Regarding Tidbits of Information

In an opening statement regarding Tidbits of Information, I would like to clarify that I am writing of things that were not known to man years ago; as a result, people were mislabeled. I spoke with a psychiatrist this week in regards to these issues, and she readily relayed to me that so many things were mislabeled or misdiagnosed because of the lack of knowledge. Thank goodness we have advanced by leaps and bounds since the earlier days.

Tidbits of Information

Since working in areas dealing with mental health, I have read several pieces of literature regarding mental illness; articles that left me with questions.

Over the years, when man began his documentation of things he learned, a voluminous amount of things were written. In college lectures and medical seminars we can find these things as part of the discussion.
Some of the professions discussed are novelists, poets, artists, and musicians; yes, there are other professions to discuss, but in mental health these are big subjects. Various lectures are open for individual opinions. Students are assigned poems to read, and then they must determine what the poet is actually saying.
Great poets, novelists, and artist are often picked apart. I am not sure this collaborative effort can do justice to the well known greats of yesteryear.
The saddest thoughts about the discussion are that the people being discussed have long ago passed away and can’t defend their own actions. They are judged by a group of men or women, labeled insane, and forever branded that way; and so it goes.
Some notables did some really unorthodox things. For instance, Salvador Dali delivered a course of lectures at the Sorbonne, in Paris, in the 1920s. He had his foot in a pail of goat’s milk. He was an eccentric artist and was quite sane (from all of my readings it seems so) but dubbed as having a predisposition to madness. I am sure being sane, he had his own valid reasons for doing this. But now, because of the opinions of others, we think of him as being predisposed to madness.
Jonathan Swift, author of Gulliver’s Travels is another example. Often times, throughout the annals of history, he has been labeled as being quite mad, but it was later discovered that he had a very painful problem with an ear issue. The treatments for medical issues back in that era were far different. Death rates were high due to lack of medical knowledge.
So, who can say that all of the notables were really mad or maybe they were medically challenged, leaving them to do strange things?
-To be continued-

BARREN

Barren are the carpeted slopes on a faraway hill
Where reality and reflections were once surreal
The song of your stillness blows across the field
In a rehearsal of emptiness; now nothing is real

~~~~~~~~~~~*

Children lost in play amid the mounds of green
Spindled cribs of white; a simplistic kind of scene
A hollow by the pond; you and mom were seen
Listen to the lullaby; it’s peaceful and serene

~~~~~~~~~~~*

It’s almost time to go now; there’s nothing left to do
Everyone is leaving; the sun is even blue
I came here once more to hum a song for you
It’s only been a while; it seems a day or two
I miss you
Daddy

December 1, 2010

Emotional Statues

Have you ever tried to paint an emotion for the things you recall from childhood: The television shows, cigarette commercials, cartoon characters, radio shows, and so much more? Those things take you back to days of hopefully happy times and security.

I recall my grandmother getting up to do the necessary little things before starting her daily routine of ironing. She would turn on the radio. I can picture it now… the sculpture that I have carved in my mind. His name was Arthur Godfrey. This was a talk show of sorts, and Mr. Godfrey had many things to say to his listeners along with his ongoing list of interesting visitors. There stood my grandmother just ironing away to these faceless characters.

I was staying with my grandmother while my parents worked. In the evenings, when the stars were lined up and parading about the heavens, she would tread up the hill in back of her house and load her apron down with pieces of coal. It would be so cold in Tennessee; winter winds were harsh. I would walk with her, carrying my one little piece of coal. I was a little girl. I would chatter about everything as we made our way back down the hill. It was dark and somewhat scary to me. She put a few pieces on the grate. I would watch as she would poke at it with what she called a poker. She knew how to break the coal into smaller pieces. As I watched her, I thought she must have been the smartest person I knew because there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do.

She lived high on the side of the hill. At night she would open the curtains, and we would stand looking down across the city with its sparking lights.
I can see those beautiful lights now and hear the crackling in the fireplace. The only light in the room would be that of the warm fire. Oh, to go back to those moments in time…things that I have carved that bring special emotional auras for today.
I continue to carve these emotional statues. After all, I can look at them anytime I desire and only time can remove them from their place.

Words As Feathers

Recently, I watched a portion of a movie that I found to be thought provoking. The movie was dealing with people that spread rumors about others. The woman involved was one of the parishioners; she had made confessions regarding her own problem with gossiping.

The priest told her to go back home, take a feather pillow and a knife up on the roof top of her building. He then told her to slash the pillow with the knife. She did as she was told; feathers went flying every direction as the wind carried them farther than the eye could see. The priest then told her to go back upon the roof top and retrieve every feather. She told him that would be impossible because the feathers were floating in the wind in all directions.

This reminded me of a recent trip to the gravesite to visit with my Daddy. A feather floated past me; it, too, was carried by the wind. I watched it stop a few feet in front of me. Suddenly, I found myself wondering where it originated and where would it end up. I watched it for a long time until it finally flew out of sight. Actually, I left the place where I was sitting and followed it until it flew beyond a point that was designated out of bounds to visitors. I was on the military base.

I thought about the movie and understood perfectly how this walked hand in hand with our lives. We tell someone about another person; it could be something with an interesting twist or something hurtful and malicious. From our mouths these words would fly; likened to the feathers in the wind, we could not retrieve the words.

How sad that we do this. Maybe the next time we stop for a conversation with someone, we should think of the pillow, the feathers, and the seriousness of what we are about to do. The old saying goes like this: If you can’t say something good about someone, say nothing at all. Let’s not send our words flying into countless ears and minds.

Arcane Writings

We write arcanely, for the most part. Notice the careful segregation; truth
divided by fabrication.
Segregationism of one’s true self does not prevent others from fishing
without a license.

Too many times, we forget that homo sapiens enter into our thoughts
by way of the back door; known as our Achilles’ heel. Do you know
where your Achilles’ heel lies?
They, the homo sapiens, walk this tender path and proceed in raping
the mental synthesis of a person’s mind.

The Gulag Archipelago portrays horrendous dealings of what one can do
to another; if so inclined, via the mind.
This, too, depends on the ability to psych oneself out.
We must adapt as a circle; taking care to protect every aspect;
from beginning to end.

Well, how does all of this play a part in writing you ask? We must be careful
when sending out invitations to others, to view our thoughts lest
we are trampled by our own words.
The mind, an amazing work of art, should be cradled at all costs. After all,
that is where we dwell most of the time; is it not?

These Feelings

Today was an unusually pretty day; the kind of day that anyone would wish for under most circumstances. The weather was perfect. I had driven to a near-by store for a few household items . I watched as others were shopping, as well. It was somewhat sad as I listened to a child, maybe six years of age, asking his mom to buy him a small chair. It was made of plastic and certainly suitable enough for his frail looking frame. His speech was garbled and that of a much younger child. His clothes were shabby and he seemed unkempt in general. At any rate, I watched briefly as she picked up the little green chair and told him," I will get this for you, but don't tell your daddy". He quickly agreed in his garbled speech while clearly expressing how elated he was. His smile was priceless.
I thought of the complexities the words held for this little one and the implications of growing up being taught to fabricate things. His basic foundation was being built for sure.

I finished my shopping and started back home. I passed a bag lady with a grocery cart full of items; probably collected from the dumpsters close by. She was walking slowly as if the world had forsaken her.
Further down the road sat two men in the shade of an old tree; they had small suit cases beside them. I recognized their faces as those that stand on the streets with signs. You offer them work but they quickly refuse and ask for money for food. Yes, you tell yourself they will buy whiskey or beer or drugs. They are, for the most part, bums. I can't help but wonder about their heritage. What happens to bring someone to this life of begging; one where you no longer care of your appearance or personal issues, including being homeless.

As I drove along in my car, to my home and my life of comfort, I felt a sudden sadness wash over me. I felt empty for some reason. I questioned why these feelings of melancholy all of a sudden. Maybe the little boy that loved the little green chair. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree; but he must remember not to tell his daddy about it. Maybe it was the little bag lady; or the men that allowed themselves to be imprisoned in another world; one that we do not have to live in. No, there are no physical bars holding them but something kept them in this strange world. Something in their minds that left them without the desire to escape. They no longer cared.

I thought of the people in my life that had passed away; my children that had moved on in life. So many things washed over me leaving me to feel like a tree branch standing barren and alone. Suddenly, I felt cold and bare.
I placed my thoughts inside another compartment as I unloaded my grocery items. What would happen to the little boy, the bag lady, and the haggard looking men sitting on the ground with their suitcases?

I walked into my home with all of its comforts and realized how thankful I was of my own life; but how sad I felt about so many things.....