Colonel's Words

I have decided to create a new blog which won’t be any different save that it no longer requires me to tolerate the inconsistencies of Yahoo. Login was getting to be a problem since my domain is now under the Aabaco banner. Since Yahoo small business was where I had my website was changed to Aabaco small business, it has been a mess trying to navigate the different passwords and sites requirments. My blog, even though it is through WordPress, was, for lack of a better word, sponsored by Yahoo. So to divorce my blog from Yahoo/Aabaco, I decided to create a new blog which I intend to be a little more robust about posting new writings. You can find it here if I have migrated things correctly.

Thank you for your interest.

Colonel

It seems rather odd to me that the older I get the crazier my memory seems to behave. If I want to remember something like a name or place or event, it sometimes eludes me for the immediate moment. But at any other time, those facts readily present themselves with no hesitation. And without invitation. I can remember the most vivid details of anything that casually comes to mind, but trying to elaborate upon them once remembered is chasing smoke with a net. Some things just aren’t meant to be easy in the upper years of life I suppose. And some things have never been easy. Such is life.

There are days when I resolve to accomplish certain tasks only to find that Time has gotten ahead of my schedule. While I can’t say this isn’t due to a bit of  procrastination on my part, sometimes, it seems that other tasks often interfere. Things like the weather, work, eating and sleeping and, of course, the Internet. Even being semi-retired doesn’t seem to afford all the time needed for my list of endless things to be done. I always thought that when I was home more, I would get more accomplished. That part is true, but the list of things grows faster than the done list.

One of the things on that list is to write more (often). And yet, I have discovered that it must take a space further down the list than I would like. To write this little piece, I pushed off some household chores of which I am certain to find the time for later although I must confess most any excuse for doing them later would suffice. I can still see through the slightly dirty windows and the carpet surely won’t suffer if I vacuum it tomorrow. The garbage can is on the curb and the dishwasher loaded so actually I’m in decent shape. And I can thank the weather for having a valid excuse for not getting the grass cut.

I suppose it all comes down to deciding what’s most important in the moment. Life is all about time and how you choose to live in the time you have. And that is always your choice. But don’t take too much time deciding, because time is relentless.  

It has been a long time since I let my fingers pick and choose the letters on the keyboard to translate my haphazard thoughts into readable words. For a while, I was in doubt as to whether I would ever post again. Abruptly, last Summer, another rather dramatic event happened in my life that, while not unexpected, it did occur without preface or fanfare. Another end to another chapter in my sometimes wonderful life, and sometimes wretched life. It was this event that, although I accepted it, and attempted to move on, it hung like a shadow over my shoulder,a lingering nemesis to my self-worth. I am only blaming myself for causing it, and blame only myself for allowing it to instill such powerful feelings of inadequacy as regards to my writings and posts and my life. I could not summon the courage to begin writing again so deep was the pain. Many were the times when I desired to sit and gather my thoughts and express them, but felt I couldn’t as I allowed myself to feel unworthy of any attempt, much less feel I had something anyone else might be interested in reading. It all became so silly after a while. Still, the shadow persisted, perched in my mind like an evil conscience goading me into silence. My fault, all my fault I admitted.

So why now do I begin again? I decided, unofficially of course, months ago that I would start again only after I had been absent for a year. I reasoned that would give me the time and space to get in the habit of thinking again. Sounds silly, of course, but exceedingly to the point. For all practical purposes I had shut down (tried to ignore) any creative impulses and concentrated on doing nothing. That felt safe. But it also felt lousy. I need to create. Well, create is not the perfect or even accurate at best. I need to express and nurture the constant imagination that I cannot suppress. My imagination knows no limits, no taboos, no patterns rational or otherwise. It exists as I exist. Want an example: try not to allow a single thought to cross your mind for even as little as 5 seconds. Don’t even think about not thinking. Did you succeed? Ok, dead people don’t count.  Like my mind, my imagination won’t rest. Ever. However, harnessing that imagination is what I think I must try. So be patient. I can’t type as fast as I can think, nor remember as slow as I can type. It is about time I lived again.

It was a long night

Waiting in the cold of darkness.

I could hear

But not see.

I could feel

But not touch.

I could think

But not dream.

I could hope

But not be comforted.

I was only one with myself.

Slowly, nearly imperceptibly,

The light of the new morning

Infiltrated the darkness.

And the long night began it’s retreat.

As the shadows melded

And then faced a new direction.

The light of day preceded the leisurely rising Sun.

The darkness now gone,

It’s shift expired,

The cold and blindness vanished with it.

Night is the time we search our souls,

Seeking what we cannot find in the light of day.

Our pains and secrets,

Our fears and feelings,

Our hopes and our hearts,

They all seem less vulnerable

In dark of the night.

Yet, more the real.

There is no light to blind us,

No sound but our own.

The only thing we feel

Is ourself.

Our only hope is what we dream.

And of whom we dream.

And I, myself, I dream of you,

and you,

and me.

For in the dark grey of night

When dreams become our reality,

And we are all captives of our inner selves,

Until we wake,

Let us not fear the darkness.

Nor rejoice in its cocoon of peace.

For in as much as the morning sunshine pushes away the darkness

So will reality replace our dreams.

Line after line

The words never flow

Amidst all the thoughts I once held

all aglow

Do you see the craziness

That melds us to whole?

In a dark sky that’s painted with the countless stars

I reach for the moon

Again and again

Yet all I can touch

Is the cold night air

Someone touched me in my dreams

And the light chased them away

So I’m standing here facing the light of the day and,

Can you tell me again

and again

Why crazy fools love again

and again?

Maybe it’s time to go back to where I came

Before life became the only game

Warm and secure in perfect bliss

No one to love, no one to miss

No one to anger, no one at all

Except that I can’t

Because that’s a one shot deal.

Content I must be

To hide all that I feel

Lest the time that I have left betray me tonight.

How should this thought I cannot shape

Take it’s place among the days

Of I know not what or when

I’ll just write it again

and again,

and again

Until I hear my voice

Fall on a friend.

Crazy I am

But then crazy I have always been

To think I could make sense

Of what I feel.

“What was found was never lost.”

“And what was lost will never be found.”

I have begun writing this post many times. And each time, as soon as I touch the keyboard, my mind would register a blank. Thoroughly conceived and thought out, or so I tell myself, yet I have been unable to transfer it from my mind to the keyboard. As I begun to question the reason for this blockage, I slowly realized it was the powerful feelings in my heart that I had, that I hesitated to share. This comes more from my heart than my head and my mind has had a bit of trouble with the translation. So forgive me if it reads a little loose or doesn’t quite keep a continuity that makes sense to you, the reader and not me, the writer.

Years ago, many, many years ago, when I was first entering the early period of what is commonly known as adulthood, I learned what love meant to me. It was joyous, happy, deep, and overwhelming at times. Yet, it was also a burden of respect as I could not utter those three little words to a person without respecting what they meant; to me or to the person to whom I was speaking. Little did I realize at the time just how immense those words were. I was in love and oblivious to that fact. How very odd was it that I could be in love and not know it? But such was the relationship I was involved in at the time: it was carefree, simple, trusting, happy, fun and just plain wonderful without any reins or rules or obligations. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was until one day when I had to choose between respect and pleasure. I chose respect, and for the first time in my life, I knew what love meant to me. There are more words and phrases to define love than I could ever use, imagine, borrow, speak or write. But the ones that flash in my mind most, and you can jumble their order in any way you choose, are respect, humble, gracious, compassionate and unselfish. And yet on that special day, it was actions or lack of action that spoke the loud truth, not words; the actions screamed love like a frying pan up side the head. Outwardly, nothing appeared have taken place at all. In fact it was a few days before I came to my senses and let my eyes open up to see the light.

A short while later, a dumb bit of chiviaristic foolishness on my part led to a parting of the ways. The relationship ended. At least so I let myself believe. Forced myself to believe and accept. Well, mostly. I tucked that love away in my heart as though saving for a rainy day I knew would never come. I refused to give it up and yet, refused to let it see the light of hope.

But life goes on and I found love again, and married that new love. I have enjoyed that love’s blessings in the good times and fought to keep that love in the not so good times. I learned to share it with not just with my wife, but my family and my friends; to respect, to endure and to appreciate all that it meant and means to me and with those with whom I’ve shared love’s bounty through the years.

This is where it gets a little tricky and confusing.

From out of the distant past, a voice, a face, a love reappears. And it was exhilarating, exciting, wonderful, and ecstatically joyous. Through words and photographs alone, we met again. Both older, both wiser, both having learned more about the blessings and tragedy of love than we could have thought existed those many years ago when the two of us were closer. And nothing and everything has changed. We had both learned about marriage and children, and what it was like to love and marry that special someone; and how both wonderful and taxing a commitment it can be over the years. And we both learned that the love we found was never lost. But what we did lose, that special relationship, will never be found. Though our hearts never separated, our paths and choices in life did go separate ways. And we both know, learned, that they will never join again. So what we found was never lost, but what we lost will never be found.

Cherish your memories as that is all that is really ours to own.

There is a fine line between sane and insane. Or so I think. I do believe that on occasion the line becomes no longer a line at all. It is more of a blurry intermingling of the rational and irrational. It is where reality fades into dreams and our dreams no longer are dreams as they have become our reality. And they coexist, mingling together to suit our needs or wants of the moment. Do we know which is which? And do we still know who we are when this happens? 

Reality.

It faded into dreams

And the dreams became the new reality.

The dream

Planted with the seed of hope

It struggled to survive

Yet, I would not let it die.

I knew not how to admit

That it was merely a dream

So strong was it embedded

In my conscious life.

Time

It passed me by .

And tried to wave ‘Good Bye’

But I, being sane

Knew I was along for the ride.

And then the dream no longer was

For the dream became life

And life became hope

And Time

Time became yesterday and today. 

Insanity

That blessing in disguise,

Allowing all the feelings

I sheltered deep inside

To be my cozy comfort,

To be my sole companion,

A reliable friend and

All in a harmony

With my words and thoughts

Of how my dreams couldn’t possibly

Be for naught.

Yet at any given moment

Who’s to say that all is right?

Pierce the sky above the clouds

And you will find the night

In a constant friendly struggle

With all the stars light.

Would you be like me

Hiding your light

Waiting for the moment

To let it shine so bright

Yet, knowing in your sanity

It will never be

Was never meant to be.

There is only my shadow

That’s all and no more.

The fine line has sharpened

And which side am I on now?

I was asked about the title to my previous posting as it seemed to have little to do with the content of the post. Fair enough a question to warrant a small answer I suppose. I first began thinking about the idea that I really had forgotten to remember, somewhere along the timeline of my marriage, that my wife could be a constant source of surprise,(and many, many more adjectives only a dictionary might list), about three weeks ago; give or take a few days. There are those times when I get an idea that grows into a post immediately (that’s very rare), and other times, which is most of the time, forgotten and revisited only if something reminds me of it again. This was one of those ideas that began as a fleeting thought which didn’t flee very long. It was in reality several different independent thoughts that more or less collided one day as I was wandering around in my thoughts. Like burrs on a wool sock they stuck and wouldn’t let go. And over the course of the last three weeks a trend in that thinking began to take a distinctive turn into what I could no longer ignore so I finally sat down and let the words flow and got it posted. I do admit I wasn’t totally happy with what I had written as it seemed then and now, to be missing something. But I felt really compelled to write it and get it posted before I edited it to death and never got it posted. You could probably guess that there wasn’t a lot of editing I did beyond a spell check. When I try to edit what I write, it either becomes something other than originally intended or a polished awful and usually both. That is my humble opinion. I can read other peoples writing and notice all kinds of errors and awkward sentences, but my problem with editing my writing is that I’m not able to see my writing in any way but the way I write. As a consequence, I do very little editing for fear of changing it’s meaning and my style of writing. I suppose I am saying that I write the way I think, but don’t think about the way I write. Or I write what I think about; not think about what I write. Whichever or how much of those two sentences make the most sense to you is the recommended interpretation. And if you have read this far, you now know a bit about how to bring reality into confusion. I think, therefore, I am confused.    

One might suppose that after being married for 31 years and counting that I would know what my wife likes and dislikes. Yet, sitting with her at the breakfast table the other morning I discovered another thing to add to the list of things she doesn’t like. Upon learning this, I also realized how how our marriage mirrors our life. In life, somewhere along the way, we come to grasp the fact that we will never know everything and that everyday there is something we will learn that we didn’t know the day before. Be it a bit of trivial information, or an important detail to help complete the project of the day. Learning in life really has no planned itinerary unless we are studying specifically for a class or searching for a particular answer to a problem of which we are seeking a solution. After a while we may cease to think about it, our increasing knowledge,happening at all, but we will keep advancing our knowledge even while being blissfully ignorant of our doing so.

So, with that understanding, I think I had forgotten that with each new day of married life, I would continue to learn about my wife whether or not I was alert enough to realize it. I had progressed to the point that the only time I did become aware that I just learned something new about my wife, was when it became perhaps a less than astounding but more than the trivial run of the mill, ho-hum daily grind kind of stuff. If you don’t understand, well, you either have never been in a long, close relationship, like marriage, or, like me, you hadn’t taken the time to realize what you had been missing. Either way, there is hope if you follow my lead and repent now.

So, my marriage is like my life: each day is a new day to be lived and enjoyed. And from each day we can learn something if we pay the price of attention. And like life itself, some days married will be better enjoyed than others; some days will end, gratefully, with us still standing; and some days will just be another day that keeps us wondering what kind of day it really was. But all of them are found to be worth living and learning from as they form the basis for the days yet lived. 

And what did I learn at the breakfast table? My wife doesn’t like oatmeal with peaches and cream. 

Every year about this time, we have, most of us, taken a look over our calendar shoulders and noted what we did or didn’t do last year. We’ve seen our accomplishments, our failures and habits we comfortably wore as we settled into the daily routines we established for ourselves. Then there are those special events which merit a second appraisal and some of which were indeed life altering. There were two such events which occurred in my life last year which will affect me for the rest of my life. Totally unrelated, although they both affect my heart, each gave me reason to pause and look at my life’s past and to gaze into the future as far as imagination would allow.

It was one of these singular events which altered my life in several different ways and with a constant reminder in and of itself. This would be the pace maker implanted in my chest to keep my heart beating at an even tempo. More or less. From going to not knowing I needed one to waking up in the hospital and finding I had one was quite an ordeal from the mental standpoint. It punctuated the idea or fact that I was getting older and was no longer the same robust person I had always thought of myself.  It also reinforced the fact that life is short and getting shorter and that age can be quite a variable thing in life.  Getting the pacemaker didn’t change either of those things; it did bring them to the forefront of my thinking a bit more often, as in daily or even more often than that for a period, which gradually tapered off into just at least daily. Once I got over the shock of it, my thinking returned to a somewhat normal state. But each time I reach up and feel that bit of hard plastic nestled under the skin just below my left collarbone, two things come to mind: I’m not invincible or immortal, yet I feel like I have postponed the inevitable outcome to this life for a little longer than it may have been. I won’t get into the the debate that sentence could easily invoke. Not today.

As for the other event that involved my heart, let me just state that finding a piece of my heart that was lost for 40 years can certainly have an effect on my pulse rate, pace maker or no pace maker. I think it most definitely affected my heart and my life. And like the pace maker in my chest, it will always be close to my heart.

Walk softly through the fallen leaves

That multi colored carpet of Autumn.

Cast a glance up to the trees

Who now are bare before Winter’s cold wind.

Those leaves who once graced the trees with green

Now lay dried and crumbling beneath your feet.

And yet still the eyes enjoy their beauty.

It is odd, it seems, that in dying,

And discarded by the trees,

The leaves give yet another departing gift of joy

The memory of walking through the woods

Stirring feet mixing the colors

And hearing the leaves saying “Good-bye.”

As upon them, your footsteps softly walk away.

The park bench was a comfortable place to sit and rest if you were tired or weren’t staying long. Over time the wooden slats, anchored into the cast iron ends and feet, had become uneven. Although sturdily constructed, it had long ago surrendered most of it’s green paint and luster to usage and the elements. This seemed lost on the young man and woman sitting side by side, slightly angled towards facing each other. They didn’t seem to notice that it’s comfort had long since ceased or that the cold air in the early autumn evening was getting colder. Idle chatter about school and friends they knew dominated their attention as they strove to get to know each other. Their hands, no longer content to remain still on their laps now provided visual punctuation to their conversation. It was while the young woman was thus engaged in talking and motioning with her hands that the young man noticed them. While quite a bit smaller than his and very feminine, they were not dainty. Appearing smooth of skin, and looking a pale white, he thought to himself that they looked as strong as they did soft. Graceful would be a good word to describe them he thought.

The hours had passed and it was colder now. Even so, there was still much to be said and even more questions to be asked. Walking now up the quiet street, their conversation turned to the weather. It was a clear sky that easily made a beautiful backdrop for the almost full moon that showed itself between the gaps in the tall, barren oak trees that were so plentiful. When the young man commented on the cold, the reply he got from the young woman took him by surprise. Pausing momentarily to notice the playful gleam in her eyes, he couldn’t think of anything to say. If he was unsure of her meaning, he was even more unsure of himself. For seconds that seemed like an eternity, he stood wondering what, if anything he should do or say. Finally, without saying a word, he reached down and clasped one of her hands, kissed her and then continued their walk up the sidewalk, returning to a conversation that seemed to have little importance anymore. Their hands, once cold, were now warmed. There was even a slightly nervous sweat felt between them. Her hands were soft and strong he thought. And lovely to hold as well. And so began a wondrous new part in their relationship as from that time forward, holding hands brought them the quiet joy and assurance that only holding hands can bring.    

Have we forgotten

In the midst of growing old,

The things that meant so much to us

So very long ago?

The faces,

Those moments of the time

We loved so well.

Can we remember all that was said

Those hope filled thoughts and words

That guided our futures

Which is now our today?

Memories are but fleeting glimpses

Of whom we were,

But never who we became.

Keep your memories alive

Never tuck them away,

For they will keep us sane;

A salve to ease the pain

Of waking from our youthful dreams

And finding that today

Is not our dreams of yesterday.

There is a grapefruit tree in the back yards, it leaves a deep dark green. Its trunk and branches crooked and gnarled.  And among it’s many branches are grapefruit whose fruit inside the yellowish golden skin is a light pink and almost sweet to the taste. It still has the twang of a grapefruit, yet it has not the harshness usually associated with grapefruit. As I stood looking at the many grapefruit weighing the limbs down, I noticed one in particular that seemed to be different from all the others. It was still a grapefruit, and like all the others has the same basic appearance. Yet, there was something about it that seemed to separate it from the others. It was the one I wanted. I tried to reach it but it was just out of reach. No amount of effort would put it in my hands. Sadly, I realized that if I didn’t get it soon, it would be too late, for the opportunity would disappear and never be available again. I did try as much as I was able, but there were limits to what I could do. So I was reduced to admiring it from where I stood. And wondering what it would be like to have tasted it’s sweet fruit.

It reminded me that life is full of things like that prized grapefruit in that we would really like to have them, only to find that they are just out of reach. Some we are only able to admire and love from a distance, but never to have. Yet others may be ours only through persistent effort and patience and through the grace of God. Could I be happy or satisfied with the other grapefruit on that tree? Possibly, but for as long as that one special grapefruit remains on the tree, I won’t stop trying. That effort in itself is a gift to myself in that the willingness to persevere  keeps the hope alive that one day I just may succeed.     

There are two rose bushes in my yard, separated by a sidewalk. I do not know their names or variety. I do know they are most similar and yet quite different. A ‘rose is a rose’ may be correct as a species, but the variety of colours and blooms, sizes and shapes don’t give that statement  much credence in my limited experience. I have enjoyed roses since the first time I had the pleasure to smell a bloom, now so very many years ago. I have seen roses that spread to cover entire fences; roses that grew on a trellis stretching higher than 10 feet or more. I once grew a rose that bloomed almost year round (in Florida) with gorgeously vivid red blooms. (one of the Imperial varieties) At least until I trimmed it back to keep it from growing into the gutter and covering a window. It must have taken offense at loosing nearly half it’s growth, for it never bloomed again for over 3 years. But the two roses in my yard now are the topic, so I’ll return to them.

The one on the right grows tall and blooms frequently with a softly coloured yellow bloom. It’s stems are long and slender and have few thorns. Trimming it back only seems to make it grow faster and bloom more. It is a running rose, and without trimming it back, it would be well onto the roof by now. And though it’s fragrance is slight, it is still a perceptible delight to a nose as much as it’s bloom is pleasing to the eyes.

The rose on the left while growing not as tall, is thick stemmed and somewhat bushy with numerous wickedly sharp thorns. One cannot handle it’s stems without gloves and it requires exceedingly concentrated care when trimming or it will shred the careless skin that contacts it stems. It’s lovely orange red blooms are mildly fragrant requiring not a quick sniff, but a slow, deliberate inhalation to make the most of the moment. Frequent trimming of the decaying blooms hastens the rebirth of new blooms, but still at a much slower pace than that of it’s neighbor across the sidewalk.

Two roses, different in many ways, but sharing the common ground of beauty to please the eyes and scents that please the nose. So alike, yet so different.

I like to think that once in a while I write something that someone else may enjoy reading; that it may even give the impression of intelligence behind these tired blue eyes. Experience has taught me that that really depends on who reads what I write. Earlier, I was thinking about the time I first saw the stars in the sky. No, really saw the stars in all their glory. I was in summer camp in the mountains of north Georgia, away from city lights and any lights at all. Camped out in the woods, the evening was spent around the campfire listening to the camp counselors tales of woe and doom for those who would stray from the light of the campfire. Tales of men whose ghosts still haunted the woods looking for revenge they had yet to find. We were at once horrified and thrilled. And I can’t recall those words in that combination too many times since in my life. As the fire slowly consumed the the logs and burned to a dim glow under the blanket of ash it had created, I tired of sitting and lay back to continue listening to the macabre tales of lore in a more comfortable position. The stars. I had never seen the stars before. Oh, I had seen the night sky with the brightest stars pitted against the night sky. But I had never seen the stars like they were tonight. There were no gaps between the stars. No dark areas in the sky. The constellations I had seen from my back yard had suddenly been flooded with more stars than I thought could have existed. And all so clear. Even the faint galaxies could be seen painted against the dark canvas of the night sky. I don’t remember the stories told that night, or how cold it was even a few feet from the fire. But I do remember the fire of seeing all the stars in a night sky I had never seen before.

So, how do you describe the stars in the night sky to someone who has never seen them? I for one don’t know enough words to accomplish that task. My dictionary and thesaurus certainly are of no help in describing the at once complex and yet simple beauty of a night sky full of stars. It is something like love…you have to experience it to know it and even then, you can’t describe it.