One two three. Wonderful! It all looks NORMAL again. HALLELUJAH!

Can I type here? I am not finding the theme PICTURE in my blog, and there’s trouble with my computer now. Windows Installer tells me to install Photo Gallery again and to insert the appropriate CD, but I have no idea what that means. Do YOU?

The editor of a Springfield business monthly, who has been very good to me 11  of the past 12 months wrote me concerned I had given readers the wrong impression my my prosy H&Q yesterday. I clarified the point at Facebook, and after considering how not all readers are Facebook friends, I think it fair to clarify here as well.

If I didn’t work regularly for a stone fabricator, I would not be driving a borrowed pickup truck today instead of a 1986 Ford Escort with lousy brakes and a heapin’ helpin’ of other fallible mechanicals. I”ve certainly earned more in the last year or so than I would have earned substitute teaching, though I loved durn near every minute of that. During those eight years, I recited Vachel Lindsay’s poems whenever I could get one or two in edgewise and knowing enough to leave him alone when it would have disrupted the primary focus of my raison detre. You’d be amazed how little Vachel you get to recite from the showroom counter of a stone fabricator (DANGIT!) The owner of the place saved my bacon when I started working for him, loaning me the dollars to pay my property taxes and allowing me to keep the gas and electricity connected. But since he loaned me the truck, I have been lashed to his whimsy, tolerating a gradual growth of back pay due, knowing full well that if I press him for it the answer will be the same and also knowing that without the back pay and clear title to the truck,  a 1997 Chevy S-10 with a bare metal spot from paint burned off the top center of the hood and a list of incipient maladies growing every week . . . . I cannot find another employer. After five months of procrastinating, promising to bring in the title to the truck and literally giving it to me, he brought the title in Friday. I can’t afford to OWN the thing. I don’t make enough — with the pay schedule as it is — to afford the insurance and maintenance for the thing. We will resolve this impasse, I hope, after my mad rush to complete two article assignments by deadline.

Would YOU walk away from major back pay due and leave behind a pickup truck you don’t own, knowing that the next time you need groceries you will walk or take a CAB to the store?

Clarification: My H&Q post yesterday year was not intended to disparage ANYONE, or ANY PUBLICATION that carries my byline. If you see my name in publication, these are good people. They employ me with assignments that are manna when the other job is poopa. Everyone pays me on time — about a week after the articles appear — and one of them even invited me to their Christmas party.

If I could find a regular employer with heath benefits in the pay package, I’d chuck the fabricator and walk/cab/bike to work until I cold afford a car. I’d even chuck the back pay. My growing unhappiness with the daily office routine is not helping at all, but I will spare you details. It’s a bleeping Keystone Cops movie in hurried 20 to 40 second interfaces with the owner, dialogue sirened to me as though the apocalypse was was pulling into the parking lot . . . .and hours of quietude between. During that quietude I take care of the showroom first, and do what I can with poetry, journalism and aviation history the rest of the time. There are days when I am “all work, all the time,” and I’m okay with that. When the interfacing is sane and tempered, I’m as fulfilled with good business, good customers, challenges met and resolved . . . . as I am with a good poem.

Did I mention that the people who hire me to write are NOT my problem?

Okay. I just wanted to be sure.

Live long . . . . and proper.

Focused Frontally
by Job Conger
written 10:58 am, November 19, 2009

The coffee shop is not a playing field;
it is a stadium for ones and twos,
and our table of six,
watching the unfolding of
the explicit rationale
of those who have decided
to be where they are.

Everyone’s focused on books except
the chatty 22-year-old at the next table
on a cell phone,
tempering his voice
like a library supervisor
talking to a clerk at the checkout desk
when patrons are watching.

The polite decorum prevails:
fog over a harbor for
beverage imbibers and conversationalists
tempered, table-tennis lobs of words
to extend the volleys: forward- focused explorations
of truths on pages,  topped with caffeine,
hot chocolate with sweet whipped cream.

==============================
I write this during a 20-minute writing prompt at the November meeting of Poetry Parnassus in Springfield, Illinois. I’ve revised it a little since the first draft which I read to those gathered at the tables. What seems obvious to the six of us present as things happened is not so obvious to those who weren’t present November 19. I considered that when revising for readers who weren’t there. It made a better poem. The dichotomy of individuals playing individual “games” in a collective assembly of individuals and couples and our joined two tables of six hit me at first glance. There’s no common game played; it’s a stadium of many minds in motion . . . . and a wonderful place to be. Harmony of intent could have almost been sung.

Live long . . . . .  and proper.

It's Too Late Baby

There was a time when I wanted to get the hell out of the office at “work” to drive home, plunge into a fresh gallon of Carlo Rossi Burgundy or go almost right to bed to nap and sleep my rancor away. That time was about an hour and 20 minutes ago, and I’m taking no chances: after posting this at H&Q I’m doing BOTH.

There’s nothing to be gained by throwing rude epithets into this rant. I’m saving all that for my pending arrival at the gates of Hades where they will be more in syntax with the environs. It’s clear than what I thought was a workable, though inconsistent harmony with my employer — a deceitful charade from day one — with focus and practice and patience, could be worked into a relatively sane routine. I could not have been more wrong if I had “bet my money on a bob-tail nag” at “De Camptown Races.” And today I almost walked home from work.

I hate it when I have to compromise and short-shrift my career as a JOURNALIST (which readers all over the frikking WORLD, who have read my journalism, would conclude that I AM)  for an employer who owes me more than $3,000 and cannot tell me when he will pay me what he owes me while I wonder how I will find a REAL employer if I walk away from him and the only transportation I have: the truck he loaned me and can take back on a perverse whim.

Today I can no more work on my journalism assignments for the December issue than I can write a poem. Both require too much thinking, and I left my frikking brain on the coat rack when I came into the house with that fresh jug of Burgundy. At the check out lane at Shop ‘n Save today with groceries and a fresh GALLON of Burgundy,  I followed a destitute alcoholic through the checkout lane. I could tell from the condition of his hair, clothes, complexion, the crumbled $2.00 he handed the cashier, and the way he didn’t even sit the quart bottle up on its bottom; it just rolled down the moving rubber conveyor belt, who (in a general sense) he was. It shook me a little.  ME in a few months? No way,  Montague;  I don’t have it in me to last that go that far.

Saturday I’m not going to work. A friend asked me to pose (with clothes on and my guitar and my music and poetry) for a visual arts workshop. So I’m doing that instead of earning $40 at work: a sum I shall likely never see.

Monday I will go for a dental consult re my . . . . . . what? my Facebook profile? No, again, Montague; my emigrating teeth, emigrating out of my head and into my home office desk drawer. It will be a first visit to a gentleman with a Sterling reputation. I look forward to the visit. THEN I will finish one article for the journalism beat and continue working on the other. I will take the rest of the day off from work and all of Tuesday as well to WRITE. I’m due back at “work” Wednesday, and I suppose I will go.

Thank GOD I have an invitation to spend Thanksgiving with some friends.

I have some pictures to post at Facebook now, so I’ll sign off. Who knows? After unloading here and there, I may feel like foregoing the nap to just stay “un-prone” until after dinner and Charlie Rose. There’s plenty to do here, including posting that poem I promised. Who knows? It could happen. . . . .

Live long . . . . . and proper.

It was all thanks to happy coincidence. I had scheduled a 9:30 interview on Greenbriar for an article slated for the December business monthly. For the first time, Poetry Parnassus moved their monthly meeting from the fourth Thursday of the month to the third. Thursday four this month is Thanksgiving. When I exited a fine interview at 10:15, it was a short three blocks to Barnes & Noble, and I arrived as Anita and Mark had just arrived and were in motion to the coffeeshop.

There were just a few of us at first — Anita, Mark, and Kat, joined later by Jean and later still by Nancy. Anita lauched the daytime event which has gathered at three or four area venues over the last three years, and this was the second at Barnes etc. The coffeeshop was quiet in contrast to their October meet which, I’m told, was a challenge with very noisy background chatter by other coffee shop patrons. This day it was near-perfect quietude.

Since the early days, moderator Anita has passed out writing prompts at the start and those attending are encouraged to write a poem or initial thoughts as instructed in the prompts. We were given 20 minutes to see what we could do, and the time went fast with very little conversation among us, allowing us to concentrate on the task at hand. I was amazed. If attempted at another writers’ meeting, the idea would fly like a humpback whale, not that there’s anything wrong with humpback whales. And unlike “10 word challenges” which many local poets have enjoyed engaging, the writing prompts describe a circumstance and set a targeted direction for creatively engaging the mind; unlike the random 10 words from which participants create poems that use every one and as many other words as desired.

At the end of the 20 minutes, we were asked to read what we had written, fully understanding NO ONE would have “final product” after only 20 minutes of (in essence) extemporaneous writing. We understood that just writing thoughts that came to us as we responded would be fun in its own way, and might serve as the foundation or inspiration for a poem which could be created afterwards. Each read what we had created, and the variety of approaches was interesting and entertaining. I PRINTED (so I could read it, say, later in the day) a draft of a poem. How it came to the eyes and ears in the sharing at the table was educational and will help with a later draft I will write later today and post here at H&Q Friday.

After each “prompted” poem and assemblage of thoughts (tossed into a basket to be taken out later and evaluated for poem potential) had been shared, we went around the table reading poems we had written earlier in the month for this meeting: new poems; not repeats of what we had written and shared 18 times earlier at past poetry readings/recitals. I had made 10 copies of my recent poem “I Am No Friend of the Night,” and shared them. Most of the group had made copies to pass around, and we discussed every one leisurely, making suggestions and affirming things we liked. No poem received extreme lambasting, but constructive suggestions were shared without inhibition.

At the end we discussed the success of the recent major reading at Ginger Bistro and where to go from there. Then we all said our happy goodbyes.

It was a fine gathering, and when I can find another reason to take a Thursday off from Rock City, I shall surely attend again. In the meantime, I shall also create at least one new poem in the interim to share. The next Poetry Parnassus will  convene December 31. You don’t have to be a member of Springfield Poets and Writers to attend and participate.

Write well . . . . and properly.

Anita Stienstra, President of Springfield Poets and Writers writes . . . .

We moved PP up a week to this Thursday (tomorrow) because next week is Thanksgiving.

Poetry Parnassus
Thursday, November 19
10:30am
Barnes and Noble

Remember to bring copies of your poems. Attached is last month’s exercise for those interested.

Hope you can make it.

Anita
=============

Write well . . . . and properly.

I Am No Friend of the Night
by Job Conger

Past the windows, a wall of dark
impenetrable to my imagination;
uninviting: I am not required there.

I will not immerse myself
into the sparkling void
which teases hopes with hints of distant
unknowable life and conviviality.

In lingering memory
I hear the laughter of lovers
toasts to friends, from friends
dining ravenously on feasts
of fellowship and affirmation.
So long ago, there was a party . . . .
there was the sweet sanction
of gluttony, of ardent devotion,
anticipating no tomorrows
and unthreatened by them.

But now, the rude awakening
in solitude:
echoes untouchable,
in the quiet, undemanding
and senseless suffocation
by random consequence.

The filaments of artificial suns
permit illumination within my
introspection’s dark cocoon
from which I seek to rise
long hours hence.
Yet, even through my eyes, closed,
glare the truths in blazing harsh rebuke
for dreams of my own, abandoned,
dreams entrusted faithfully
to me by friends and lovers past denied,
the vengance from intentions
spurned and abaondoned, returned to
haunt my living soul.

I yearn for sleep
until the new dawn comes.
With its radiant gift
I will embrace the obligations of the day:
and I will breathe the fresh infusion
of duty, to life beyond myself
and I will wash away the dust
of darkness, the pointless uselessness
of dim retreat
of consuming my own incapacity
within my electric fortress
of stoic persistence
leading acquiescent me, numb, to bathe
and to emerge the man I want to be
when finally comes, restoring morning light
because, it seems, I am no friend of the night.

– written 10:35, November 15, 2009
===================================
Here is a first draft as I wrote it starting about 9:50 Sunday morning, November 15. Although I know I’ll revise it after I leave it along for a day after publishing it here, the poem is a victory for me, The phrase “I am no friend of the night” was a truth that came to me Saturday night. I was feeling pretty much as described in the poem after enjoying my time at the Illinois State Museum’s Collectors Day when I displayed many old airplane kits from my collection and talked with many good people about aviation history. I even sold a book after the event concluded. I was tired from being on my feet most of the day, so after unloading things and bringing it all into the house and down to the basement, I took a nap. I felt numb the rest of the evening, not wanting to read, build a model airplane, work on a poem, file aviation articles or put the kits I had displayed back where they belonged. There was nothing for me on TV after the 9:00 news on Fox. I piddled in the office, had a snack about midnight, read some of the newest The New Yorker which has a fab article about Pakistan by Seymour Hersch, and couldn’t even finish it. I KNEW I wanted to write a poem about me being “no friend of the night” as I took a final hit of Burgundy and went to bed, but I didn’t even feel I could produce a poem. I changed my mind after awakening at 6 am and with light beginning to come in through the windows I arose and had three hours of productive work int he basement. Then I came upstairs to work in the office. I decided to let the words “come to me” in a poem. I KNEW I had to write a POEM. Otherwise sharing the experience would be as jibber-jabbery as this post poem ramble. I knew a poem would concentrate what I wanted to say, if I just relaxed and wrote the poem.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

The phone rang about 6:30, 8:05, 8:40 and 9:30. It was the last thing I wanted to hear after a nutty day, and the only reason I know the phone rang at all is because I heard my taped voice respond on my answering machine over by the nearby bed a short trek from my living room. No messages were left, so I think I can rule out my brother passing away, but still, it was mud-smear on clean white slacks, capping a challenging day that began at 7 am.

I came home from Rock CIty in high spirits Friday with a broasted chicken and a fresh gallon of Carlo Rossi Burgundy — the most recent jug had lasted 15 days, a record, thanks to some nignts not having even a sip. I was out of sorts most of the day at work because I read a new book of poetry a distant friend had sent, asking for a review and exposure at my book review web site. I was depressed because after receiving the book and acknowledging receipt, in a letter sent to her earlier this week, I began READING it and was appalled to the point of private anger over the discongruity of the poems. The difference from “incongruity” as I define the terms is that incongruity I attribute to a writer being uninformed or mis-informed about elements including consistent upper case usage, use of periods and semi-colons (comma usage was okay throughout) and what appear excessive typos. Discongruity, to me, is when the abberrent usage of elements just noted appears deliberate AND inconsistent. I slogged through the book taking notes for the promised review. I promised the author I will read it three times before I write a review which I will send to her and probably not post at my review site. If I don’t like a book and can’t recommend it, I won’t review it to public readers. Yes, there are books I like, but can’t recommend and others I recommend but don’t like. After reading all 60 pages of poetry and taking notes, I poured my focus into designing and drafting a new customer information form at work, completed a long project of transcribing contact names, first showroom visit dates and phone numbers, and completed the daily report. I departed the premesis at 5:01.

Stopped by the grocer for the first time in almost two weeks, spent $33 and arrived home about 5:40. Started dinner and wine after things were put away in the kitchen and I changed pants.

Quartered a Golden Delicious apple and ate it as though I had made it myself. Today was the first time in my life (as an adult) I have brought home more than one fruit from a trip to the market. With the bag of apples came a bunch of bananas, a recent staple in the house. There have been decades of no fruit in the house, but ever since my time with “the rare and radiant” poet whom my heart has crowned “Lenore” I’ve been eating a more plant-blessed diet. Maybe that was Eve’s blessing to Adam: the gift of healthier eating. THEN I had half a chicken and more wine and crunchy Cheetos (I didn’t say it was a perfect meal.) and I was sawing logs in the easy chair under the flannel blanket when my answering machine awakened me for the first time.

I have three phones. The one here in my office hasn’t worked since I brought the computer back from the de-virus action at PC Doctor two weeks ago. The one by my bed, a cordless, a gift from a friend, rings at such a high pitch, that if the TV or radio is on, and I’m more than six feet from that phone, I can’t hear it. Phone three is in my big office in back of the house. That’s the one I can hear ringing if the TV isn’t too loud and I’m awake.

The timing of the rings suggested the same caller because no four people I know have ever tried to call me during the same WEEK, let alone evening. It’s not that I was too groggy or incapacitated to answer. During the first three plays, as the machine played my voice but recorded no message from the caller, I simply didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was m in my “old grouch” mode through the end of Bill Moyers Journal — fantastic show tonight as usual. If I had been closer to a phone I could have heard and picked up, I would have done that. In fact, I brought the cordless handset over to my easy chair soon after it rang the last time, so I COULD pick it up IF I HEARD it before the voice mail kicked in.

I prayed during the last few minutes of Moyers Journal that Charlie Rose would have a movie star or tennis player as guests so I could spend time in my office starting at 10 p and not in front of the television. I was in luck. He indroduced Warren Buffet for the hour. I like Warren Buffet because he can talk about anything, and his voice, pacing, attitude are all entertaining and I like the fellow. He reminds me of my father on a good day. I usually watch Rose’s interviews with him, but tonight I was not in a mood to have him glibly jabber about the world economy for an hour. The world economy, compared with my more urgent concerns, including the disintegration of my original teeth. I lurched into my office and posted a bummer of a status report at Facebook before lurching over to Honey and Quinine to post this.

If YOU tried to call me, please e me and explain. I want to talk with you, and I am not angry with anyone whose dust (metaphorically speaking) is not already permanently ensconced inthe “permafrost” of my perpetual disregard. If that’s how I feel about you, you probably already know it, and you’re not reading this jabber anyway.

I’ll return to the book of poetry Sunday, I suppose, to read it a second time, take some more notes and produce a review at work after reading it again early next week.

I once wrote advice to myself regarding the necessary propriety of maintaining control of one’s temper and desire for bitter recrimination. I live by it, and I hope you will consider it too . . . . . . You don’t lose it if you don’t let go.

Live long . . . . . and proper.