Some Thoughts Rise To The Surface

First, I’d like to thank my 143 followers that have stuck with me during these fallow months.  Your constant support has been a source of inspiration and joy.  It gives me great pleasure in knowing I’ve connected with people in over a hundred countries and that the future looks to be one that connects all of our planetary citizens.  I do hope that in the interim the lives of my followers have been filled with wonderful surprises and insights that have made their lives worth the living…

On January 11, I lost my father, which has had an enormous impact on my life.  His true love of nature, his desire to help all individuals in need, his keen scientific mind and concern for all of earth’s creatures will be missed.  Another pillar has been removed from the family structure and we must form the next block ourselves.  It is not an easy task, for there are feelings of loneliness and sadness along with apprehension as to where our journey will take us.  And we know that our time and energy are dwindling and our stay on this planet will soon come to an end.  But we will try to face the inevitable obstacles with honest hearts and the willingness to persevere as we try to complete our own path.  May our father’s life and vision help us through these uncertain times…

Although I haven’t put up a post in months, my mind has not been still.  I’ve been revising some of Allan Kurzberg’s theoretical notes and synthesizing them into The Theory of Us or An Alien’s Guide to Humans.  I find his system of postulates useful, especially in disproving The Three Lies.  Readers that would like to know more about the theory are referred to the Writer’s Corner in the category My Publications.

I hope to be able to explore many different topics in the months ahead.  Ours may be a troubled time, but the solutions to a number of our problems are close at hand.  I look forward to sharing with my followers my ideas and thoughts concerning an ever intriguing planetary existence.

Something To Think About: The Death Of Jose I. Tsup

Hindi Wala speaks about the death of Jose I. Tsup in Manila:  “This is KKRO reporter, Hindi Wala, bringing you world news from Los Angeles California.  While we endured some brutal wind gusts, in the Philippines, Friday the 13th proved its worth when thousands of Filipino women took to the streets, lamenting the death of their “hero”, Jose I. Tsup.  To be sure, Tsup’s death was not unexpected since he had been ailing for months.  However, the finality of it was more than many a female Filipino heart could bear.  After all, it was Tsup who had invented Tsup Tsup, a novel form of osculation that often seems to the uninformed more like an off-center collision between two unequal masses moving in opposite directions than an act of intimacy.  Story has it that one day Tsup was experimenting with his wife, Isabel, and that both of them were in a hurry to go to work.  Their lips bounced quickly off each other and the rest is history.

Donations may be made to the Philippine Society for the Promotion of Tsup Tsuping.

You heard it first on KKRO where we keep You in the Know!”

KKRO Reporter, Hindi Wala, Speaks About An Intergalactic Connection

A River Idyll And A Voice Dialogue

Along the banks of the river crawled a lizard.  It was olive green with a long tail.  Its eyes moved back and forth as if looking for something…

The river itself was an imposing force that demanded attention.  Its swift currents and mischievous eddies showed the stream was not to be taken lightly.

A keen eye could discern a scrap of raft near the beach, which was hanging on a willow.  The beach displayed an array of shiny pebbles, glittering in the sun.

Sometimes reeds would sway in a light breeze and blackberry bushes protruded from the quiet grass.

The ripples moved in expanding circles and a trout glided along the beckoning water.

 

A voice dialogue is a way to connect with the different parts of self, some of which are often ignored.  By revealing these voices, one can sometimes sense which ones are out of alignment, thus locating possible causes of emotional stress.  In the dialogue that follows, only one voice is identified.  What parts might the other four represent?

I.  “Well, here we are again.  Although it’s cool this morning, the weather is becoming splendid.”

V.  “A nice day to put your feet up and do nothing.”

III.  “You would say that.  With that attitude nothing would get accomplished.”

I.  “But a great deal was accomplished.  We read another twenty or so pages of the novel.”

V.  “Pretty boring if you ask me.”

III.  “But we didn’t ask you.  Perhaps, you should go to sleep, Sluggish, and let us do the work.”

V.  “I have as much right to be here as you do.  It was my suggestion that we listen to music when we took that ride last night.”

IV.  “We probably should have gotten out and walked to the river.”

I.  “But Sluggish is right.  The rest was needed.”

IV.  “But we will take a walk today.”

I.  “That’s our intention.”

II.  “Then perhaps we can learn more about operetta from the book we were reading.”

V.  “Oh, you and your books.”

I.  “I don’t want any arguments now.  Let’s settle down and go for that walk.”

Cello Player

                                                          CELLO PLAYER

A diffuse glow appears on the orchestra pit.

The music begins softly;  a faint, lilting melody rises…

Light slowly illuminates a tall girl playing the cello.

 

She plays the cello in total harmony.

Her body rhythm flows smoothly through brown hair and slim arms,

blending beautifully with the cello and escaping through the strings.

 

While she plays, my heart swings along her bow.

Sighing, the strings gently free the melody.

 

Hearing notes dance and leap,

tonal patterns bursting into stars,

her brown eyes ignite the music into a cosmic cry…

 

The chords slowly drift into empty space.

Her cello idles lazily at her shoulder.

She reduces the room to stillness.

 

So, too, I am reminded of my own rhythm.

In time, my strings will grow slack.

And I, too, must approach silence.

 

 

 

Some Thoughts About Scrapbooks, The New Year And Writing

My baby scrapbook, published by Richard G. Krueger, Inc. and designed by Ditzy in 1946. It was a gift from my godparents Aunt Jackie and Uncle Ralph.

My baby scrapbook, published by Richard G. Krueger, Inc. and designed by Ditzy in 1946. It was a gift from my godparents Aunt Jackie and Uncle Ralph.  At that time my name was “Rodger” Weiss, but was soon changed to Robert Weiss.

“Life may be a stage, but I wish I didn’t have a reserved seat!”–Uncle John from Aunt Jane’s Nieces by L. Frank Baum

Usually in the month of January I peruse my many scrapbooks.  I begin by looking at my baby scrapbook with its satin sheen cover and remarks about me by my mother, Twyla.  It takes me back to my childhood days of the 1950s, when people left their doors open, kids had vacant lots and piles of sand to play in, and lemonade stands were plentiful with lemonade one cent a cup.

However, time goes on and memories begin to fade as new memories take their place.  The almost unbearable slowness of  early childhood is exchanged for the almost unbearable speed of late adulthood.  And New Year follows New Year.  I think of lines by Robert Clairmont from Forever X:

When wrinkles cut your brow

And love goes gaily by,

Sing:  Young, old, tiny, tall,

Whatever happens, happens to all

When we leave this Odd Old Ball.

Indeed, this earth truly is an “odd old ball”.  Events follow events, triggering other events.

Like any mathematical curve, life has points that mark a change of direction.  Some of these points are obvious:  marriage, the birth of children, the loss of a beloved family member.  However, other points are not so obvious and I must admit that I envy Truman Burbank for he is able to “rewind” his life from the time he escaped his set up world to his birth.  Thus, he can see how certain events changed his thinking and further actions.  I am not so fortunate.  And when I look through old scrapbooks only pieces of experiences remain, so I have to reflect and guess at events that might have caused my life to shift dramatically.  Such critical points mark the essence of theater, novels and other writings where an author can juggle them and insert them where s/he wills.  Perhaps, that sense of power and completeness is what attracts us to literature.  The writer plays God just as Christoff does with Truman.  However, the individual must depend on his/her own wavering memories to try to understand the meaning of his/her life.

Crystal Spirit

 

CRYSTAL SPIRIT

 

Blue eyes hide a myriad of worlds.                                                                                                                                                                  Indian artifacts flow from nimble hands.                                                                                                                                                     Proud spirits of ancient chiefs keep watch.

She is a lady:  tall, noble, elegant.                                                                                                                                                                 She loves words, the magic of their sounds.                                                                                                                                             Colors are her joy:  red, blue, green…

A crystal of light shimmers                                                                                                                                                                         and traverses space on a cloud of thought.