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.
Category: CREATIVE WRITING
“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
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.
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!
Deathlist Press Release!!
Would you want to know when you’re going to die?
This is not a trick question. Think about your answer and let us know, please. Perhaps it would depend on the circumstances. Maybe it depends on if you’re old or young. Sick or well. Rich or poor. Death herself doesn’t care EXCEPT she cares about humans, despite herself and how they treat her.
The only way to know what Death really thinks is to read Kathryn Atkins’s book, Deathlist.
AND then you’ll know more about your fellow humans but also how sucky it is to be Death. She hates her job.
Death Has a Therapist?
If you’re old enough, you remember Kermit the Frog’s song, “It’s Not Easy Being Green.” If you’re not old enough, you might look it up, but suffice it to say, it’s not easy being Death! It’s almost as bad as being a dentist. No one wants to see Death or the dentist, and people are afraid of both of them when they shouldn’t be afraid of either one.
Death, who also likes to be called Coco for Coco Chanel, is very tired of being feared and of her job of collecting souls. Here’s the thing. She doesn’t CAUSE death. She only collects souls and helps smooth the path between living and the here-after. PLUS — Death doesn’t send people to their eternities, Heaven or Hell, or wherever they are going to go. But people don’t get that about Death. They think she’s the one doing all the dirty work.
So, that’s why Death has a therapist named Nancy. And when Nancy isn’t available, Death uses retail therapy to get through the roughest days on the job.
She wonders if her therapist is real. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But then she REALLY wonders if she needs therapy!
How about you? What do you do when you’re feeling blue? Bubble baths? Dancing? TV? What’s your secret escape? Let us know!
Maybe check out the Deathlist book trailer to see more about Death and why she’s tired of her job. AND why she buys so many clothes. No, she won’t bite! If you read the book Deathlist, which is a satire (and pretty heavy on philosophy), you’ll get to meet a pretty goofy God, a bike riding Jesus, and a fashionista Holy Spirit. They’re funny, although sometimes Death questions their idea of funny because they all drive her nuts!
Death plays golf with the Trinity when they’re talking to one another, that is.
The book asks: “WOULD YOU WANT TO KNOW WHEN YOU’RE GOING TO DIE?” Because that’s what the Deathlist will tell you. Take the survey here.
Inspiration for the Novel “Deathlist”
I’m often asked, “What was the inspiration for this novel?”
Well, pretty often. Um, so. Hmmm. Okay. I’m telling you now that you’ve asked. Thanks! 🙂
Here’s my ANSWER: Every time I saw someone on the news or heard of a person dying that seemed especially odd (like a child, for gosh sakes, or someone sitting on a bench eating a sandwich and a tree fell on them, maybe), I began to form a theory that everyone had a specified death date. Death was not by chance, happenstance, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. God had it planned out. He kept track of it in a big database, which someone or other dubbed the Deathlist.
I still believe there might be one somewhere. How do you explain those little times when you were two seconds behind that huge traffic accident? Or, okay, on a morbid but equally mysterious level, why do some suicide attempts not work? Without bogging down my explanation with statistics, we can all report anecdotal evidence of failed suicides.
Then imagine that humans were somehow allowed to know what their death date was. That was the germ of the book.
I could know how much time I had to finish and publish the Deathlist. Write a how-to book about anything. (I’m not sure, but I buy a lot of those fix-me-please books, so I think I should write one!)