[personal/blog] [writing/literature] 

I think of her as autumn,
whose hair recalls the shades of turning leaves
-but also of the way,
like leaves that fall in autumn's wake,
for her I do the same.

Just an impromptu rhyme that's gotten trapped in my head, in one form or another, over the past day and a half. Does it tell anyone anything?

 [writing/literature] 

Manahawkin,
on the way
to the shore;
sunny days

saw us walkin'
'cross the sand
-spread before
like all those plans.

Twilight talkin'
on the beach
-with our dreams
still within reach;

Manahawkin,
William Cook
Boulevard
makes me look

when I'm drivin'
by that way
can't help wonderin'
what became
-of you

Manahawkin
still remains
a sweet, sweet smile
in the bitter pain.

Manahawkin
was the way
to the seashore
on a sunny day.

My exclusive band of loyal readers may have noticed the absence of "Poetry Friday" recently. This was not an accidental omission; after almost a year of regular poetry posts on Fridays, I've grown a little tired of it, so I decided to only post poetry-related stuff when I was really inspired to do so, instead of on a specific schedule.

In the spirit of randomness, this is an original lyric from the private stash. The geographical reference of the poem will be familiar to certain people who know the Jersey shore areas well. It's something I've been knocking around for a little while now, and I'm probably not finished with it yet, but I felt like sharing something besides politics today.

[personal/blog]  [sociopolitical]  [stories]  [writing/literature] 

Tattered Coat has thoughts on several political causes and activities, both locally in Philadelphia, as well as nationally. Among these happenings, Matt laments the scaling back of Philadelphia's free library system, which includes not only fewer hours of operation at most branches, but also the eradication of qualified librarians at most branches.

Sure, some people may think anyone with a modicum of intelligence and interpersonal skill can fill a librarian's shoes, but consider the following recollection from my own experience at a local Borders store a couple years back:

I was looking for a copy of Charlotte's Web to give to one of my nieces as a gift. After looking through the sprawling children's section for a few minutes, I decided that it might be better to ask one of the customer assistance folks in that section for a little help.

I approached a fresh-faced young woman who was behind a computer station in the midst the children's material alcove. She was in the 18 to 20 range and had the look of one of those hip youngsters just quaint enough to be employed by a cool bookseller like Borders. Just as I approached, she was accosted by a young man about half her age, who asked her where he could find Around the World in Eighty Days. She asked the boy who wrote the book he was looking for. He didn't seem to be able to push the author's name to the tip of his tongue, so I chimed in the name of Jules Verne.

The book girl looked up at me, apparently surprised that a passing stranger would know such a thing. She then started typing into her computer workstation. A few brief seconds later, she informed the boy that Borders apparently didn't carry that book. Incredulous (not just me, but the inquiring boy as well), I leaned a little over her desk and quickly noticed why she couldn't find what the boy was seeking; she'd entered the words "Jewels Vern" as her search terms. I politely corrected her spelling and she proceeded to find that there were a whole bunch of different titles in stock that had been authored by this mysterious Verne fellow. She then pointed in the direction that the boy would have the most luck finding his book, and she turned to me.

She marveled at how I could know so much about books. Rather than say something to make her feel like a total idiot, I explained that I'd majored in English in college (a lie, but one told to spare her fragile, if naive, psyche). This made perfect sense to her, as she explained that she was only studying sociology. She thanked me for helping with the boy's book, and then she asked if she could help me find something. I gave a soft "no thanks" and went back to searching the children's section myself, not wanting to find out if she'd have similar trouble spelling E.B. White's name.

For days after, I wondered about the sorry state of professional bookselling, that we couldn't find college students familiar with names like Jules Verne to staff the information desks at major bookstores.

As if that wasn't bad enough, just imagine the horror that would have overwhelmed me if this episode had happened at the local library.

This isn't to condescend to anyone out there who would have been just as lost as the girl in the store, because to be honest, I grew up reading a lot of books; it's entirely possible I'd be more familiar with this information for that reason alone. The point isn't whether the typical person knows a lot about books, or even whether or not the typical person should. The point is that the person directing a city's knowledge-hungry youth around the local library should know at least this much.

And as Matt points out, in a city (and state) that sinks hundreds of millions of tax dollars into lavish pro sports complexes we should at least have few million lying around for something as socially redeeming as a decent public library system.

 [writing/literature] [movies] 

"O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman

Okay, this one should be fairly familiar, even for people who haven't seen Dead Poet's Society. It's still a good poem, and if you aren't familiar with it, even better.

Poetry Friday Saturday

[personal/blog]  [writing/literature] 

"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden

This is the long lost poem I've been searching for. I remember reading this poem in an American Lit class about a dozen years ago. Of course, I promptly forgot both the poem and the author, and I didn't rediscover them until I recalled the poem's theme just a few days ago (which led to a quick Google search).

This short poem serves as a reminder to me of how much more important it is to demonstrate our love by our actions, as opposed to the more popular, far easier practice of merely talking about how much we love our dear ones. I've mentioned this before in tribute to my father, but it bears repeating, as he's always been the kind of man to show his love for others by his actions more than by his words. I think that's why this poem stuck in the back of my mind for all those years.

[writing/literature] 

"Reflection" by Artie Van Why

More than simply writing this week's poetry selection, Artie Van Why also chronicled his experiences as a resident of New York City, and his firsthand experience of the events of September 11, 2001, at his website That Day in September. The poem, like much of what he shares in his story, is incredibly moving, and it serves as a poignant preface to his story, which you can read by clicking on the link for the poem.

[writing/literature] 

"Radio" by Laurel Blossom

[writing/literature] 

"True Love" by Robert Penn Warren

I like this one, another rhyme I've just barely discovered.

For those who never wander that far, I have a short list of poetic links on the smedley drafts home page, among them a link to the American Academy of Poets, where I found this week's poem. I recommend it for those interested in being introduced to a wide scope of poetry and writings about poetry.

[personal/blog]  [writing/literature] 

"I Measure Every Grief I Meet" by Emily Dickinson

I can't claim to have any depth of understanding of this poem. I've had a Dickinson volume in my collection for years, and only after stumbling on this at Poets.org did I even realize that I'd always had access to it but never actually read it in the book.

Having literally only discovered this poem within the last couple hours, I want to say I chose it specifically for the imagery it creates in my mind. I've always noticed people having things about which to be, well, sad. Any time I've ever noticed someone who might have had reason for sadness, I always wondered how it felt. I later learned to compare and contrast the sadness I perceived in other people with the memories or conditions in my own experience that made me saddest. This poem seemed to speak to that, just a little.

I know, not the brightest discourse, but I've always been curious that way -- I've always wanted to understand what other people thought and felt. It's probably as much a liability as anything else, but it does come in handy sometimes. It's probably as good a reason as any for why I've always been fascinated by personal writing, whether it be poetry or weblogs.

[writing/literature] 

"African Children" by Sarah Ruden

I just stumbled across this one, and it upended my original choice for this week's Poetry Friday, which I will, no doubt, dust off for a future Friday's offering. Sarah Ruden seems like an interesting contemporary poet, from my rudimentary research on her. She lives and writes in South Africa, though she's American by birth.

Of course, the feature of the above link that originally drove me to choose it was the audio link located below the poem's text. I always like to hear poems recited by their creators.

 [writing/literature] 

"New Year's Eve" Robert Service

Having gotten such a kick out of the last Robert Service poem I linked to for Poetry Friday, and with the title of this one fitting the day, this was an easy choice -- and another attempt to expose my readers to the work of an excellent American poet.

[personal/blog]  [music] [writing/literature] [sociopolitical] 

"When the flood calls
You have no home, you have no walls.
In the thunder crash
You're a thousand minds, within a flash.
Don't be afraid to cry at what you see..."
-Peter Gabriel

I've been a little numb on the writing side this week. It was supposed to be the ideal week to relax a little, start reading some new books, and maybe write something worth reading.

Then Sunday came. And I've been internally preoccupied ever since.

I did start in on some new reading material I received for Christmas, but I haven't gotten far with it. And the writing end of things has been stifled quite a bit by the oceanic events that have infiltrated the entire blogosphere, including this small corner of it. I don't mean to suggest that an event the magnitude of last Sunday's earthquake-induced tsunami belongs anywhere but on the front burner -- however, I seem to have been saturated to the point that I wish I could write intelligently about something, anything, else. And in the absence of a decent post without tsunami content, I wish I could have written something more profound about it, as Steve did in yesterday's post. At the very least, I'd like to publicly thank my brother-in-law for filling in a bit yesterday.

The quote at the head of this post is from a Peter Gabriel song called "Here Comes the Flood", which I've had in my CD collection for about ten years. It floats back into my head every time I hear news of any kind of water-related tragedy, from the flooding that seems to periodically trouble the Midwestern U.S. to hurricanes in the Caribbean to things like the tsunami that has led to the perpetually rising body count in Southeast Asia. The tone of the song is quiet, slow and sad. I've appreciated the song over the last decade or so, the way that a tragic song could only be appreciated by someone with no realistic frame of reference on the tragedy being described.

I sometimes wonder if there isn't something cheap about my vicarious experience through such a sad song. I have not even the most remote idea what it is to flee the crashing waves. Most of us have no idea of it, as most of us, even this short distance from lower Manhattan, have no clue what horror was experienced by those who died, or even those who narrowly escaped the falling towers.

But sympathy, even as it falls far short of true empathy, is better than callous disregard, is it not? That's the question I've held silently these past few days, as I notice how many people are literally oblivious to the worldwide news from this past weekend. Some of the same people no doubt would have thought of people in the middle east as callous or even hostile to not express sympathy for the U.S. in the wake September 11.

My point is not to draw any blatantly apples-and-oranges comparisons, but to note how we tend to think our tragedies more tragic than those that happen on the other side of the world. Causes aside, the deaths of tens of thousands (close to 70,000 at last count I received) can not be considered anything less than supremely, profoundly, tragic. But many of us here in the U.S. are still oblivious to it.

The rest of us just wish we could be.

A Christmas Carol poem by G.K.Chesterton

Well, it is the day before, and it is a poem... and I do have at least a few visitors who'd appreciate a good Chesterton reference, right?

I just came across this entry at Rishon Rishon, many thanks to Bene Diction for the heads-up. I'd never had much insight into the background of Steven Den Beste's retirement from the legendary essay blog USS Clueless, but the aforementioned Rishon Rishon post casts some informative light on the subject by cataloging some comments from Den Beste himself. This comment collection was an eye-opener for me, and I'm a little bit sadder for having read it, but as someone who was challenged many times by his writing, I have a renewed sense of appreciation for his work.

For anyone who appreciates fine analytical essays who isn't already familiar with the name Steven Den Beste, I'd say you missed out. I would say you missed out, but apparently you haven't yet. As a result of skimming the Rishon Rishon entry I linked at the top of this post, I was prompted to once again visit the old USS Clueless page, where I discovered that Den Beste has made his writings from the site available in a zip file for anyone who's inclined to download them. I have, in fact, just finished downloading the file for myself. I know there are other folks out there who would be inclined to do the same; I'm just trying to make sure they know about it.

Thanks again SDB.

"Life" by Lord Bacon

"Richard Corey" by Edwin Arlington Robinson

-this poem is linked, at least in my memory with another Robinson poem, "Miniver Cheevy" (which I linked to a couple weeks ago). We studied the two poems side by side, with our teacher using "Miniver Cheevy" as a cautionary tale about those who complain too much based on the wrong criteria. This poem was the one about how even those with outwardly glamorous lives can be profoundly sad on the inside.

"The Song of Despair" by Pablo Neruda
(translated by W.S. Merwin)

I am relatively new to Neruda's poetry. I'll confess that the only thing that made me search him out at the local bookstore was the use of some of his lines in a film called The Motorcycle Diaries, which I recently saw, and enjoyed. For some reason, every time I see a foreign language film with subtitles, or for that matter, a foreign language poem translated to English, I wish I could enjoy it in its original language. Reading Neruda's poems makes me want to brush up on my long-since eroded Spanish skills.

"I like the sound of my own voice
I didn't give anyone else a choice..."
-U2

Well, it seems I forgot something when I posted last. The one-year anniversary of this blog (at least the portion that managed to avoid accidental erasure) was on November 28. Someone once said that 90% of new blogs fail within the first year, or was that independent restaurants? I'll just apply it to blogs, since it does seem there are many that don't make it past a certain point -- a point that I'm fairly sure coincides with the blogger losing interest. I suppose it's something like the fate of a new toy. Other bloggers, like my Jayhawk friend from the Ratlands, suffer from having too much real-life obligation I think; or perhaps it's that people like me suffer from an inexplicable knack for finding too much time to write.

In looking around at some of the mainstays of my usual blog rounds, I notice that most of the blogs that seem to persist are those that are about something other than just being a blog. In other words, the medium is not the message. There are many weblogs out there for which the medium is an end to itself, and most of them (I assume) are short-lived. I think people like me (assuming such people exist) keep adding to these online train wrecks we call blogs because, at least in our own minds, we have something to say. I will concede that I have drifted into the realm of absolute drivel on occasion, and I'm sure some might even think I live there. But the point is that people who push on tend to be those for whom a purpose exists, and I would contend that this is true of many other sorts of efforts as well.

For me, the real drug is writing. About what? Doesn't really matter, as long as it's something that seems interesting to me. My first regular reading in the blogosphere was over at the Ratlands, and I have often lamented, whether to myself or to whoever reads this, that I wish he wrote more often. He and I both seem to lament that someone like Steven den Beste isn't still writing -- I always wanted to sound so well-reasoned and articulate, but I write in fits primarily, and I can almost always see the restlessness in it when I'm done. I wonder at times if it's as obvious to other people.

I am a small, small fish in a gigantic pond, and I am quite happy to be so. I think I always imagined this as an out-of-the-way spot on the internet, resigned to reaching a handful of occasional passersby. On the other hand, I have been pleasantly surprised to realize my traffic is a bit heavier than I ever thought it would be. I guess there's something to be said for longevity, if one year is actually any kind of benchmark.

So, to wrap up the gratuity of this late anniversary post, I humbly thank those who have linked to me, those who have stopped in, and anyone who's graced me with feedback over the past year.

Hope you'll keep coming back.

"Miniver Cheevy" by Edwin Arlington Robinson

-a poem that I first studied in junior high or high school, about how we sometimes obsess over and over-romanticize the good old days.

Writer's block and the best policy

It seems the only words I've been able to write the last couple days have been academically motivated.

I actually have many topics on which to opine right now, but nothing I try to put down, on the screen or on paper, is coming out the way I'd like. It's starting to bug me a little. And then there's this:

Someone recently told me s/he didn't want to tell me something because I'm too sensitive, and s/he didn't think I could handle it. Or maybe it was more that s/he didn't feel capable of handling my response to what needed to be said. It's the second time recently (in the past week) that someone has tried to explain not saying something that should have been said; one instance was personal, one was professional, and in both instances, I've been much more annoyed by people not giving me the truth than by learning of the truth they tried to withhold. The personal instance is more troubling than the professional one, if only because I'd like to thing people I let into my inner circle would be more trusting than that.

I'm not sure if that makes any sense, but it seems to be a recurring theme, and it always irritates me that people underestimate me in this way. I actually could handle the truth, if only somebody was willing to offer it.

"The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert W. Service

This one is newly discovered to me, but I like it a lot. It reads well as a sort of story, which is fitting, since that's exactly what it's telling.

Burning

This fire is more than able
to put me in my place,
sheltered by the angel
dancing in the flames.
This closure isn't stable;
this answer isn't straight,
as fires of burning hazel
are spitting in my face.

And I would play the savior
if you asked me to;
I'd become a martyr
just like lovers do;
I won't beg compassion
that I can't deserve;
I won't feign contrition
just to join the herd.

These masquerading fables
betray our better selves,
tempting bitter angels
to leave us in our hell.
These times of lies and labels
keep begging me to stray,
but fires of burning hazel
are standing in the way.

---

This is my first original Poetry Friday offering since mid-August. It was added to the "about a girl" page of the poetry index earlier this week, and the timing of placing it here today has to do with making sure a certain someone sees it without having to look too strenuously.

Poetry writing has been painfully slow for me lately, and this one is the first addition to the index in a couple months (several others have been written, re-written, and deleted or balled up and thrown in the trash). A while back I described a certain pair of uniquely-colored eyes as containing "fires of burning hazel" and then I told the same person that I would really like to write a poem using that line. Well, the first few dozen drafts were strained attempts at something more patently romantic, but what I ended up with was this rhyme, which to me, is actually more romantic than the first many incarnations of it were. I guess it's just a little poem about the pieces in our lives that provide comfort, stability and motivation in a world that does so much to drain us of those things -- which doesn't necessarily gush romance for most people. So consider it more along the lines of "Dover Beach", if that helps.

(an impromptu story)

I stepped up to the counter, 9:15 on a Saturday night. Not having eaten since early that morning, I was unusually hungry, and I probably should have been somewhere other than the local McDonald's with the kind of hunger I was feeling. But I was in a little bit of a hurry, with less than a half-hour until I was supposed to meet a couple friends at the local cineplex.
The girl behind the register was unusually pleasant. At least that's what I thought on my first glance, so I greeted her smile with as much of a pleasant tone as I could find. I ordered my food, she recited the cash total to me, after which I handed her a ten. She informed me that she was out of fives, but that she happened to have a two dollar bill, in case I didn't want all singles for my change. I told her that was fine. Then she gave me my change and my order, and I sat down to eat for about ten minutes.

While I was finishing my food, she made her rounds in the dining area, wiping off table tops. She was at the table next to mine and she asked how I was. I said, "Fine, and you?"

"I'm good. What would bring you to a fast food restaurant alone on a Saturday night -- if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm on my way to meet some friends, but I'm starving a little too, so here I am."

"Oh, what are you gonna' do with your friends?" she asked.

"We're gonna' see a movie," I answered.

"Which one?" At this point she may have sensed herself intruding a little too much, and she continued by disclaiming her curiosity, "Oh, you know what? You don't have to tell me your whole life's story -- I didn't mean to pry..."

"No, it's okay," I responded, because it really was okay with me if she wanted to keep talking. I was actually enjoying the attention, and to be honest, she was very attractive and I had no personal reason not to flirt with her a little bit. I went on, "We'll probably see some stupid comedy, you know, the kind that's best enjoyed with people whose company you can enjoy even if the movie sucks."

At this point, I noticed her name tag, and unsure how to pronounce the name, I asked, "Your name, U-M-E -- how do you say it?"

"Oh, just say 'you' and 'may' together quickly, and you'll pretty much have it nailed," she explained.

To confirm her pronunciation lesson, I repeated it for her,"So it's 'you-may', right?"

"Exactly," she smiled back. "What's your name?"

"Oh, I'm Bill," and almost unconsciously, this response was followed by my outstretched hand, which she promptly shook.

"Well, Bill, it's really nice to meet you, but I should probably get back to real work before my boss thinks I'm harassing patrons."

"Okay. It was nice to meet you."

Then she paused and turned back to me before walking away, "Do you want my number?"

I was slightly surprised at this question, but extremely pleased also, "Um, sure..."

"Here, I've got a pen," she pulled one of those blue and white BIC's with the four different ink colors from behind her ear (I hadn't noticed it before that point, probably because it had been obscured by her long, dark hair. "Do you have a piece of paper? A receipt or something?"

I didn't have one, of course, and before I could put even that much into words, she said, "You still have that paper money from the change I gave you. How about the two dollar bill? That way you'll be less likely to accidentally spend it." She winked as she said the word "accidentally", and she went on, "Besides, I always see phone numbers on money, especially working at a cash register, but I've never actually written my phone number on money before -- so this could be a first for me." She said this smiling, as she reached her hand out, presumably for some paper money on which to write.

I fumbled into my wallet for the same worn two dollar bill she'd given me earlier. I handed it to her, she took it and scrawled her name and phone number on it, folded it, handed it back to me, and smiled. Then she walked away.

I left the restaurant, feeling quite full of myself, having extracted a beautiful girl's phone number without any forward effort on my part, and I went to meet my friends at the theater. The movie, as I had half suspected, was bad, the company was good, and all night, I couldn't shake thoughts of my encounter with the inexplicably pleasant girl whose number graced the two dollar bill in my wallet.

I managed to wait all of a day and a half before calling that number, at which point I was somewhat relieved that she actually answered the phone. Upon realizing who was calling, she expressed mock anger that I didn't call her sooner, closely followed by a brief burst of laughter.

We spent a good bit of time together over the next few months. During that time I learned a lot about her, like the fact that she wasn't a local girl, but rather a college student who'd be going home at the end of the current semester. Knowing this probably kept me from enjoying her company as much as I might have, but still, I enjoyed the time immensely.

She explained that "Ume" wasn't her real name, but it was what people called her. She tried to explain the meaning of the name to me. Apparently it was a somewhat informal name, and of foreign origin to boot, so the explanation was imprecise to a certain extent. As best I can recall, it meant that she was like a pleasant dream that was easy to forget -- or something like that. The pleasant dream part made perfect sense, though I remember wondering how she could be thought of as forgettable in any way.

In the time since, though, I've noted to myself how I still remember her with extreme fondness, but I do find it harder to remember details about her -- whether it be her face, her playful smirk, the way her eyes made a modest squint whenever her expression turned to smiling or laughter.

And maybe this gradual amnesia regarding the details has been helped by the fact that I have no photographic evidence whatsoever that she was ever here; that was the one strange piece of the whole experience to me, that she didn't like having her picture taken. Whenever I asked her about this, she expressed such displeasure with her own appearance that I was always left dumbfounded. I wondered exactly how she could have maintained such a positive persona while having such a poor view of herself. I never saw whatever it was that made her feel this way about herself, but for the most part, if I avoided talking about her appearance, she seemed able to ignore the topic as well. And aside from that, I rarely found her to be anything less than infectiously spirited.

But it's been so long now since I've seen her or heard her voice, I have to confess that she has come to perfectly fit what she told me about her name.

And from that reverie I shift back to reality, where I find myself pulling up to a deserted turnpike toll booth at about three in the morning. The toll is $1.75, and I fumble through my wallet to find the cash for the toll.

"How you doin' tonight, champ?" The collector greets me in gruff but friendly voice.

"Fine, and you?" I'm tired, but I extend the banter as I hand him the ticket and the cash.

"Peachy -- hey, a two dollar bill! I haven't seen one o' these in a while. And look -- somebody wrote a name and number on it. I should call, maybe she's cute..."

"She is," I respond, "but she doesn't live there anymore."

"Oh, ain't that a shame. Well, have yourself a good night there."

"You too," I say as I drive away, leaving behind the last piece of physical evidence of a pleasant, but fading dream.

"Mentor" by Timothy Murphy

"A politician next door swore he'd set the Washington Arena on fire;
Thinks he'll gladiate them, but they're gonna make him a liar.
He's a good ol' boy who was born and raised in the buckle o' the Bible Belt
Just remember when you step into your voting booth
He'll never lie -- he'll just embellish the truth..."
-Steve Taylor

I haven't published in a few days now, and I even forgot to do a Poetry Friday post. Many apologies to anyone who was waiting for new additions, but I have been extremely busy with a host of responsibilities, ranging from work to school to real life (I'm relieved to report I still have a real life).

The above quote comes from a song by one of my favorite Christian recording artists (which accounted for a significant chunk of my music collection when I was a teenager). As I dwell on concepts like co-opted Christianity and other entire demographics of society that willingly surrender their votes to one party line or the other, lines like the ones quoted above tend to float freely through my head. But I'm tired of politics for the time being, so that's all I'll write about that for now...

"...But every writer knows we have to write to find out
We have to write to discover what wants to happen
We have to write to know where the story needs to go
We have to write to learn why we are here
We have to write to find we are not alone..."

"Personal Work" by Linford Detweiler

I thought this one felt right for today, in its own winding, rhythmic way. The quotation is just a brief excerpt, but you can click the link to read the whole poem.

"The Politician" by Jan Crest

-kind of fits my sentiments lately.

"Everybody is Sick of Love" by Linford Detweiler

I like this one because it's short, sweet, and riding the fence between hope and despair; but what do you think?

I don't know where this piece of storytelling fits in, but I observed the following scene on the way to work today, and it has stayed with me since.

I was sitting in traffic on a local roadway, with traffic being a little more congested than normal. As my fellow travelers and I waited in line at an intersection, I heard a siren's wail, followed shortly thereafter by a local police SUV passing us on the median strip just to our left. As we started moving again, I prepared to make my right turn at the intersection, which is when I saw it.

There were two cars juxtaposed in the right lane of the road onto which I was turning. Both cars were compact to sub-compact. One was a late model Chevy Cavalier, which had come to rest up against a concrete wall lining a roadside embankment. The other car was a Hyundai Accent (with the markings of a local auto parts delivery warehouse) sitting right in the middle of the lane. Both cars had significant front-end damage (which is to say neither car had much of its front-end left) and apparent airbag deployment.

As I was waiting to be waved around the scene by an officer, I then noticed a man lying on the ground next to the Hyundai. He was an older man (appearing to be in his sixties), and he was surrounded by two paramedics who appeared to be administering CPR.

I was thinking about this scene as I waited in traffic. The auto parts company that had its markings on the car was located less than a quarter mile up the road, and these companies are known to employ retirees. As I saw the man lying on the ground, receiving CPR, I wondered if, as he had left his home that day to go to work, this scene was even a possibility in his mind. If he had pulled out of the warehouse parking lot with even a hint that this could be in his immediate future.

How many people would even think about that possibility? Not me, at least not until I caught this scene as I waited in traffic.

The policeman waved me on after a couple minutes, and I said a short prayer as the car started rolling again -- just thinking of that man on the ground, any loved ones he might have, anyone else who'd been injured in the collision, and all of us who meander through our daily lives unaware and unappreciative of the grace that shields us from these tragedies.

"Easy reading is damned hard writing."
-Nathaniel West

Okay, so I was sifting through Google keywords used to access my little blog here, and I saw "the smedley log" among the keywords used, a regular thing, really, and there's no reason someone wouldn't use the title of a blog to find it on Google. But this time I decided to Google "the smedley log", as some visitors had done, just to see what the results of that search actually are.

Another unsurprising result is that several of the results are linked to this blog, but I came across a blog I didn't even know had linked to me. It's called hardscrabble, and it's written by a Computer Sciences graduate student in Chicago named Azzari Jarrett. Not only had she linked to me in one of her posts, but it was three months ago! Even more interesting is the fact that she was referencing a tsl entry from ten months ago, so I wondered if she had found it by virtue of reading this blog on any kind of regular basis, or if she had googled her subject in order to find me. (The Subject of her post and mine was the possible relationship between reality TV and blogging.) I may never know, but this brings me, in my usual winding way, to another observation.

I seem to have gotten a lot of feedback, and sometimes blog mention, from bloggers who are grad students. When I say a lot, I don't mean in the thousands, or even the hundreds, but safely in the dozens. And I want to say that I find that both flattering and intimidating. Actually, the mere thought of my brother-in-law (a graduated grad student himself) reading this sometimes frightens me, not only because I think he knows a lot more than I do about many things, but also because he's in a position to call me on the carpet for my mistakes in a way that most readers will never be. And I think, not knowing all their educational backgrounds, that most of my responsive readers are a pretty clever bunch of people. Therefore I tend to think that most of them will see the holes in my ideas and arguments.

And, to be clear, I don't talk about grad students here because I think they are inherently smarter than others, like myself, who aren't, and maybe never will be, at that academic level. I've met enough "uneducated" folk to know much better than that. Although I would like to think the "grad student observation" I'm making underscores the intelligence level of my average reader, and, quite possibly at the same time, reveals my general elitist attitude. (But hopefully not that last part.)

And speaking of the relative intelligence of my readers, a readability report I got from Readability.info showed that my readability scores were fairly high, meaning the education level required to make sense of my writing is fairly high by conventional standards; something about sentences being long (me? long sentences?) and syllables per word, I think... but apparently you should pat yourself on the back if you get past the first two or three sentences of most of these entries. Incidentally, I'm aware that reading difficulty often reflects more negatively on the writer than on the reader, as good writers usually strive to be understood (see lead-in quote).

The other part of this is that I've noticed a ton of blogs by graduate students. One of the more obvious examples from my list of links is my inquisitive Catholic friend at Ales Rarus , and there are many others out there, including some who are law students -- which I honestly don't get.

I mean grad school is hard enough, but as someone who has spent time mulling the prospect of law school, I've heard some pretty gruesome stories about how little time is left for leisure. I recently went back to school myself and I'm nowhere near that level of difficulty, and if pecking away on a computer wasn't one of my favorite methods of winding down before bed, I don't think I could do much, if any, blogging at all.

Upon skimming Azzari's sidebar, I came across PhD Weblogs, a "non-profit initiative to bring together PhD students' weblogs from all around the world." I'm trying not to get too jealous -- some people just have a gift, I guess.

"The Poet" by Sharon Brogan

This edition of Poetry Friday features an online poet by the name of Sharon Brogan. This poem appears on her site, Oratory, along with many others. Many kind thanks to Sharon for allowing me to reprint her work below.

The Poet

For the poet, every hello contains
its goodbye; every sunlit rose
its shadow; and death stalks
everything. Always the heron
watching the silvery fish. Always
the hawk. Even in that moment
she holds her lover's heaviness
in the palm of her hand, feels
herself liquify – even then,
she knows it will end.

I usually leave poems to speak for themselves on Fridays (as well as other days), but I wanted to share a little about why I like this poem.
I think the above verse speaks to a common trait of people who try to express themselves artistically: the idea that most things we appreciate are finite or delicate in nature, and that is part of what makes them noteworthy, at least in my

I don't know if any great poetry scholars share my thoughts on this, though I'm sure my thoughts are completely unoriginal. I tend to believe one of the domains of poetry (and art in general) to highlight things we should appreciate, whether they be feelings, people, events or other random things. So often, we as people overlook the gifts we have, the beauty that's all around us, the people we love -- we tend to take so much for granted.

I can say, from my own experience, that the desire to write things down, particularly in verse, is almost always joined at the hip with memories of things I've taken for granted but wish I hadn't. I guess that could be considered a melancholy motivation, but it benefits me in that I tend to see things as more finite, more fleeting, than I did when I was younger. In some ways it's an unnatural paradigm; most people would rather not dwell on the temporal nature of things they treasure, but in avoiding this notion , it seems many folks forget how special these things really are.

And there are probably more than a couple people out there who find it depressing to be reminded of the temporal nature of their cherished things, but I would disagree. I think it can be completely invigorating to remain aware of life's fleeting nature and always remember to live appreciatively. I have no real idea if that's what Sharon Brogan was reaching for with "The Poet", but it's what struck me almost immediately after reading it.

If you'd like to comment on what you think of the poem, feel free to click the title/author link to visit Sharon's site and leave you thoughts with her. (If you just want to tell me how crazy the last several paragraphs sound to you, you can leave that comment right here.)

I have just finished (I think) with a few more design changes on the drafts section; I ran into a few errors (due to my haste), but have tried to ensure that no glaring deficiencies remain.

As per some readers' suggestions, I have lightened it up a bit and given each page a right sidebar that will allow people to navigate freely between all pages on the smedley drafts. Now the only page from which you can't directly navigate to any other page is this one, but I hope some of you will wander over to the drafts and check out the new style anyway.

I didn't expect to be deterred from the log for almost three days, but here I am, having slacked off this whole time...

Actually, I had my first two papers due over this past weekend, and I was a little behind on starting them, thanks to Labor Day and all the festivities. I swore to myself that I wouldn't let blogging get in the way of schoolwork, and that oath may keep me from posting as often as I normally would, but I'll still be here quite often.

As for the last post, I'm appreciative of the flow of ideas from a small handful of readers, through both email and comments. I was reminded of (if not introduced to) a few ideas I wouldn't have thought of on my own regarding terrorism, so it's good to not be stranded on this island alone.

Of course, I didn't set out to provoke too much thought with Saturday's memorial post, but now I'm thinking of expanding on some of those things I purposely neglected to mention on Saturday -- it's become apparent that I wouldn't be alone in some of my thoughts. But it remains to be seen if I'll have the ambition write that expansion post.

I must've seen a hundred bloggers posting about Gmail invites in the past few months -- well, maybe not a hundred, but I have seen a lot.

I've got an idea, since I'm now starting to realize that no matter how many invites I distribute, they just keep giving me more; at least that's how it seems to be working.

So, I've got an idea:

I'd be perfectly willing to exchange invites to readers who offer links to poems that I might use in future installments of Poetry Friday. Either email or comment with a link to a good poem I haven't yet used, or offer something original (for the poets out there). If I decide your suggestion is one I'd like to use, I'll send you an invite. If I don't send you an invite, it either means I don't like your idea, or I've simply run out of invites (as improbably as that may seem), though I will attempt to respond, even in such cases.

And for those of you out there who already have Gmail accounts, perhaps you'd like to offer poetic suggestions out of the kindness of your hearts? Or perhaps there's something else I could offer -- though I'm not sure what.

But I would appreciate decent suggestions, and I'm willing to pay with invites...

"The Tiger" by William Blake

I came across this poem early in my education in poetry, probably more than twenty years ago -- I can't quite recall. I was reminded of it a year or so ago when I saw a film called The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys, in which this particular Blake rhyme was referenced. I know that those with serious exposure to poetry (and some without) are fairly familiar with this verse, but I didn't want to assume everyone has read it. Or perhaps, as in my case, other readers might simply be reminded of it.

In a parallel mention, I have discovered a new weblog for good original poetry; it's called Watermark. Well at least it's new to me. I may even add it to the eclectics eventually. There's a related site called Oratory, but it's in the moving process right about now, so the link will not (as of yet) deliver you to any poetry -- apparently that will be remedied within a week or so.

"...and you wanna ask God about things like cancer,
but you don't think that you'll get much of an answer."
-Bill Mallonee

I recently came across what I consider to be a great compliment in a post from Cziltang, whose weblog played a part in inspiring my blog beginnings:

"...The Smedley Log is one of the few bastions of civilized discourse I've found on the web. The author seems like a genuinely nice guy. I disagree with a significant chunk of his political commentary, but I read him regularly because his opinions are grounded in his real-world experience, he asks questions that I don't always have easy answers to, he is brave enough to offer suggestions as to what might be done (rather than just whine about what "they" are doing wrong), and it is all done without name-calling, mud-slinging or any significant rancor..."

There is something strangely gratifying about being appreciated by readers who don't necessarily agree with you. I was a little slow to post the above text, because I generally don't like to come off as patting myself on the back, but there is a point to this mention; it's about a train of thought that really got going in my head when I was directed (by Ales Rarus) to a post entitled "Everything you wanted to know about blogging but were afraid to ask."

Apparently according to Simon (or maybe I should hope he's being facetious), being reasonable isn't a great way to get noticed in the blogosphere, nor is being polite. Among his list of blogging tips are the following:

"36. Logic and reason are for the weak. Knee-jerk and off-the-cuff reactions are for the blogger.
30. Just like in life, extremism beats moderation and emotion beats logic. If you want reasoned discourse prepare to dwell in oblivion. If you want invective and ill-considered responses, watch the hits come in."

I have, as usual in my life, ambled down the road less traveled, and in so doing, I suppose I may have mired myself in blog oblivion.

And do you know what? I like it that way.

Call me a niche blogger. I don't want to be right all the time, nor do I want to be the most controversial voice on the internet. All I can hope for is to write something (once in a while at least) that makes somebody think a little. I've no desire to play the part of one of those pundits on cable news shows who engage in nightly talking points duels. To steal a thought from Steven Den Beste's "unintentional manifesto", I'd rather readers know why they agree or disagree with me than to just have readers agree with me. And sometimes, I'd like to leave a few folks scratching their heads a little. It's good once in while to struggle with the more difficult questions in life, ones where the answers don't seem so readily available.

Those are the types of the blogs that spawned in me the initial urge to to start burdening the blogosphere with my many opinions, and so, whether or not my strategy results in legions of loyal