We're pre-assembled, is what I
think,
by Gods who had too much to drink.
We couldn't have
done worse, I submit,
with a do-it-yourself kit.
Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved
Great varieties of strange and wondrous musings germinate, grow, and mutate midst the hackneyed weed-thoughts in the gardens of my mind.
Relevance
I'm looking for relevance. Nothing
new there, lately.
My pulse, the whoosh of the blood, tells me I'm here, physically.
It's the “then what” question that's gotten hard to answer.
My pulse, the whoosh of the blood, tells me I'm here, physically.
It's the “then what” question that's gotten hard to answer.
Existence sans purpose is like a
train ride to nowhere—
taking an interminable journey for no reason and with no
destination.
taking an interminable journey for no reason and with no
destination.
The fickle winds of youth provide
fits of relevance—carry us
on the eddies and whirls of life toward the next undisclosed moment
—toward at least something—often with great expectations.
on the eddies and whirls of life toward the next undisclosed moment
—toward at least something—often with great expectations.
No pulse-checking when hours are
full, absent of despair,
when we're needed and have important things to do, even tomorrow.
But Empty Hours and Desperate Hours build gaudy neon signs to advertise and
incite my discontent—plunder my stash of purposes.
when we're needed and have important things to do, even tomorrow.
But Empty Hours and Desperate Hours build gaudy neon signs to advertise and
incite my discontent—plunder my stash of purposes.
Empty Hours and Desperate Hours are
twins with different aspects.
One vacates our allotted time—simply removes us from the hunt.
The other feigns nothing, skips all guile, tells us who we're not,
asks us why we're here, and yawns at its sedition.
One vacates our allotted time—simply removes us from the hunt.
The other feigns nothing, skips all guile, tells us who we're not,
asks us why we're here, and yawns at its sedition.
I hear the drumbeat from my
neighbor's party and wonder
why I'm not there. Would I be relevant if I were?
why I'm not there. Would I be relevant if I were?
Purpose in youth is built in,
privileged—a rudimentary function
of organic nature—if left undiminished by diminished others.
But youth is self indulgent by design; cannot anticipate what
it cannot imagine—cannot prepare us for the consequences
of unheeded self neglect—for the Twins' neon sign.
of organic nature—if left undiminished by diminished others.
But youth is self indulgent by design; cannot anticipate what
it cannot imagine—cannot prepare us for the consequences
of unheeded self neglect—for the Twins' neon sign.
The Twins don't cut deals—just remind us that nothing's a given.
A call from my progeny to see if I am still alive is a game
changer,
an unplanned visit a bewitching relevancy enhancer! To
talk about
anything with them turns off the cheeky sign for
awhile.
Ah, is that the author of these
words!
I felt relevant then, when they
needed me—when I needed them
for a purpose greater than the next breath of air. 32 years until
the second one hit 18—countless more, as it were, if and
whenever they needed me. It's a habit of core relevancy
that hooks us—undisputed, a commitment to nurture, protect,
teach, prepare—a natural addiction. It's about them.
for a purpose greater than the next breath of air. 32 years until
the second one hit 18—countless more, as it were, if and
whenever they needed me. It's a habit of core relevancy
that hooks us—undisputed, a commitment to nurture, protect,
teach, prepare—a natural addiction. It's about them.
And then ... as in a dream unfolding ...
Our roster of siblings and friends
gets short. In unguarded
moments we reach for the phone to call someone who will not,
cannot answer—who hasn't had a phone number for …
how long now?
In line at the super market I realize I don't know a single celebrity
on the magazine covers. I never read them anyway but I once knew
their names, knew they lived in my time, which meant I lived in theirs.
moments we reach for the phone to call someone who will not,
cannot answer—who hasn't had a phone number for …
how long now?
In line at the super market I realize I don't know a single celebrity
on the magazine covers. I never read them anyway but I once knew
their names, knew they lived in my time, which meant I lived in theirs.
Temporary! That's the word I neglected—should have embraced
so
the Twins couldn't ambush me ... challenge me with what,
of course, must be.
Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved
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