More offerings from The Uncommon Citizen, who also seeks your offerings. Got something to say? A poem? Humor? Lemme have it and let's see what happens. You should be able to click on "post a comment" to do so. If that doesn't work, you can email me directly at davgg@comcast.net and I'll publish your offering. Meanwhile, here are some random thoughts from a wandering mind this week and some poems. Oh - and a couple of doodles; it's how I spend my time at meetings. (Just kidding, boss!)

Searching, searching, searching. Surfing, surfing, surfing. If he'd been born a thousand years ago would his name have been Bennett Serf?... Writing, writing, writing. But never wronging, wronging, wronging?... What if Daphne du Maurier's had written a story called "The Butterflies" instead of "The Birds"?... If you can't do it, can you still call it the "Can-Can"?... If my freedom to swing my arm stops where your nose begins, move your nose... Searching, searching, searching. Lurching, lurching, lurching... What is the sound of three hands clapping? Would a rose really smell as sweet if it were called a stench?... Over the river and through the fog...Take attendance and at ten dance... The hose owes much to the emptiness that fills it... Over and out, under and in, this is where  I think I'll begin .

U N T I T L E D

Poor dude, kids rude, someone booed;

   Feeling crude, coming unglued, sit and brood;

      Been hoodooed, outlook skewed, bad mood.

           I'm screwed.

                                        

                         

 

Welcome back! Here's the second offering from The Uncommon Citizen. The first is a short piece I wrote some years ago after taking an autumn walk along Alki Beach (in Seattle, for you out-of-state readers). The second is (I hope!) some humor. Let me hear from you. 

Well, we're having the most unbelievably gorgeous Fall I can remember in all the years I've been here.  Temperatures are in the 60s day after day with bright sun, clear skies . . . it's wonderful. (Bless you, El Nino!) The leaves are still getting into their Fall outfits but now they're contrasted against all this clear bright blue weather instead of the usual: November Gray alternating with Bright November Gray or, more often, Dull November Gray. The wind is herding the water shoreward, causing great rolling WHUMPS! of waves to resound off the concave sea wall.

On my right, a grassy patch. As I came closer I noticed the birds, great numbers of them, seagulls, crows and pigeons intermingled, more than I’d ever seen at one time. Many were on the ground, on the grassy patch, but large numbers also wheeled deliberately overhead. I was buzzed by two seagulls as I began to walk by. They glided within inches of my head (shades of "The Birds"!), close enough to read their eyes, if one could but read seagull.

As I got to the far end of the grassy patch I heard a ruckus and turned to see scores of birds squabbling over something on the grass. I looked closely but couldn’t see what was provoking the disturbance. The circling birds began descending to investigate whatever might be at the center of the squabble, but too late:  the birds on the ground were already flying off in great slow-whirling circles. The scene was repeated a short time later and then again after that. And still I could detect no cause for the birds’ excitement. The noise was astonishing.

Some people at a picnic table tried to laugh off the birds, but they were clearly non-plused. What to do? Leave? Try to drive them off? Feed them? They tried feeding the birds, which only added to the chaos. They made a few faint-hearted attempts to disperse them, then they left. The birds had driven them off! Shortly after that, the birds left. Strange.

It was a singular experience, marked by intense imagery. Strong contrasts between the heavy yellow sunlight coming down in front of me and the rummage sale assortment of greens in the grassy patch. Bird wings, beating into the sun, took on an incandescence, became highlighted shadows, numberless birds rising and falling on the wind, sun splashing through their wings, backlighting them like an Indian shadow-puppet theater. It was a beautiful, but strangely peculiar, moment in time, one that seemed to suspend briefly the rules of nature.

TRITE, OF THE SQUAD!

IN

"THE TURN OF THE PHRASE"

Putting his best foot forward, Sergeant Trite  of the Cliche Squad resolutely marched out to meet his destiny. "Time and tide await no man," he said to no one in particular, "I must strike while the iron is hot! Fortunately, I don't have too many irons in the fire."

This last, a little louder, caught the ear of Inspector Bromide. "Remember, Trite, it's best to look before you leap. Haste makes waste, you know."

"Truer words never were spoken, Inspector, but I always say, he who hesitates is lost. After all, we both know that a stitch in time saves nine." Taking some tobacco from a pouch, Sgt. Trite put that in his pipe and smoked it.

With a stiff upper lip, Inspector Bromide extended his hand to Trite. Shaking it firmly he said, "Best of luck, Trite. When you've found your man I'm sure you'll make him understand that crime doesn't pay."

"Thanks, Inspector. You can't keep a good man down, you know. I just hope I don't find myself up a creek without a paddle, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Good-bye, Inspector."

"Have a good day, Trite."

Then, with the shoe on the other foot, (it hurt less that way), Sgt. Trite of the Cliche Squad rode off into the sunset on his trusty steed.

THE TURN OF THE PHRASE – II

"Whoa, big fella!" Trite gently reined in his horse. "I see smoke and where there's smoke, there's fire."  Realizing that time was of the essence, Trite had pushed on through the night after leaving Inspector Bromide. Even though it was darker than the inside of a tar-papered coal bin at midnight, he had spared neither himself nor his horse. Now he was ready to spring the trap.

Trite dismounted and began to move forward. His years of experience had taught him that silence was golden and he proceeded as though walking on eggs. Pushing aside a last bit of foliage Trite stepped into a clearing. There, no more than a stone's throw away, lay the man he had been pursuing so relentlessly these many months: Black Bart!

"He's catching 40 winks, I see," Trite remarked softly to himself. "May the arms of Morpheus embrace him just a while longer, knock on wood."

Slowly but surely he closed the distance between them. Soon, he was but a few feet from Black Bart. Taking the bull by the horns, Trite called out, "Rise and shine, Black Bart! As always, the early bird gets the worm. You're under arrest!"

THE TURN OF THE PHRASE - THE END

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Inspector Bromide was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. "Where can Trite be?" he fumed as he paced worriedly to and fro. "That Black Bart is one tough hombre and Trite may have his hands full trying to bring him in. Hope he didn't bite off more than he can chew this time!"

"Never fear, Trite is here!" boomed out a familiar and hearty voice. "Better late than never, you know."

"Trite! You are a sight for sore eyes! Did you get your man?"

"The long arm of the law reached out and plucked him, Inspector," replied Trite. "It was like taking candy from a baby."

"Tell me how you did it, Trite," urged Inspector Bromide. "How were you ever able to get the drop on Black Bart?"

"There's more than one way to skin a cat, Inspector. But let's just say that winners never cheat, cheaters never win and patience is a virtue. It's curtains for Black Bart now!"

"Right you are, Trite. We'll lock him up and throw away the key."

"Well," yawned a weary Sergeant Trite, "I think I'll call it a day and hit the hay. By the way, Inspector, isn't there a reward for the capture of Black Bart?"

"Sorry, Trite. Virtue is its own reward."


(To be continued at a later date.)

W E L C O M E !

Am I an "uncommon citizen"? Of course I am, to the same extent as you and everyone else, which makes us all both unique and the same as everyone else. Curious, isn't it, this apparent paradox? But, then again, that's what this blog is about: the curious, the unique, the unusual. Whimsy and wonder. Essays and the esoteric. Poetry and puns. Thoughts, questions, answers, connections. My goal is ambitious: make "The Uncommon Citizen" the most interesting blog on the web. Granted, the world hasn't been waiting breathlessly (or waiting at all, for that matter) for my arrival on the scene, but that's okay. And note that I said "the most interesting"" and not "the most popular" or "the most quoted." As a matter of fact, if I can engage (or provoke) just a few of you and motivate you to engage (or provoke) me, in turn, I will have been successful. So think of this as an invitation to explore my world with an opportunity to invite me into yours via your opinions, thoughts, ideas, questions and answers, all published in the comments section. ("All," of course being subjective; the usual restrictions will apply.) Finally, I invite you to visit my other blog: "Double Exposure" about my experiences growing up as a teen in 1950s Mexico. You can find it at

www.dbl-exposure.blogspot.com.

When you get there, look at the tags on the left and click on “Dad’s suicide.” That’ll take you directly to the beginning. Then you can begin coming up for air at the top. And then check back here. Every Sunday morning, starting right now, I'll have a new post. Today: Bizarre TV, Three Poems, some humor. Enjoy.

Dave 

Before we got a satellite dish, I used to make it a habit to check out Channel 77, the public access channel. I was rewarded just often enough to make it worthwhile. (BF Skinner found that intermittent reinforcement is the hardest to extinguish.) Most of what aired was either boring (most of the religious programs, for example, which constitute a good portion of the programming), in a foreign language, or poorly produced. Often it was all three. Every now and then, however, something truly bizarre showed up. One day, for example, there was a thirty-minute broadcast of a sign propped on a chair. It said:

BUSH IS A PUNK-ASS BITCH

                           AND A BITCH-ASS PUNK

That was it, the whole show.

The “Goddess Kring” danced nude for half an hour late at night, reciting her poems to strange music and strange visual effects. She was also about thirty pounds overweight. Phillip Kroft’s “Political Playhouse” (which hasn’t aired in many years) was actually a pretty intelligent program, with relevant discussions. Admittedly, it was distracting that he and his guests were all naked. So were the camera operators. My friend John told me he once tuned in on a woman having her labia pierced.

The loony prize, though, goes to a show about conspiracies, called Closing the Circle. There were usually four people, three men and a woman. One of the men, an old guy, was naked, although you never fully saw him. Or saw him fully. These folks have bought into every conspiracy theory you’ve ever heard of, and dozens more they make up as they go along. Here’s a sampling:

• Radio frequencies can put out fires but the government doesn’t want us

to know this.

• Bush and Clinton have stolen from the American people, and deposited in

overseas banks, 27.5 trillion (not million, not billion, but trillion) dollars.

• You can buy through the internet some kind of miraculous, purified water. A woman friend of theirs lost her fingertip, soaked her finger in the liquid

and regenerated her finger.

• The Branch Davidians were murdered by the government in 1993 because

they knew too much. Their compound was right next to a small airport that

was used by “Buffalo Airlines”, a secret CIA airline, to bring drugs into the

country for Bush and Clinton. The Davidians were keeping track of the flights.

• Bella Abzug and Gloria Steinem were paid by the Rockefellers to create and

lead the women’s movement. This would get women out of the home and

weaken the children.

• The IRS is privately owned and none of our tax dollars come back to the

country. Instead, they all go to “the Windsors”. (Presumably the English

Windsors?)

Throughout all this is the paranoid theme of ”The government is out to get me. They’re spying on me, cheating me, bombarding me with microwave radiation, poisoning my food, rotting my brain.” They exhort viewers to “take back the government” and they make vague and silly threats: “You know who you are!” “We will put pressure on you!”

“We know what to do!” And so and so on. How does a mind ever slip to that point?

W E L C O M E !

Am I an "uncommon citizen"? Of course I am, to the same extent as you and everyone else, which makes us all both unique and the same as everyone else. Curious, isn't it, this apparent paradox? But, then again, that's what this blog is about: the curious, the unique, the unusual. Whimsy and wonder. Essays and the esoteric. Poetry and puns. Thoughts, questions, answers, connections. My goal is ambitious: make "The Uncommon Citizen" the most interesting blog on the web. Granted, the world hasn't been waiting breathlessly (or waiting at all, for that matter) for my arrival on the scene, but that's okay. And note that I said "the most interesting"" and not "the most popular" or "the most quoted." As a matter of fact, if I can engage (or provoke) just a few of you and motivate you to engage (or provoke) me, in turn, I will have been successful. So think of this as an invitation to explore my world with an opportunity to invite me into yours via your opinions, thoughts, ideas, questions and answers, all published in the comments section. ("All," of course being subjective; the usual restrictions will apply.) Finally, I invite you to visit my other blog: "Double Exposure" about my experiences growing up as a teen in 1950s Mexico. You can find it at

www.dbl-exposure.blogspot.com.

When you get there, look at the tags on the left and click on “Dad’s suicide.” That’ll take you directly to the beginning. Then you can begin coming up for air at the top. And then check back here. Every Sunday morning, starting right now, I'll have a new post. Today: Bizarre TV, Three Poems, some humor. Enjoy.

Dave 

Before we got a satellite dish, I used to make it a habit to check out Channel 77, the public access channel. I was rewarded just often enough to make it worthwhile. (BF Skinner found that intermittent reinforcement is the hardest to extinguish.) Most of what aired was either boring (most of the religious programs, for example, which constitute a good portion of the programming), in a foreign language, or poorly produced. Often it was all three. Every now and then, however, something truly bizarre showed up. One day, for example, there was a thirty-minute broadcast of a sign propped on a chair. It said:

BUSH IS A PUNK-ASS BITCH

                           AND A BITCH-ASS PUNK

That was it, the whole show.

The “Goddess Kring” danced nude for half an hour late at night, reciting her poems to strange music and strange visual effects. She was also about thirty pounds overweight. Phillip Kroft’s “Political Playhouse” (which hasn’t aired in many years) was actually a pretty intelligent program, with relevant discussions. Admittedly, it was distracting that he and his guests were all naked. So were the camera operators. My friend John told me he once tuned in on a woman having her labia pierced.

The loony prize, though, goes to a show about conspiracies, called Closing the Circle. There were usually four people, three men and a woman. One of the men, an old guy, was naked, although you never fully saw him. Or saw him fully. These folks have bought into every conspiracy theory you’ve ever heard of, and dozens more they make up as they go along. Here’s a sampling:

• Radio frequencies can put out fires but the government doesn’t want us

to know this.

• Bush and Clinton have stolen from the American people, and deposited in

overseas banks, 27.5 trillion (not million, not billion, but trillion) dollars.

• You can buy through the internet some kind of miraculous, purified water. A woman friend of theirs lost her fingertip, soaked her finger in the liquid

and regenerated her finger.

• The Branch Davidians were murdered by the government in 1993 because

they knew too much. Their compound was right next to a small airport that

was used by “Buffalo Airlines”, a secret CIA airline, to bring drugs into the

country for Bush and Clinton. The Davidians were keeping track of the flights.

• Bella Abzug and Gloria Steinem were paid by the Rockefellers to create and

lead the women’s movement. This would get women out of the home and

weaken the children.

• The IRS is privately owned and none of our tax dollars come back to the

country. Instead, they all go to “the Windsors”. (Presumably the English

Windsors?)

Throughout all this is the paranoid theme of ”The government is out to get me. They’re spying on me, cheating me, bombarding me with microwave radiation, poisoning my food, rotting my brain.” They exhort viewers to “take back the government” and they make vague and silly threats: “You know who you are!” “We will put pressure on you!”

“We know what to do!” And so and so on. How does a mind ever slip to that point?

T H R E E   P O E M S

Poetry is in the grain of the wood,

The lean of the fence,

The lilt of the voice.

It is no more hidden than my soul;

It is there for those who see.

               *  *  *

I am from the first time, from all time,

       And beyond.

I am from the first place, from every place,

       And beyond.

time and place are parallel lines that do meet.

       I am from there.

             *  *  *

              Is?

             'Tis!

L A U G H