Thursday, October 20, 2011

Feeling Sneaky

For those of you who might peek on here just to see if I posted something, here you go.  I plan to stick to my every other week schedule, but there were some things I just needed to get out.  A little ranting can go a long way. 

Tasty Tidbit #1:  There is No “H”
            Spell my name right, please.  There is no H at the end of my name.  In a society that uses things like “u” for you, “r” for are, the dreaded “k” for okay, and the ultra hated “kk” for I’m really okay or to end a conversation, I find it strange that people want to add letters.  Is it really that hard?  S-A-R-A.  Look, no H.  You want to insult my creative talents, fine.  You want to crush any hope I had of becoming a poet, spiffy.  You want to try to analyze me and judge me when you don’t even know me, fantastic.  But spell my goddamn name right when you do it.  I can understand if you ask me, is there an H on the end?  I’ll tell you no.  But if you ask me, or if you have my name in PRINT and then STILL spell my name wrong, you just suck.  To me it’s careless inattention to detail.  Don’t ask me for something, don’t have my name spelled out in front of you and then ignore it, it makes you look like a waste of organic material.  I’m just saying.

Tasty Tidbit #2:  Two Dead Caterpillars
            I saw something both beautiful and tragically sad on my walk the other day.  I bet you can’t guess what it was.  The whole caterpillar butterfly metamorphosis thing has been quite prevalent in my life lately, so seeing these two dead little guys made me feel a little crushed.  I found the first one during the first quarter mile of the trail.  He was bright green and his insides had been squashed to the outside.  It looked like he had been trampled by a running, poor maybe one of those baby strollers that I see people running with.  That has to be one hell of a ride for the kid.  Anyway, I stopped and looked at his crushed little body all his insides exposed in a gooey mess.  I wondered if he knew he was dead, if he felt the spark of life leave him when the shoe came down.  I don’t think caterpillars have brains, at least not in the way that we think of a brain.  More an instinctual relay center.  Further up the trail I saw a black and orange caterpillar curled into a horseshoe shape on the side of the trail.  He looked like he had been either frightened or frozen to death.  He was fuzzy with a bright orange blotch his back, probably some survival mechanism to keep predators away.  Maybe the orange is a warning, “don’t eat me I’m poisonous,” type of thing.  I wondered if these caterpillars knew that their lives had been cut short, but what made me feel the worst was thinking that these two would never become butterflies or even moths.  They would never undertake the journey of metamorphosis.  When a caterpillar changes into a butterfly it’s DNA changes completely, there is nothing left of the caterpillar DNA at all.  I once asked the question when a caterpillar changes into butterfly did it remember being a caterpillar.  If I remember correctly the consensus was no, it would not remember, but I hope that they do.  Such a powerful journey to undertake, whether through instinct or courage and though it may be painful to go through how much more would we savor it if we could say here I am all wings and light, it wasn’t bad being a caterpillar.  I was courageous to take the journey. I want to remember those feelings of taking those first steps toward total evolution. 

Tasty Tidbit #3: Exposure
            I’ve had a couple of requests to post some of my class tortured poetry on this blog.  I thought about it for a long time before deciding that I’m not ready yet.  It’s not that I think anyone will make fun of it or anything like that, I just don’t feel like it’s time for those poems to come out into the daylight again, at least not yet.  Each time we create we put a little bit of ourselves into that creation.  If the creation is well accepted it tends to thrive.  If instead the creation is treated with disdain, disrespect and some other D word of negative connotation, the creations tend to shrivel.  To me, my writings are like children.  I give birth to each one. I tend to it, care for it, watch it grow and evolve.  When people smack my children around they need time to heal and so do I.  Right now my poetry children are huddled up under a blanket, frightened that if they show themselves they will get beaten again.  My job is to heal both them and myself.  I must be gentle.  I must realize that sometimes there is bad writing and love those creative children for who they are and what I can learn from them.  When the time is right I will post some of my poems on this blog, but not right now.  We’re still healing.

No comments:

Post a Comment