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“Oh, look at that poor man!” Mother says, as she and we kids wait on the corner, scanning the horizon for the next bus. Mother is referring to an elderly slow-trekking man with a wooden walking cane. He’s wending his way through the side-walkers who are in front of the Bama Theatre here in Tuscaloosa, circa 1950.

We’ve occasionally missed the bus because we like to spend our time observing people and critters as they wade through their private lives on the streets of Tuscaloosa. It’s more interesting than any downtown parade, more fascinating because you can select which of  several simultaneous parades to enjoy.

There is the sidewalk parade passing by us bystanders.

Pedestrians, pets, strays, wheelchair-drivers, drunks, a beggar or two, all brush by each other following their personal destinies. 

There is the wheeled and pedaled and hoofed parade on the paved street.

This day, In 1950, there are still mule-drawn carts now and then, weaving bicyclers, motor scooters and cars and trucks and buses and service vehicles and even an occasional leftover WWII jeep, pieced-together jalopies and hot rods and some hand-pushed food carts.

There are the indoor lookers gazing out at the bystanders and the dual parades.

Men sit lathered in barber shop chairs, women sit in shoe shops, watching wistfully through the window while bored clerks grapple with their feet, secretaries on lunch break look down from upper-story offices, roofers with metal pails lean over to watch the ants below, movie theatre ticket booth teens stare selectively at their strolling dream hunks and pin-ups, a smiling police officer greets everybody by name…

Then there are the watchers sitting in parked cars, observing us all through rolled down windows.

Two kids in a back seat count the number of passing ladies’ hats, a passenger-seat woman refreshes her lipstick and checks out the shoe styles of other sapiens, one sweating man turns his back to the sidewalk, his head under the hood of a steaming car, one teenager lounges on the roof of a pickup truck, waiting for his father to return from city hall. 

There are the surprise paraders you don’t expect.

A man pokes his head up from a manhole in the center of the street and begins to struggle out. Driving drivers and the occupants of their vehicles gaze at the sidewalk parade, the bystanders and window-shoppers, the shadows of office workers near windows, all noting the milling behaviors on display in busy little T’town.

“Oh, my, look at her—isn’t she beautiful?” Mother exclaims about a smartly-dressed young woman, causing us to appreciate loveliness wherever it appears and the instant that it appears, as if each sighting could be the final one.

Back here in my home, many decades later, I realize that Mother’s gift to us kids is the gift of observation—more than that, the gift of appreciation—and the ability to find something special about everybody, even those every-bodies who don’t seem to deserve it. There’s always something.

Whenever I’m in an audience, I have the impulse to turn about and face that audience. I’d prefer to watch them watching the event than to watch the event itself. Even when I’m the event itself, I get a kick out of standing on stage talking or performing while secretly viewing the audience viewing me. They always have more to say than I. 

Wish I could take you back to the streets of Tuscaloosa back in the day, just for an hour. I think we would have a ton of fun watching the watching watchers

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/beautyisintheheart.mp3

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A few words about the beauty within mirrors.

Most mirrors around the house are poor reflections on me.

That is, the harder and longer I gaze at myself in a mirror, the less I know exactly how I look to others, let alone to myself.

Just replacing a light fixture in the bathroom can make all romanticized images disappear—suddenly I see myself at high wattage, bereft of subdued shadings. Holy mackerel, where did all those blemishes come from, whence came the additional wrinkles and bags, how did I transmogrify overnight into a large prune with extra-long nose hair and unkempt blotches? When did I seriously begin to consider laving myself with pancake makeup, essentially to airbrush reality away from all undesirable features?

The mere act of cleaning the bathroom mirror can have the same effect.

Being a literary type, I search for solace among great works of literature:

“Am I beautiful? I think it must be the rose.

My hair–it only weighs me down.

My eyes–I only see with them.

My lips–they only help me to speak.

Of what use is it to be beautiful?”

–Spoken by the robot Helena in R.U.R. by Karel Capek

Helena must have looked into the wrong mirror the morning she spoke those words.

I know that I am not beautiful, but could it be that somebody, somewhere, under unusual circumstances, might consider someone like me to be beautiful? Again, what do my favorite authors say?

“Has any psychological experiment yielded

a more delightful suggestion than this one:

that there is a part of the mind without ambition

or information, which nonetheless is expert on what is beautiful?”
–Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

I think I know what is beautiful, but how can I be sure that the red I see doesn’t come across as purple to you, that what I find repugnant might seem wonderful to you? I can’t see through your eyes.

As H.G. Wells once said, “Beauty is in the heart of the beholder.”

Karel, Kurt and H.G. are iconic literary figures, so, in the absence of any hard data concerning beauty, I must embrace their confusion and poetic ponderings. Must depend on the intrinsic and indefinable beauty that lurks here and there in great books…or in ornate mirrors…or in your heart

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Found this in my five-year-old Red Clay Diary. This is the way it was back then:

DAGWOOD FIXES BREAKFAST

First things first is what gets me through the morning ritual of preparing breakfast on Sunday morning. Breakfast usually comes late, since this is my sleeping-in day. Never been good at sleeping in, since my brain is always coming up with ideas and projects and guilts that I should be up and around and taking care of.

Anyhow, first things first. I descend the stairs to the hundred-year-old kitchen and begin the ritual–I should say, the ritual with variations, since it is boring, just doing things the same way all the time.

I pull clean coffeemaker parts out of the dishwasher and assemble them, making sure I dip caffeinated coffee into the little metal cup. I’m not a coffee drinker, but I am married to a world-class coffee drinker, and I’ve learned over a thirty-year period that they cannot be fooled. She will know whether I’ve filled that little metal cup with high-test or decaffeinated. My parents drink coffee, but we kids don’t. That’s because we really believe her when she tells us kids that drinking coffee will stunt our growth. The evidence is unarguable…Mother is right. I never achieve the height of a basketball player. Must have smelled too much of her coffee.

Once the brew is brewing and the milk is microwaving, I trot out to the yard to retrieve two newspapers, each hidden in creative places in bushes or behind bricks or in the street. The New York Times paper delivery-person throws one way, the Birmingham News deliveryperson throws another way, and they get creative at times.

Once I strip the papers of their wet plastic covers and ouchy rubber bands, I’m ready to pour the coffee and deliver the papers upstairs to my wife, who is always grateful for the effort.

Then, it’s back downstairs to prepare breakfast…excuse me, to fix breakfast.

I pull out my favorite frying pan, pull a couple of jumbo eggs from the refrigerator (excuse me…ice box), crack the first one open with two hands, then, bored already, try to crack the second one with one hand, like I’ve seen it done in the movies by macho actors. The yolk leaps into the air, splattering itself half on the counter and half into the sink, at which point I thank my lucky stars that no-one is watching. I slide another egg out of the ice box and do it right this time, beating both eggs with a metal whisk thing. I pull forth a spatula…excuse me, the (Chinese-translated) label says it’s a NYLON COOKING TURNER. Now I see it in a new way. By the way, it is “ideal for non-stick surface.” If the surface is truly non-stick, why would I need a spatula, er, NYLON COOKING TURNER?

Back when I am a kid, my job each evening is to clear off the dining table after everybody has eaten. I wait till Mother is in the kitchen, Daddy is reading the paper, and siblings Barbara and Ronny are doing their specific tasks (Ronny dries as Barbara washes), then I try to accomplish something my hero, Dagwood Bumstead, does so well. I try to clear the table in one trip. This requires stacking the dishes flat, placing aluminum utensils on top of the stack. With plates in one hand, I pile the serving dishes on the arm leading to the plate hand, place napkins and other detritus atop the plates, pick up five glasses in the other hand by sticking one finger in each glass and squeezing, and lifting anything else it is possible to lift in the crook of my elbow and under my arm. Sometimes, it actually works! A couple of times, everything comes crashing down, along with my sense of accomplishment. I now know why Mother started purchasing Melmac and other unbreakable dishes–if she is to have her kids do their chores, she’ll have to make it as safe and inexpensive as possible, since taking over all the chores herself is not an option, what with a new kid on the way.

While bacon is microwaving itself, I am heating up the skillet on the gas stove. Back when I am young, Mother’s gas stove has no pilot light–we have to strike a large wooden match and hold it to the gas burner until WHOOSH the fire appears. Then, I plop some butter–or what appears to be something that looks and smells like butter–into the heating pan. When I am young, our butter is oleomargarine that comes white and pasty in a sealed plastic bag with a red cherry-like dye in the middle. To make it look like butter, the bag has to be massaged till the dye spreads throughout, yellowing up the contents, as if this will fool us into thinking this is cow butter.

I drop some cheese bits into the cooking eggs and pull marmalade out of the ice box to spread on toast. When I am young, we can afford no toaster, so the sliced bread (light bread to you) has to be placed inside the oven and checked constantly till browned. And the marmalade or jelly always comes in glasses that can be used later.

Soon, some semblance of breakfast is ready. Since this is Sunday, I take care to select eating utensils that are not scarred by traumatic encounters with the garbage disposal, and I take the plate up to a beaming wife, who cooks 98 percent of our other meals, and my good deed is done for the day. Then, because nobody is looking–I’m downstairs and she is upstairs–I get to try for Dagwood’s record again. The kitchen is cleaned in one swell foop. Blondie will never know!

Now, if only I could learn to take sofa naps like Dagwood. Unfortunately, my Mother didn’t believe in naps, and neither do I. There are so many other records left to break–such as making the largest Dagwood sandwich possible, or avoiding collisions with the letter carrier. I have achieved at least one Dagwood aspiration. I no longer have dictatorial bosses.

Now, if I can only find Dagwood a good job

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/jessicdawngrammy.mp3

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BIG LITTLE THINGS TO BE GRATEFUL FOR

How can it be that so many years have passed since I entered the following in my Red Clay Diary? Seems like yesterday. Read on…

Jessica, all sixteen years and nine months of her, brakes her car in front of our Southside home just seconds after I pull up and stop in the parking place right in front of her.

She and her friend Dawn get out and strut their stuff.

Jessica has just bleached her beautiful red hair a lemony color, and she’s wearing some kind of gel to make the hair stand up not of its own accord. Dawn’s jet black hairdo is puffed up on top and longer in back, and they both wear the latest things that can be had at your friendly neighborhood thrift store.

I’m happy to see Jessica, because she’s the first granddaughter of a long line of grandkids, and I guess she’s taught me more about how to be (and not be) a grandfather than all six of the other grand kids—and sometimes, she’s enough of a handful to overshadow the other grand kids.

But that’s Jessica, you see. Jessica has always been an in-your-face kind of woman, a woman who’s liable to tell you what she thinks even when you wish she would pull her punches just a little. In the long run, I appreciate this ability of Jessica’s, the ability to tell the truth unexpectedly and the extra-added ability to lie when you wish she wouldn’t. This is how Jessica makes sensible her world, this truth-telling and truth-bending, this saying what you know is true but would rather not hear, this saying what isn’t quite true when you wish you knew the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. As a teenager, at this time in her life, Jessica is an artful dodger, but this is just her way of getting through the thicket on her terms. She has to keep you a little off-balance in order to maintain her balance.

Anyhow, Jessica and Dawn accompany me into the house, helping me carry loads of freshly-done laundry and newly-formed smiles to bring to her grandmother, Liz, whom she has called “Grammy” since she was able to talk. I’m “Poppy,” you know.

Grammy brightens up considerably when she sees Jessica. She always brightens up when she sees Jessica, Jessica being attached to her by an almost visible chain of experience and genetics.

Jessica sports her new lemon hair and we make all the necessary comments about it and about how it got all lemony, and then we get down to the business of eating and sipping and chatting about this and about that.

It’s a nice visit. Its significance is unfathomable, but it’s quite significant that, once Jessica got her license to drive and her own wheels, she started attempting to visit us more often. We need to see her, you know, just to be sure she’s still with us, still thinks of us, still needs to appear.

Jessica and Dawn head out of the house, full of coffee and laughs and expectations, headed for their next Southside adventure.

Grammy and I finish our soup. We reflect on the complications of simplicity. As always, we try to find a way to simplify the complications. Too often, we stumble and complicate the simple. We take our daily doses of friendly encounters and season them with whatever seems to work at the time, based on experience, skill, and just plain luck.

That’s how we get through the day—a chunk at a time. We don’t spend too much time looking back at what we should have done. We don’t dare look too far into the future for fear of actually seeing it (wouldn’t that be scary?). We try to focus on right now, right this moment. We try to appreciate the times we feel good. We try to see the sunny light reflecting off lemony hairdos. We try to wish real hard for peace and love for everybody, including us

That’s a long-ago entry in my Red Clay Diary. Just to update you, it’s gratifying to note that Jessica grew up, became even brighter, carries on her career full speed ahead, and still takes time now and then to drop by and show us how she’s doing these days.

Are we lucky, or what

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/mispronouncersoftheworld.mp3

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Can’t stop my brain.

That is, I can’t stop my brain from delving into realms best left undelved.

For instance, when I hear a word mispronounced, my instant impulse is to correct the mispronouncer. I hold my tongue when the mispronouncer is a casual acquaintance or a friend who doesn’t need to know better, but I feel free to correct any mispronouncer who is well-educated and well-paid and should know better.

When I hear a word misused or or misenunciated, I want to quickdraw my aural red pen and be helpfully enlightening to people who in reality don’t want my help and don’t appreciate my avidity.

So, all I can do is share my whimperings with you, the hapless reader of this note.

NPR announcer talks about unrest in Monty Video (monty-vid-DAY-oh to you and me). Montevideo.

Highly paid news reporter laments the muh-LEZ of the public (mah-LAZE to us-all). Malaise.

Customer asks whether I carry books by GO-eeth (GER-tuh or something like that to the semi-educated). Goethe.

And one chatterer clearly enunciates the word MORE-ass (muh-RASS to us pseudo-intellectuals). Morass.

Which reminds me that the late undearly departed Alabama icon George Wallace used to lambast all those SUE-dee-oh intellectuals (SUE-doe is the way it’s pronounced among us pseudeos). Pseudo-intellectuals.

How many ways have you heard Obama pronounced? (uh-BAMA, oh-BAH-muh, oh-BAMA, etc.)?

Worse still, is it ee-RAN, ee-RON, uh-RAN, uh-RON, eye-RAN, eye-RON? (ee-RON in Farsi, ee-RAN most likely everywhere else). Iran.

If you’re at a diner, it’s EYE-tal-yuhn dressing, elsewhere it might be eh-TAL-yuhn or ee-TAL-yuhn (eh-TAL-yuhn might be correct). Italian.

Depending on who’s on duty at WBHM, it’s DUBB-yuh bhm or DUB-ull-you bhm. Which would George DUBB-yuh approve of? Way back in the ol’ days of broadcasting, I was taught to say DUB-ull-you—and I still do. Thanks to Don Rollins and Joe Langston, two of my early mentors.

Maybe I should drink less coffee—no, wait, I don’t even drink coffee. Then why can’t I stop my brain

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Mother’s Day whizzed past on Sunday.

Sunday is gone, but Mother’s Day is still here.

I often think of my mom, even though she died in 1997.

In my Red Clay Diary, I archive memories of her.

Click below, then close your eyes for three minutes and meet my beautiful mom.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/audio/track21.asx

Thanks for listening

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/howisthatrealitythingworking.mp3

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“Doctor says to the patient, ‘You’re going to live to be eighty.’ Patient says, ‘I am eighty.’ Doctor says, ‘What did I tell you.?’” –Henny Youngman

Henny knew as well as you and I know, that reality—real reality—can be jolting. That’s why he kept on telling jokes and whistling past the graveyard.

That’s why we spend so much time distracting ourselves—facing stark reality 24/7 will wear you down and out.

One way we writers distract ourselves is by…writing. Yep, as long as my fingers are dancing the light fantastic on the keyboard, I am distracted and happy. Based on this slender metaphor, might that mean that prolific writers and other busy  artists are among the least happy folks on the planet? To keep their mood elevated they stay busy, reporting about the real world and their imagined worlds.

A few prolific writers come to mind—there are many more: H.G. Wells, whose creative output was more than that of Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare combined; E. Phillips Oppenheim, who wrote, at last count, 188 novels; Marilyn Ross (a pseudonym), who penned more than 400 books; Ned Buntline, who wrote about that many; Ray Bradbury, who wrote more than 700 stories; Isaac Asimov—didn’t he surpass the 500 mark? And so on.  You can google these folks and correct me at will. I just recall these figures from pre-google days.

How do we deflect reality?

I can only speak with authenticity about myself—after all, this message is all about me, isn’t it?

Here’s a random note I found in one of my diaries:

It’s all about me. But, then, me is you—and you and you and you. I can’t know what’s in your heart but, as I wish to touch your heart, I try to show what’s in my heart, assuming that once in a while your heart will feel something familiar, something empathic, and we can nod familiarly at each other, knowing that we both at times feel and share the same thing.

Imagination and distraction are necessary now and then, to fend off the harshness of living.

While everyone else is dancing fast to avoid the snarkies, we lone Creators get to remain calm. It’s so easy to be alone in a crowd. Nobody notices. The Invisible Artist can get away with things! Things like loving people without having to engage with them too much, things like taking improper ideas and making them into works of art—wouldn’t Stephen King be in prison if he had acted out his stories in real life? Wouldn’t Salvador Dali have been institutionalized if he had gone around melting down clocks?

Oh, well, just a coupla thoughts to share before I head back to my Den of Creativity, where I can write anything I dang well please and not even share it if I don’t dang well please

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/bestbookrevieweverr.mp3

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The best way to review a book is to really, really look at a book…really, really experience the book. Want to know one way this can be done? Read on. Think this is something not worth knowing? Oh, go ahead and read on anyhow—you might surprise yourself, and me.

Let’s pick a book at random. Hmm, here’s a copy of ROBINSON CRUSOE by Daniel Defoe. This particular title falls into that rare category of BOOKS THAT HAVE NEVER BEEN OUT OF PRINT, in this case for centuries. Something to think about: If a book has lasted this long and people are still attracted to it, there must be something about it worth experiencing. The test of time guarantees you will probably learn something delightful or frightening that you don’t already know.

Pick up the book. Well, it’s not as heavy as it appears. It’s a 1930′s reprint printed on pulpy, light paper. Sniff the paper. It kind of smells like a fragrant but intriguing old memory.

Look at the paper. Even though it’s aged, it’s only faintly tinted. The pages are still crisp and intact and ready to be read. Check the hardback cover. Nice. It looks practically new, which means someone has taken good care of it. The print size is large and easy to follow.

Look at the publishing information. For one thing, we learn that the actual title of the book is THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. If you do a little research you learn that this novel is based on an actual incident—there was a man marooned for years on a desert island who lived to tell about it!

Look: the book is illustrated by Frances Brundage, a very popular artist of the day who knew how to make you wish to turn the page and read further. And the publisher is Saalfield of Akron, Ohio, creator of many books for families and young people. CRUSOE, though action-packed, bloody and exciting, was always considered to be a tale for young people, as was HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain. It is fashionable to keep these titles in the youth section of bookshops, even though the themes are very adult.

Oh, and this particular edition of CRUSOE has a beautifully color-illustrated dust jacket, depicting Robinson in hand-made garb trudging along, musket at the ready, full-bearded and shaded by a handmade umbrella—long before sunscreen was invented.  The jacket also advertises other books that CRUSOE lovers might enjoy, such as BLACK BEAUTY, TREASURE ISLAND, PINOCCHIO, MOBY-DICK, ROBIN HOOD, KING ARTHUR…all still in print after generations.

Now, any good book detective will still examine this volume for other clues to its past—this being more exciting than treasure-hunting or metal detecting. If you examine old books carefully, you may come up with such things as love letters, pressed flowers, mustard stains, tobacco odor, old folding money, bills of laden, scribbled secret notes, beautiful bookmarks, matchbook covers, lapel pins, ticket stubs, etc., etc. It’s worth the search!

What about the genealogy of the book? Look for names written inside, dates jotted down, critical observations in the margins. This is like getting two books for the price of one!

Feel the texture of the pages as you turn them? This tactile act will become a part of your memory of the book. Not to mention your surroundings while reading. Look around and spot your favorite blankie, your cat, the stool you rest your feet on, that great painting you love so much, the dingy lampshade you keep meaning to replace…all this will stay with you, embedded in your sweet remembrance of great books past.

This concludes my book review, with one additional observation—take my word for it, ROBINSON CRUSOE is one heck of a good read and, unlike other reviewers, I will not spoil if for you by revealing anything else. You can grumble if you don’t like it, or you can re-read it on the assumption that you didn’t quite get it the first time. There’s something there to enjoy. Like treasure-hunting, you just have to keep digging and never, never give up

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/seriousclownsrailrideoff.mp3

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Once a year, the Serious Clowns converge upon Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories. This has been going on for decades. Sometimes I’m prepared, sometimes it slips my mind, this convergence of Serious Clowns.

The front door of the shop will chime and in straggles a sad-looking, faintly tattered young man, forlornly casting his gaze about the place as if searching for something specific.

I greet him and ask what I can help him find.

“Circus things?” he timidly answers and asks at the same time.

“Sure,” I say, relieved that I now know who he is. I lead him to a small bookcase wherein awaits circus programs, circus posters, circus books, circus circulars…all things circus that accumulate in this one place. He happily focuses on the trove and I leave him to his bliss.

He’s another clown from the travelling Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus, an annual visitor to town whose off-duty hours as a performer are filled with gentle obsessions, quiet probes for more circus paraphernalia to take with him on the circus train—his home for much of the year. Later in the day, other clowns in various states of sadness and seriousness and tatteredness amble into the shop, some remembering from years past where I keep the goodies, others, new at the trade, needing to ask. After the first one, I’m ready to help them. They are so easy to spot.

I enjoy these clowns. They remind me of my childhood generation’s zeal for all things circus, our certain knowledge that running away to join the circus would be the noblest and scariest thing we could possibly do. Because of the scary part, we never did it…but the dream never dies.

Scattered conversations with these clowns and the buddies they sometimes bring with them—animal trainers and acrobats and musicians—allow me to learn about the actual life of modern circus employees. Gone are the days of sawdust and canvas tents and disheveled elephants…but still present is the tramp-like life of living in a tiny train compartment, never settling down, missing out on life-long relationships, depending upon fellow travelers for friendship and support.

These clowns are sturdy survivors estranged from their roots, and I find them to be bright, sensitive and extremely serious about their comedic lives. They collect books on famous comedians, ephemera about carnivals and circuses…and they know their profession’s history very well.

Their visits remind me of one constant factor in my lifelong love of the past: everybody has a story, everybody has many stories, and those everybodies who get really lucky find a way to tell their stories in non-threatening ways. As any performer knows, it’s easier to tell stories to strangers than to family, friends and neighbors. And there are no repercussions when the audience goes home, or when you the performer ride away on the rails to another town.

Like the Lone Ranger, you can come to town, do your duty, make someone happier for a moment, then quickly leave before being punished for your good deeds. And, like the Lone Ranger, you can glance over at your companions and say, “Our job is done here!” And off you go in a cloud of dust, or rather a mist of diesel fuel and scattering gravel

(c) 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/coneofreticencemeets.mp3

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This afternoon, temporarily forced outside my zone of comfort (my Cone of Reticence), I spent two hours absorbing the creative poetry and energy of a roomful of high school students.

The teenagers had much to be passionate about—they each wrote and performed a three-minute poem inspired by Birmingham’s violent and bitter civil rights struggles of 1963 A.D., just half a century ago. They weren’t there when the conflicts occurred, but their empathy for the citizens who endured that era was immense. Loud and boisterous exclamations laced with whispers and sobs framed the afternoon, and nobody—nobody—left unmoved.

Their teachers can hardly be praised or compensated enough for the effort that continues to pour into these special classrooms, obviously classrooms where students are free to safely express themselves on the most disturbing of subjects.

I felt honored to be there, and I hope the librarians and teachers and family and friends who spent the afternoon with me felt this specific honor, too.

There are sanctuaries such as this everywhere in our land…sanctuaries where freedom of expression can thrive uncriticized, away from the prying eyes of those who are disturbed when emotional and unorderly feelings are verbalized. Small groups of people who literally believe in freedom and are unthreatened by its expression are our true heroes.

As Johann Lavater said, “Each particle of matter is an immensity; each leaf a world; each insect an inexplicable compendium.”

We are all immensities.

So be it. When the world twirls about another and another time, a hundred more poets will be born, another myriad will be forgotten. At least those of us who are aware that we are alive will be humbled, thus wizened, by the thought that there’s always another poet on the way to replace the one who is exiting. We just have to embrace and enjoy the poetic presence in our lives, in order to diffuse the furies and nurture the kindly meek

(c) 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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