I’d love to turn you on.

I saw the news today. I get my information from radio, eschewing papers and television. I heard about the tragedies in Boston late the afternoon of April 15 via phone text. Through the days that followed, I listened to my news source: NPR/KPLU affiliate. I saw no photos until things started showing up on Facebook.

I miss all that on purpose. I’ve no interest in witnessing carnage. My brain does a more than sufficient job presenting images. I don’t see violent movies; I’ve got enough of my own material on damage and mayhem.

What I saw today challenged my sensibilities: the image of a young handsome boy, sweet looking, eyes widened to the wonders of life. I did realize who he was before I read the caption but in one fleeting moment, he was just a boy.

I like to keep informed but I don’t want to see any more photos. Actually, I’d like to skip any more enlightenment on this subject all together.

We would be a much better world if this entire tragedy was analyzed and tried behind closed tight doors from this moment on.

The more attention to something the more power it possesses. That’s a fact.

A quick trial, bartering for information for no death penalty, and the promise of several decades in solitary confinement in an undisclosed location. No news coverage and no international attention. That’s rational and it’s also just.

Alan Dershowitz stated the obvious: “…he will want to put on a jihadist-type defense – I did it, I’m proud of it, I would do it again; I want you to kill me, I want to go to paradise.”

My humblest opinion begs for the cessation of news, photos, feelings, shock, anger… until an outcome. The less interest we show the less likely the perpetuation of evil.

Happy Birthday, Breeze

Yesterday Breeze turned 70; he was on my mind. It’s been ten years since I’ve seen him but I get periodic reports of sightings. Next January will mark twenty years since he became ill on a cold winter weekend. Those next three months we spent in hospitals; saving him, nourishing him, rebuilding him and rehabilitating him after skin grafts and amputations. He’d been a vibrant, jolly young fifty year old when he was diagnosed with meningitis and sepsis. The man I brought home in April '94 was old, deaf, completely disabled and mad as hell.

I miss him the most at Christmas time because he was the epitome of Holiday Spirit. Everything was a surprise and a giggle. No one loved to entertain quite as much as Breeze. Our parties, at any time of year, 4th of July to Easter, major, minor and sometimes completely contrived, were executed and planned weeks in advance. There was always a celebration on our pending calendar.

Family was important to Breeze because he’d never really had one of his own growing up. He gave the eulogy at my father’s service and for the next several years, made my mother a chief priority. That was sometimes a challenge for both as they didn’t always see eye to eye but he tolerated her sharp remarks. In turn, she softened and completely enjoyed his company, often accompanying him to Sonics, Seahawks and Mariners games and yelling right alongside when the games were on TV.

What happened to Breeze is terribly sad and when old friends conclude that he made some stupid decisions and totally messed up his life by plowing through his inheritance, forsaking most of his old buddies and consorting with undesirable people, I do point out that he didn’t ask to get sick.

When I talked to a good friend and doctor who had been on Breeze’s case from the beginning, seeking his advice when Breeze seemed to be spinning so far out of control that all the saving had been for naught, it was explained to me in unminced words how badly he was brain damaged, the multiple infections, the deprivation of oxygen for days on end. He was actually doing a lot better than the medical staff had predicted. He was just a little crazy.

The man I married has long been dead to me. The guy who came home from the hospital was a stranger. It’s been longer now that we’ve been apart than the seventeen years we were together. My home is full of reminders of our good life together and I’m glad we had it, short as it turned out to be. I hope he had a fine birthday, turning 70 yesterday and that he’s taking care of himself.

Dear Mr Julian Fellowes

Spoiler alert!!

Dear Mr Julian Fellowes,


Sunday night, the Oscars were on television, so we didn’t miss Downton Abbey as much as we might (even though Seth MacFarlane made it painful to regret.)

After somber meditation on the subject, I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to say goodnight to Carson, Mrs Hughes, Lord and Lady Grantham and the entourage. If I want to watch soap operas, I’ve got access to the best… in Spanish, no less.

For me, your ending was too contrived, Mr Fellowes. I can’t forget the sunlit backdrop in the hospital room after an early, yet otherwise uneventful delivery of the Crawley heir, Mummy and Daddy bursting with love and pride, followed shortly by the view of the one lane country road (always a good setting in English drama). Did you insist on the ghoulish scene of Matthew tossed into the leaves, blood pouring from his ear? Or was that someone from the writing team’s idea? Because that we could have easily done without. If you had to kill in him in a crash, a more subtle approach could have called for the scene to be left with the smiling image of the new father and savior of Downton Abbey, hair blowing in the breeze, happy as can be, rushing back to share news of the precious arrival. The unsuspecting milk truck barreling from the opposite direction would have left little to the imagination.

I truthfully thought Matthew would meet his demise in the Highlands, mistaken for an elk, this time the bullet doing the job it hadn’t been able to accomplish in Season 2. That would have been ironic; I'm afraid what you gave us was pulp. I’ll admit, the first time I saw that shiny new convertible, I didn’t like it. I knew it was more than a prop. It was a leading story line that was going to spell the demise of someone but I’d hoped you’d spare Matthew and find another exit, since we all knew Dan Stevens had demanded to be let out of his contract.

Now we can look forward to Mary Crawley growing bitterer day by day and eating poor sister Edith alive at the breakfast table. Edith, who will be living a life in sin with her editor, with no regrets, seeing what happens to people in the household who marry in proper fashion.

It’s all too predictable. I’d like to perhaps let those loveable characters live on in my literal mind as I last saw them: the family having their aristocratic summering in The Highlands with their servants deservedly frolicking at the fair. It may have been their last chance...as Carson ages, he’ll get crustier and downstairs will end up on lockdown.

Bates and Anna seem content; let’s allow them some happiness. O’Brien’s mischief is getting old (I roll my eyes and brace myself each time I see her lighting up in the yard); if you were going to kill anyone, it should have been her. Branson must remain in England, and overlording sheep will get quickly boring. The chance of an affair with one of the maids has been ruled out. There isn’t even any tension left in the homosexual advances of Thomas towards darling Jimmy.

Could it be that Violet is simply having a dream; will she wake up in the 21st Century with a remote slipping from her hand, admitting that, indeed, Downton Abbey is a watchable show?

Or will the writers who’ve replaced you while you’re seek lasting fame in Hollywood bring back the badly burned Patrick? He can fall in love with Mary… or maybe Tom? Now there’s a twist. We know he’s lurking in the wings somewhere. His departure was not final; he seemed to go away much too quietly. As I said, Bates and Anna seem content...who knows what other things are hidden in the evil past?

As much as I moan, you know I’ll be back for Season 4. I’d be a liar to pretend I wouldn't.

I wish you luck in Hollywood and don't let them lead you down any one-lane paths...


Discordantly yours,

Lady Dills

I have obviously fallen off the map for awhile. I’ve been busy with my two jobs and working on NOT, ACTUALLY, my novel about Robin, the pregnant teenage runaway in LA who marries the gay Brit so she can keep her baby (that she gives up for adoption and gets back again). There is a thread in there about her exposure to Scientology (in the early years) that is also quite eye-opening.


Since I am seeking employment again (the commute is killing me) I thought it would be a bright idea to post something current so I will be considered clever and valuable/ Right.

Perhaps I’ll get in the obligatory holiday post, so stay tuned. I refused to subject my readers to one more Black Friday entry of that tired old poem. I’m saving it for my anthology!

Thanks for reading.

The Crow

The prompt today is to write a poem in the style of Marianne Moore, with the suggestion of writing about an animal.





In a pink and yellow dawn,
          comes through the opening
                 in my silver lit window the koww koww,
metered and numbered echoes of the crow,
          who my wise father referred to as
                 Old Indians and taught his children to dutifully respect.

                             Crows hear frequencies lower than humans, which complicates study of their vocalizations and given man’s propensity to know and communicate with other species, at least to                    
understand them, frustration is the baffling consequence.

Crows keep secrets only crows can know.

Cherished by some for demolishing grasshopper eggs; worshiped for sparing crops, the flip side of this adulation is being called tricksters , thieves…they are humiliated, lied about, destroyed.

               Why then is it said crows are kind birds that feed their old and weakened parents?        Amusing that this           
old bird might be so blessed and fortunate.

Jackdaw,
raven,
corvid,
call him what you will.

To me he is liege.

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Openings and Closings

Tonight there will be no poem. I spent the evening with old friends in The White Horse Pub in Post Alley and laughed so hard I thought I might crack a rib. That's living. I was to write a poem about opening day. I missed opening day but we were quite good at closing night. And so I will meet you all tomorrow, and rise to a new challenge. Thanks, Tammy and Michelle, for an evening to remind me what I'm really doing here. Kiss. Hug. Happy poeting.

Azula's Blues

Today’s prompt is to write the blues. The traditional blues song is the 12-bar blues. Perhaps this will lead to an illustrious songwriting career. Ya think?
My blues is written from Zuzu’s POV. (She, once a jungle cat, now lives indoors. In an apartment. With a seven year old girlchild.)

Once I was a jungle cat, I lived life on the edge;
Say, once I was a jungle cat, living on the edge.
Now I chase dust balls from under the bed.

You know, I owned a neighborhood under the palms;
My neighborhood, yes, it was under the palms.
I was taken from my habitat like a melody from the song.

Siestas I was famous for, my dreaming it was deep;
I dreamed while I siesta’ed; my dreams, yes they were deep.
Now in this lackluster life, all I do is sleep.

I roamed around with lizards, scorpions and snakes;
Still the queen of the jungle, I’m not afraid of snakes.
You know, people, I’m a jungle kitty; I’ve got what it takes.

~~~growl~~~

So if you come to see me in apartment two-fifteen;
I invite you to visit me in number two-fifteen.
Hide your children and your money, beware of the jungle queen.

Other cats they know me, they could tell you of my legend;
Corridas sung about me, this cat is legendary.
I spit a mean hairball and I am quite contrary.

I’m Azula, singing my blues for you.
Yes, I am the mighty Zuzu, I sing the jungle blues;
My story is sad but true…ooh ooh ooh.

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