Prompt: There's Beauty in It

There's a strange beauty in everything, I tell myself, but, realistically, it's more like almost everything.

Obvious Beauty
*stark spindly branches against an orange or blue or pink or grey or blazing white sky
*Muybridge's stills of a horse in motion
*any painting by Vincent Van Gogh

Subtle Beauty
*the pattern left behind from the staples and the remaining corners of papers on telephone poles
*19th century sidewalks in 21st century settings
*sounds of a piano being practiced, possibly badly, wafting from an open window

Challenging Beauty
*the sparkle affect of shatterproof glass on cracked, weedy pavement
*bleached out, naked trees (along 80 west between Davis and Dixon) juxtaposed against lush rows of a summer orchard
*a three-legged dog during the morning walk, carefully balanced, sniffing a bright yellow fire hydrant

Is it selfish to try to find beauty everywhere? Doing so helps to give, if not meaning, then some kind of order to this world, some kind of triumph against all odds, like the proverbial weed growing through the proverbial crack in the proverbial sidewalk. Sometimes beauty in the face of so much ugliness seems like the most meaningful "fuck you" to everything that oppresses and seeks to annihilate.

Prompt: Meanwhile back at the ranch

The funny farm

El Ranchero

ranch dressing

Ross cross Dress for Less

Less is More

More or Less

If horses were wishes

When you wish upon a star

Star crossed lovers

Sons and Lovers

My Three Sons

Third time's the charm

Prince Charming

Please don't squeeze the Charmin

Charmander, Peek-a-Chu, Pokemon, go away

Go away little girl

Johnny Mathis?

Meanwhile back at the ranch, she sat looking out the window at the rain, at the horses in the rain, more sleek than ever.

Meanwhile back at the ranch the grass was being shorn by a patchwork flock of goats, whose relentless ruminations were a quiet cacophony reminiscent of car wheels on a gravel road.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, our hero was nervously pacing between the barn and the silo, plotting his next decisive move.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, Jeremiah confronted his parents on the wisdom of naming him after an amphibian.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, as a group of writers hurriedly recorded their thoughts before reading them aloud, one alone amongst them sat perplexed, wondering if recording and then reciting a random stream of consciousness, some of it vaguely humorous, would be well-received.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, she wondered about so many things, too many to capture as they flew across her mind. Thoughts on self-love as a radical act, on kindness, contemplations of loneliness, of alienation, of the meaning of community, of what is important to us and can we change it in time to save ourselves. Thoughts on human nature and if it is ultimately what will save us or destroy us and really, does it even matter? All this to the rhythmic thrum of the rain, the rain, the rain coming down from the roof in ribbons and ropes of water because she'd neglected to clean out the gutters. They must be filled with leaves she thought as she stared out at the chestnut-colored horses in the falling rain.

Prompt: with love

My pencil just ran out of lead. I was afraid of that and look, it's happened. I'm writing with a pen which feels so permanent, so un-erasable. This all seems very symbolic, but nothing is permanent, even if it makes claims of indelibility. If I have learned anything in my 52 years here in this form, it is as the I Ching so poetically, like water, says and says again and again, that everything changes, nothing stays the same. Like the light at dawn, the light at noon and the light at dusk, we can expect the unexpected. We can measure all we like, with the most exacting of instruments, but even the best laid plans can come undone.

I thought about it on the way over here: I refuse to live in fear. What is far more essential is knowing that we are not alone. That our lives are connected in this room and around the world. And while we cannot predict what colors tomorrow's dawn or dusk will illuminate, know that wherever I am I will be thinking about you, and all the world, with love in my heart.

Prompt: out of the closet

On my way here I was thinking about what I'd like to write about, thoughts I never get to put on paper and so become vaporous wisps that float away before I get to really examine them.

I thought about what the meaning of a "mid-life crisis" really is. Is each "crisis" an individual affair or are they more general like something that can be described in a wikipedia entry?

I thought about a line in a pop song I heard the other day, something about sitting facing backwards on a train. The lyrics seemed so simple, yet so philosophical, as if the singer was reflecting on the past while moving forward. And now, I'm stuck a little wondering how to incorporate this prompt about closets, enclosures of things past, holders of memories, maybe secrets, definitely of items once deemed important enough to preserve.

We have three cats in one closet. None of them liked each other when they were alive, yet here they are together, huddled on a shelf. They're in little wooden boxes that we've meant to bury in the yard for years. In this closet there's also a retractable screen door we've never installed and a window made of three glass cubes, also never unpacked, along with a toolbox, spare random hardware and a jumble of containers I haven't opened in so many years I have no idea what they contain. Needless to say, I avoid opening that closet unless I'm in need of a nail or eyelet hook or tool of some sort. I'm relieved to admit that's probably the most heinous of our closets, but as I write this, I am imagining the others, none of which I would characterize as empty.

Is it possible that an antidote for a midlife crisis could include the purging of a closet? The cats would certainly appreciate being liberated to separate but equal corners of the yard. If anyone here knows someone who could use a screen door or a glass cube window, I am all ears. Just thinking about shedding these few things makes me feel that much more free, more light and out of the closet.

Prompt: unspecified, possibly poetry related

Fragment

Last night A recounted a story about a new discovery on the difference between dogs and wolves. Wolves, when given a test of their ability to solve a problem will continue to paw at their task unrelentingly, whereas dogs will make a valiant attempt or two and then, without fail, turn and look to the human administering the test as if to ask for assistance. On the basis of this evidence, scientists have concluded that wolves, the more tenacious of the test's subjects, are the more intelligent.

This morning I observed our dog, Leonard, as he watched my every move. Each of his glances seemed to call out something different: "when will we be going for that walk?" "how about breakfast sooner rather than later."

Prompt: When do you know it's finished?

When do you know it's finished? This really depends on what "it" is as so much in life is difficult to measure with any accuracy. Some "its" are things one initiates. Such as a work of creativity. In most of those cases, the answer can be very subjective. Even here there can be subcategories of the state of finished. Take for example a painting. If one is aiming for a realistic style, a finished product would look much like its subject matter as possible to have it appear satisfyingly complete. However, if one were more of an impressionist, a finished work is less definable and more up to the discretion of the artist. In the matter of food, one relies on taste but for better accuracy, a recipe can be consulted as to when to stop applying heat, adding spices, adjusting ratios. Other things are more definite. Many would say a book is finished when the last word on the last page has been read. Films are over when their credits roll.

I'm actually not finished yet with the writing of this -- I'm contemplating how you know other things are finished, such as a relationship: maybe when the phone stops ringing? Or is a meal finished once the dishes are cleared? But is anything ever really finished? Because when all is said and done, so to speak, we still, from time to time, will think about these past things, these people we have known, events attended. Long ago, I read in a book that in some cultures, the deceased are still believed to be alive until the last person who knew them has died and now I'm rambling but isn't this true for all that we know of this world? That so much lives on in our memories, in our hearts, even though it's long since been "finished"? Maybe things are truly finished only when there's no one left to remember that there was once a beginning and a middle.

Prompt: the toe nails of the yoga girl

I sat on the low wall and watched the circus of humanity. I was waiting for Zen so we could get lunch. Beautiful spring days like this tend to bring out even the most domestic. Take for example the couple at the table adjacent to me. They were arguing about the most insipid things, but they were doing so sublimely.

"Your socks," she began, "I really wouldn't have thought to wear them with that tie."

"Really?" he mused. "I hadn't considered color so much. You know I'd rather we used a fragrance free detergent."

We three continued facing the green. On it could be seen a stay-at-home daddy group, most of whom romped on the grass with their charges who screamed excitedly at being chased by the bearded zombies. Students commandeered the patio furniture, their textbooks splayed beside them as they smiled or scowled into their phones.

Off to the side and in the shade, I noticed a yoga girl. She was balancing on a bright pink mat in a "tree" pose and looked terribly serene, except for her toenails, which clashed with the mat. I was just pondering what the couple next to me may have had to say about her unfortunate polish choice, but just as they began to discuss it, Zen came round.

"How 'bout hotdogs?" Zen said. "I'm in the mood."