With interest, I read the SFWA announcement of Pamela Petro’s lecture at our monthly meeting. I catch part of the title of one of her books; focus on the words “Presence of Absence”.
I think, “How often have I been physically in one place but mentally in another?”
Yes, we can be in two places at the same time.
Yes, we all do it.
As kids, we perfect this skill watching the black arms on our classroom’s circular clock crawl toward the three and twelve.
And boy did we perfect the art of daydreaming.
And as I daydream, I question: Is the presence of absence an oxymoron?
You bet it is.
Then my brain jumps to other oxymorons, Simon and Garfunkel’s, “Sounds of Silence” and John Legend’s, “All of Me.”
I love Legend’s lyrics:
I love all your curves and all your edges
All your perfect imperfections.
So if you’re dying to live, and you don’t want to be absent from our presence, join us or you’ll miss Pamela Petro’s perfect imperfections.
Join us to hear Smith College’s own Pamela Petro speak about “The Long Field X-Ray’d – The Insider Story on How I Found the Skills and Guts to Write the Book” at the South Florida Writers Association’s monthly meeting on Saturday, May 4, 2024, Pinecrest Library, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., and on ZOOM, Login: 838 9971 8493.
Yes, every once in a while, even writers catch a lucky break.
Yes, we do have our serendipitous moments.
And to my surprise, one week ago serendipity hit me in the aisle of a CrackerBarrel.
You see, I’m the SFWA chairman of our joint 35th Anniversity, Howard Camner Poems Landing on the Moon Christmas party.
What an endeavor!
And one of my assignments is to look for stuff related to our theme, “The Moon.”
So I’m walking down that Cracker Barrel aisle and I find a display of moon-related stuff.
“Wow. How fortuitous,” I think and I wonder, “Was this display here because of the eclipse? Who knows?”
But as I examine the tchotchkes and a smile eclipses my face. My eyes spy upon a box of porcelain salt & pepper shakers.
Not your ordinary run of the mill shakers but ones shaped like the Earth, the Moon, a rocket, and an alien.
A blue and green earth which highlights the continents, a pink moon pockmarked with craters, a black and white rocket with one porthole and four fins and a scary red moon alien.
Before my eyes, Howard Camner’s miraculous story has been told in porcelain.
On Earth, Howard crafts his poems.
Then a rocket flies them to the Moon.
Where aliens read them and think that our SFWA member is one hell-of-a-poet.
I buy half of the box of these salt & pepper shakers:
As gifts for Howard and his wife;
As party favors for the folks that plan and run the event;
As door prizes;
As a prop for this story.
So my fellow writers and poets, remember no matter where you are, be on the lookout for
serendipity.
For she may inspire you to write a poem or a story that ends up on the surface of the Moon.
I am proud to say that this story was republished in Samuel Peralta’s Lunar Codex website.
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1920 silent horror movie, Wikimedia Commons (public domain)
I yell out the window, as if I have a role in Network, “Donald J. Trump is driving me crazy!”
And berserk.
And paranoid.
And completely out of my mind.
And with the election only 206 days away, that’s pretty, pretty scary.
And it’s not only me.
The Donald is driving my friends nuts.
I keep hearing them say, “That son-of-a-bitch is driving me fucking crazy.”
And I wonder, “Is he driving Joe crazy?” I hope not.
And I know from your comments on my blog, that you fear your descent into madness caused by our insane clown-faced buffoon.
I know you fear that the orange orangutan is trying to splice the mentally-ill gene into your DNA.
I know you love freedom and I know that Donald wants you institutionalized so you won’t be able to cast your vote for Joe.
Yup, The Donald, decked out in a clean white coat, is driving us all to his funny farm.
Yes, this deranged and demented ex-president is at the wheel of one of those white, Ford, mental health paddy wagons, with the words: Trump’s Funny Farm painted in orange on the side panels. And from within the ambulance, we hear the radio blaring out Napoleon XIV singing:
They´re coming to take me away, Haha, they´re coming to take me away, Ho ho, hee hee, ha ha, To the funny farm Where life is beautiful all the time And I´ll be happy to see Those nice young men In their clean white coats And they´re coming to take me AWAY, HA HAAAA
As Trump drives, you cry realizing, “We’re not going to lock him up, but rather, he’s gonna lock us away.”
A scary thought, isn’t it?
In the ambulance, Donald sings, “Insanity loves company.”
“But Donald, we don’t want to hang out with you,” we reply.
Especially not in your Trump-owned mental hospital. Where we’re forced to watch you greedily smelling, tasting and touching our Medicare dollars as they roll into your coffers.
An institution where your name appears in large gold letters which are secured in cement to the roof of the building.”
I know you’re imagining the name, Trump’s Home For The Mentally Ill and Residential Towers.
What an idea.
A Trump Tower housing folks unhinged by Donald Trump himself.
A tower where Fox News clips of the loser run for 24 hours a day which causes the inmates to foam at the mouth and howl at the moon.
I ask you good foaming and howling folks the following questions:
“How many of us, Democrats, have already been committed to mental health institutions because of the nut job’s words and actions?”
Is the National Center for Health Statistics keeping track of the numbers?
How many votes has Joe lost due to Trump Narcissistic, Sociopathic and Psychopathic Syndrome?
To no surprise, the Donald shows no remorse for our pain and suffering. The bully laughs at our weaknesses.
Causing me to wonder, “Can I sue the bastard for intentional infliction of crazy on me?”
And as Trump’s poll numbers tank, what other crazy things will this despotic, desperate, demon do to prevent us from voting?
Will he hawk pills, vaccines, food supplements, topical sprays and gummies claiming that they’ll give us longevity, when they’ll really cause us to sleep through election day.
I pause when I see a black and white yin yang painted across my brain. My brain whispers a secret, “Crazy is good, for we will be obsessed with voting, donating, canvassing and working for Joe to win.”
I smile, walk toward the window, open it and yell:
“Joe’s going to win! Joe’s going to win! We’re going to win!”
