by-hearer. You heard the word or phrase, it seemed to fit the occasion or the moment; it was easy and convenient to use; you didn’t have to think about it or say anything else; and best of all, it was understood and accepted by those around you. You simply did what most people do: you went along with what was popular, you followed the crowd. Maybe— just maybe —you didn’t know any better.       I’m talking about common but incredibly annoying words and phrases everyone seems to use. Not to be confused with cringe-worthy clichés and vapid platitudes which, as soon as you hear them, send you scurrying for intellectual cover, these infuriating words and phrases are not in and of themselves offensive or even bothersome. It has more to do with the way they are used by their unaware, and too often, blatantly ignorant user. If you are a frequent user of any ...

               Elizabeth Massie, writer, who studied English and science at James Maddison University, posted this on Facebook recently. It’s a beautiful sentiment, but one that comes with a very, very high price to the teacher. I spent a career trying to teach kids to question and to think for themselves, to think critically. Sadly, through no fault of their own, most were immune to the concept because they had been raised to accept dogma as truth. Many thought I was trying to cause trouble, and only a handful took the reins of their own lives and rode on to their wonderful destinies. A number of them are friends of mine on Facebook. A small reward, but a reward just the same.   The best teachers I have known in my life, both as a student and as a teacher myself, were far more intelligent than I was: they were naturally curious, thoughtful, and always questioning. They were readers and explorers, of the world and of the mind...

          I first tried to write— I mean, tried to write as if I were a sage, someone outside myself —when I heard Jim Morrison’s “End of the Night.” I was twelve years old. This was a catalytic event  for me because hearing Jim’s voice and hearing him use words that I had never heard before or in ways and combinations I had never encountered before meant that I too could go into places I didn’t know existed. Dark places. Places my parents and teachers wouldn’t think to go and wouldn’t want me to go.      Why was this important to me? I don’t know. Anymore than I know why it was so important to me to start growing my hair long. Part of it, I suppose, was to identify with the hippies, the rebels of our culture. In a way, I imagine I wanted to “get back at” those who had made fun of me or snubbed me. It was my way of saying, “you can’t hurt me, but I can hurt you.” Not physically, necessarily, but scare you.      What wound ...

Note: This essay originally appeared under my previous blog's banner, "Pouring Music From a Cup" 2015. The sentiments remain the same, though, no matter where we are, as long as we are father and son.      My man child turned 18 in November and spent his first birthday away from home. He got a visit from the parental units that weekend because there happened to be a home football game and his mama wasn’t about to let the day of her first-born’s birth go unacknowledged, if only on a minor scale. But the man child wasn’t able to come home to be properly recognized, which is where birthdays should be celebrated, until Thanksgiving. Even then he only had a couple of days of down time at home . . . just enough to kick off his boots, raid the refrigerator a few times, and monopolize the couch and TV remote before gathering his things and heading back to the Land of Higher Education. Wanting to maximize our time together, he and I spent an evening at Cavender’s western outfitter...

“I believe that there is a hidden hero in every man and a hidden angel in every woman.”   She calls herself Lili, though that’s not her real name.  I do not know Lili. We haven’t met— not yet. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure what she looks like. Yes, I’ve seen photographs of her, but they were rather dark and pixilated, and that, I think, was intentional. She says she doesn't feel comfortable presenting pictures of herself in public, but I guess in this circumstance she felt she had to. What’s speaking to me about this odd beginning to what, perhaps, may eventually evolve into a genuine friendship, or even relationship, is that it speaks of a certain humility on her part not often found in others. This may well be a time when I will be forced to accept the person based upon who she is on the inside before I find myself drawn to what I see on the outside. You know that old war horse: accept me for who I am . That’s tough to do when you’re immediately distracted by...