For this “post” I’m playing “Home for the Holidays”.
This is the Holiday Jazz version as arranged by Lee Evans.
For me, the act of playing music makes an otherwise difficult world bearable.
Author: Kathryn Atkins
“Blind Tom” Meets “Dog”
“Blind Tom” Meets “Dog”
“I’m tired of pulling this load every day.
I’m tired of being a horse.
I’m happy to meet you, I would say.
But my horsey voice is too coarse.”
“I gotcha, Mr. Horse. I’m so done being a dog.
I’m hungry all the time. Mealtime is a slog.
For just one day, I’d like to play.
“Fetch” sounds so good! I wait for that day.
“You’re a dog. I’m a horse.
We’ve both got four legs, of course.
But our fates are very different.
Our purposes, diverse.
Being a horse or a dog—
I wonder what is worse?”
“You’re Blind Tom, you fool. At least you have a name.
I don’t. I’m nameless. ‘Hey Dog,’ they exclaim.
My masters are many. My admirers are few.
The Railroad needs you but I’m as useless as a barren ewe.”
“Your man’s best friend! That’s never been my role.
You have a place at man’s side—that makes you whole.
I’m one step removed. A worker at best.
Sometimes I’m transportation. But the railroad is a test.
It’s over. I’m toast. I’m glue. The die is cast.
They won’t need horses. Those days are past.”
“Listen, Blind Tom. You’re a legend in your time.
You’re needed. You’re a fixture. And a worker on the line.
Your energy, your drive, your will to succeed
Are admirable, wonderful. You’re a great steed indeed.”
“Thanks, Dog. I hear you. I thank you for your trust.
I hope I live to see the end before I bite the dust.
This Railroad may be the death of me. One way or another.
But I will always think of you as a friend and as a brother.”
NOTE: Blind Tom was a real horse who pulled flatcars for construction crews on the Transcontinental Railroad
Huh? Is This ME???
This IS me! I’m staring into space in the fall of 2022. I am seventy-two. I’m small. And tall. I have no clue at all.
“Heaven is a new pair of glasses.” ~ Anne Lamott
With this post, I am starting on the second in the series that started with Giving My Self to the Wind. (2017)
This one will be called: Giving My Self to the Stars
Subtitle: How to BE Life (NOTE: Not DO Life)
“How to Be Alive”
“How to Life”
“Life’s Secrets” Hint: There are none.
BIG Dreams for LITTLE People
THE TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILROAD
An engineer’s brain saw a cross-country train
Feeding greedy men’s dreams of riches
But to build the train across fields of grain
Is hard — don’t they know them sons of bitches?
And yet the crazy thought
Of just one-week travel
Makes our own sweaty juices flow.
It almost seems funny that
We work for money,
But that’s not all,
We know.
The railroad’s BIG in every way.
A huge, gutsy step from our past
It’s scary, it’s hairy.
And dirty? Very.
We work it and hope we last!
But while it’s BIG. We’re just a tie
A spike on the railroad’s tracks
We want a piece, of the riches, ‘fer sure
In return for breaking our backs.
“Whatchya gonna do
With the money you make?”
I’m gonna start a store, how ‘bout you?
“I’m gonna buy some land,
Have kids, like I planned.
And run a farm
Just like my old man.”
The railroad’s BIG in every way.
A huge gutsy step from our past
It’s scary, it’s hairy.
And dirty? Very.
We work it and hope we last!
This cross-country train is BIG; we know it.
It’s why we keep on toiling.
It’s bigger than BIG, a crushing task
Through ice and rain and boiling.
Cuz here’s the thing we cannot do.
We simply cannot blow it.
And cuz it’s BIG, we continue to try.
It’s bigger than BIG; we work or die.
It’s BIG
We know it in our gut
It’s BIG
We want a piece, a cut
It’s BIG, no lie.
We work and cry
It’s BIG
It’s BIG
It’s BIG
Let’s not die.
This piece will be set to music and will be a part of my next historical fiction production, The Woman Who Saved the Transcontinental Railroad.
The Little Girl “Ho”
I didn’t know
I’d be a “ho”
When I was a little girl.
I didn’t plan
On being with a man
When I was a little girl.
I didn’t understand
When they put their hands
On my ‘woo-woo’ when I was a girl.
But then it began
The man paid for his hand
And I was no longer a girl, but a ho.
Mama always said
I was not being wise.
Mama tried to tell me
I was smarter than them guys.
That all I had to say was, “No.” No! NO!!
But you know how it goes.
They were deaf, don’t you know.
So, by then, I was below.
I had nowhere else to go
And I knew it was so,
I was a ho.
Mama tried to lock the gate.
But she knew it was my fate.
She tried to find me a mate.
She tried to anticipate.
But it was too late.
Her dream would have to wait.
Because for me I hate
That I’m a ho…
I didn’t know
I’d be a “ho”
When I was a little girl
I didn’t plan
On being with a man
When I was a little girl
I didn’t understand
When they put their hands
On my ‘woo-woo’ when I was a girl
But then it began
The man paid for his hand
And I was no longer a girl, but a ho.
When the train came through
Looking for cooks,
I said I could cook
And I showed ‘em my books.
Sad for me, my looks
Made the men that were crooks
Suffer me my fate, you know…
You’re not a cook!
Not the way you look!
And so,
I was no longer a girl, I was a ho.
Fend Off the Collapse of the Biospheres
This post doesn’t have to do with the Deathlist, My Piano Hands, OR Giving My Self to the Wind. NOPE. It’s about climate change. It just happens that Margaret Atwood is one of my favorite authors, and she gets it.
We must all work together to do this thing… Keep our planet from imploding on itself because of our neglect. But “It’s Not Too Late!” YAY
Okay. That’s it. Be the change. Thanks, Margaret, for supporting our cause.
Happiness Is Not Needing More
I don’t need anything more.
No nothing. Of that, I am shore.
I don’t need more stuff, it’s all just fluff.
More clothes? I’ll give mine to the poor.
I’m not taking a class or writing a post.
I won’t try putting extra butter on my toast.
I’ll refrain from checking my Facebook Page.
And won’t tweet a Tweet to vent my rage.
I will not compare. I will not look back.
I cannot look forward or fear an attack.
Today is today. And all I can say
To the people who’ve gone astray and lost their way…
EGBOK, my friends. Have faith. Make hay.
Believe me, Receive me. “Everything’s Going to Be OK.”
Now… Am I happy?
* * *
I think the entrepreneur and investor Naval Ravikant would agree with Andy Puddicome, founder of the meditation app, Headspace, that we only find happiness in the present. And we can only be in the present if we are willing to work hard to do nothing.
Do you feel the TENSION in that statement? I do!
When we meditate, we are trying to do just that. We work (at meditation) to pay attention to only one thing in the present moment. Thoughts of the future and the past and the emotions surrounding those thoughts rip us from our present.
Worry is a particularly useless feeling. It’s a projection of a future over which we have no control. Worry can also be a feeling that shoves us back to some previous time when we wish we had done or said something different. Wayne Dyer used to say, “You can’t should have done anything!” I miss him.
I smile at my own ineptitude. I’m not Naval, nor Andy, nor Wayne. (All men, by the way, and what’s that about?). I am, however, beautifully inept. I am wondering about the depth of my imperfection at this second. When actually, in this very next second, I am happy. Grateful. Here at this moment, to be writing this post and nothing else.
It’s bitchin’, I tell you, bitchin’!
What Music Am I Playing Today?
I play music as I pass through my day.
Sometimes it’s harsh, and sometimes easy-breezy, hooray.
Each day it’s a choice to:
Curate the chords
Making majors from the minors.
Nurture each note and
Relaxing on the rests.
Dive into dissonance
Forcing fortes and frowns.
Invite
Pianissimos seeking peace,
Soft pedals pushed down.
Channel rock ‘n roll?
Relish Rachmaninoff!
Meet Miranda or Mozart.
It’s a joy, it’s an art.
The best news is
The music I play.
Is totally mine,
To make my day my way.
Lessons from a Poop Bag — Chasing Empty
I assumed the misbehaving “poop” bag hitched a ride from the wind, gratefully escaping my pocket to evade its sure fate. As in, who wants to be a poop receptacle? In a former life, this spunky bag lived on a squished roll at the supermarket, on its way to having something yummy and edible stuffed inside like broccoli or red lettuce or maybe even artichokes! Being a produce bag is not fantastic, but It’s a J.O.B. and carries with it a utilitarian kind of respect.
So, maybe you want to know why we use plastic bags in the face of climate change? Seriously. Reusable produce bags are a carbon-reducing option. My friend Marilee uses them, as does Alexandra. That said, we justify plastic vegetable bags at the grocery store by repurposing them for doggy poop bags. Maybe we should use leaves, but the park doesn’t approve of leafed poop in the trash cans. I must remember to send them a copy of The Carbon Almanac.
So, this bag seemed determined to attain a better life: Freedom. Liberty. Happiness. Smart bag.
Okay! Game on!
As I chased it, the wind picked it up just before I reached it and scuttled it a few feet beyond my reach. “Almost got it!” I said to my dog (after all, it was her bag, albeit empty so far). The bag laughed as it scooted forward again. Did it look over its flappy shoulder taunting me, or was that my imagination?
I followed the gleeful little bugger for almost a whole block until I snatched it from out of the gutter. “Gotchya!”
The wind stopped, and the Universe smiled, knowing She had gently yet firmly guided me to a metaphor moment.
Huh?
I was chasing empty.
Because that’s what chasing empty does—it lands you in life’s gutter. That’s good to know, right? Well, but now… what do I do? Is the opposite of empty “full,” and how is that defined? Does not empty require living a life with Meaning (capital M)? What is and how do I find my Meaning and my life’s Purpose?
Next time I see an escaped, empty poop bag. I will pay attention. Or I may let it go. It’s too much work.
Death Saves Our Bacon . . .
. . .But she doesn’t smell nearly as good!
Death has had all manner of bad press for centuries–even before there were media outlets. History, literature, music, and life are replete with death. It’s not something we can avoid.
But Death has her job to do. Death, a.k.a. Coco, climbs aboard the train of life to complete her mission of passing souls from the Earthly plane to the Metaphysical space. When she enters the train’s passenger cars, she fills the closed spaces with her “aroma.” As we find out in Deathlist, her odor is compliments of God, and it’s a definite turn-off. We want to know why it’s there, and so does Death!
“Why couldn’t I smell like bacon?” she might ask herself rhetorically in a quiet moment.
We all have odors. I mean, I feel like our odors are the mistakes we make. They are the hurts we pass to our fellow humans. And to ourselves. We have things on us that we think we cannot expunge, although we try desperately. Bad habits. Sins, maybe. A divorce! Well, heck. I think we all have those, and yet, we save our friends (and sometimes our enemies), our pets, spouses, and ex-spouses because, in a brave moment, we come above our sins. Maybe we step around them. Or we push them aside, even for a split second, to do something we never expected we could or would do.
And at that moment, we realize that we aren’t so bad after all. We can even hug ourselves or at least pat ourselves on the back.
“Well done!” you say to yourself in the mirror.
AND we need to remember that day for the funky times when all looks lost. Those are the times when the “odor” of unworthiness surrounds us. And we’re in the dumps.
@AustinKleon, in his book Steal Like an Artist, says, “Keep a Praise File.” Collect the pats on the back and the hugs, so you can find them when you’re sad.
In the meantime, chin up. Help a friend in need. Or… heck…save the human race. We’ll be glad! And for you… You’ll smell like bacon!