“All wrong.” Biff then added in Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. “The man didn’t know who he was.”
I can identity. Can you?
My quest is to unearth my dark side and my angst is serving me.
Some mornings I feel like my walk is over and other mornings I am just beginning.
I need to be Harry and to have Hermine, characters in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf.
Oh wait, I think my life’s partner was Hermine in an earlier life. Was I Harry?
This morning I finished writing a story for my monthly newspaper column in the Peterborough, NH Ledger-Transcript. It had to do with dragons. The dragons that appear in our midst challenging us to pass. For me writing is one of the keys to getting by them.
This afternoon I returned home from work and was spending some quality time on our back deck when I noticed a dragon fly floating in our dog’s water dish. The dragon didn’t look like he was taking a drink, but rather drowning. I had seen one before in this predicament, but not able to save it.
This one remained alive so I tried gently pouring out the water, but in the transition one of the wings bent back. I went inside and tore off a small slice of paper towel. Returning to the porch, I slid the towel toward the dragon-fly thinking I could I slide under it. The dragon grabbed on right away and held as I walked it to a nearby table.
As I sat in a chair watching I noticed its wings had returned to their proper place. Suddenly, the dragon fly fluttered them but didn’t go airborne. I watched hopefully as the dragon wiped its face.
After about five minutes, its wings beat rapidly and the dragon took to the air. As the dragon lifted over the roof of our house, I thought I heard it say something, but couldn’t catch what it was. No matter, now I know dragons talk. This should come in handy next time I want to get by one.
What makes home, home? After growing up in one place, I left home at seventeen never to return. In part because when I left so did my parents. I went off to college in Massachusetts and they moved to San Francisco from the Camden area of New Jersey. Once there, they made it their forever home.
This old tree has become part of me. We, twenty years living here, have enjoyed having it by our side.
We saw it survive winds and ice, enjoy heat and humidity, but now to save it requires major pruning. It might not be enough. Eighty years old we figure. It has seen so much, a youngster in the 1930’s.
Born years before us, it is time. I hope it does not hurt. I hope it understands. Trees falling apart are dangerous. They don’t mean to be.
“Where do I begin…on the heels of Rimbaud moving like a dancing bullet thru the secret streets of a hot New Jersey night filled with venom and wonder.” Bob Dylan, liner notes to Desire (1976)
High overhead on poles,
Illuminated a young lady
As she presented
A single tap
To a golf ball
Into forward motion.
By the beauty’s energy
The dimply sphere sparkled
In the same rays of light
Squadrons of bugs overhead.
I stood transfixed
Hoping for words
Beyond my imaginings
The New Jersey night
Into more permanent bliss.
© Copyright 2014 Robert B. Ritchie