Somewhere

Machu Pichu was somewhere we always intended to visit.
At left is daughter Candace.

SOMEWHERE
(Somewhere is the prompt from Sunday Scribblings)

Somewhere is a seeker’s word, a dreamer’s word, a Will-’o-the wisp. It is the siren song that lures one on but can never be reached. When the dream is achieved or the lost is found, somewhere loses its first five letters and is transmuted into here.

The old prospector knows that somewhere there is gold. Perhaps he is doomed to wander fruitlessly in search of it. But “Eureka!” He has found a trove of golden chips! He has found the mother lode! Now the gold isn’t somewhere. It is here, where he must face the reality of back-breaking labor in the heat of the day, of nights plagued with mosquitoes, with the details of filing his claim then protecting it with his rifle by his side. Somewhere was vague and dreamlike. Here is harsh fact.

The tiny lost child is somewhere. Her frantic parents search the neighborhood, imagine accident or abduction, call her name, finally find her weeping because she has lost her way. She is no longer somewhere, she is here, safe in the warm circle of her father’s arms.

Somewhere can be a terrible place. Somewhere in Africa a mother holds her skeletal babe who is dying of starvation. You know it is happening somewhere because you have seen the pictures. But for the volunteer who is on the scene, it is the dreadful here on a scale that defies his resources.

I once dreamt that somewhere there was a man whom I could love forever. He is no longer somewhere; he is here in this room, still asleep at this early morning hour. And where has somewhere gone? It must be somewhere else.

Vision (Sunday Scribblings)

THE GIFT OF WORDS

You say I have the gift of words.

Someday my words may fail me,
lost in a maze of neurons,
wells of words with no bucket to retrieve them;
or they may tangle on my tongue
like Hannah's yarn after her stroke
when she worried helplessly among her skeins and needles.

Gifts are for giving.

Thus I would bequeath to you a shimmer of words
when I no longer can order them into their patterns.
They will glint like breeze-tossed aspen leaves
or glimmer like showers in sunshine where each drop holds a rainbow.
They will be as numerous as stars, as facets of waves
as moments of our love
and fragrant like water touching parched earth.

They will hold bird song and wind song but, alas,

no Mozart,
no sonnets,
no meaning -

just their fragments.

I will scatter them at random on a fragile web
spangled with words and syllables like sequins
and toss it scarf-like over you.

This is my gift.

These computer images are my first attempts to create abstracts entirely on the computer. I hoped that they would look webby and amorphous rather than being a well defined composition.

Word Games (Sunday Scribblings)

MULTIPLICATIONS
I’ll admit it. I’m a word junkie. My favorite games are Scrabble and Boggle. I work and even create crossword puzzles. Beyond that, I love to play with individual words, twist them, slap them into new forms, wring them out for new meanings.

Whereas others may put themselves to sleep by counting sheep, I do so by counting the number of words that I can make from the letters of a single word chosen at random. I do mean at random. Sometimes I choose it by focusing on the spine of a book in my bookcase. Sometimes it just pops into my head. Sometimes I am frustrated, as when the word that popped into my head was Mississippi. Try as I might, I could only come up with the following words: sip, pips, pip, miss, sips, piss, pimp, pimps, imps, imp, simp (slang) and simps. When, as I sometimes do when I run out of other possibilities, I tried to compose something from these, it turned out to be indecent.

Last night the word for courting slumber was multiplications. I should explain my self-imposed rules. I only use letters to the extent that they occur in the original word. Therefore, from the word above, I could make action but not inaction, since the latter has two ns and multiplication has only one.

It put me to sleep last night, but not before the richness of its harvest imprinted itself on my mind to the extent that I expanded my word search into today. Then I tried to use the new words to compose a piece. What is it? Poem? Lecture? Diatribe? You decide.

Call up an atoll,
a tall atomic mist,
as small mutations cast a pall on millions.
Mull on impact , on implications
as an oil scion claims soil to tap for oil,
as compliant oilist toils to plant
panic imputations,
put out an illicit call-up to all,
to a son to sail into action
to implant on locals an unlocal plan,
to still complaints --
son lost at an action station
in pain to taint a soul,
slain in oil silt,
lain so still!
So still!

Oust a scamp!
Opt to call a recall poll!
A plain stipulation:
Stamp out atomic multiplication,
its toll on trust!
Cast out oil pacts!
Split past oil until
sun, not oil, can act!
Stop oil action,
its oil spill, oil spoil.

And to think that all this was found in that one word multiplications!

Yes, as you might guess from this, I have other obsessions: peace on earth, protection of the environment, world health and others. I’m sorry I couldn’t show my support of women by including a daughter as well as a son in this little piece. But she was not to be found in multiplications. Could it be that she prefers mathematics? If so, perhaps it’s because it has team items as its meat.

Yes, words can say things about themselves! I don’t know what this might mean in the case of Mississippi. I’ll skip New Orleans and the possible miss with a pimp. But I do remember a night in a motel on the Mississippi River when my husband and I bought bottled water so that, given the color of the water that flowed from our faucet, we didn’t have to sip piss from upstream!