Write: finish what I started, start new writing, critique others' writing

of those essays on which I had procrastinated.

This weekend it’s “On boiled peanut vendors and roadside stands.”

I met with one of the family who I’d interviewed last year. I’m going to visit them again and take photos with my OWN camera this time, forget about the Hellville Security Guard, the local newspaper.

And I’m doing my “business.” But see, when I walked in, there’s this soldier, in his new desert camou’s, A- whatever you call em’s. He’s on the cell phone. Here’s the scene, from my perspective in the stall:

(Someone sits in the stall next to me. Big macho work boots. Oh boy, I sense some chili grits and ham shit going down. My own bowels are working, only it’s kind of a messy liquid flatulation.)

Soldier’s voice: “Yeah, honey, I’m at Walmart. (Sound of work boots guy farting, shit splashing down).

Soldier’s voice: “I’m getting an oil change.” (My own shit splooshes, with an accompanying long gassy flabby fart. My stall neighbor flushes his tank).

(Soldier’s voice trails off, as he finally figures to take his conversation).

O.K. People. Wtf? I mean, you wanna have a little talk on the phone with your wife. But for the love of Pete! People! Take it somewhere ELSE! Where maybe you can enjoy the “intimacy” of your “chat” away from defacating strangers and flushing toilets.

Copyright 2006. Cafegroundzero.

The sequel to the animal control / cruelty to animals essay.

(Sigh of relief. Smile).

We Americans tend to think of our pets as much more than mere animals. Often, our pets are a part of our family. We fuss over them. We buy them treats. We even hold little memorial services for them, burying the remains in pet cemeteries or a special corner of our garden. Our relationships to animals is also regarded as a barometer for how we treat each other. It’s a cliché that most serial killers start their careers mistreating animals.
Yet one person’s darling doggy is another person’s nuisance mutt. And animals, like humans, can and do pose dangers to each other and humans. Think back on the last time you heard of a mauling by some dog, or a cougar attack. So from early on, communities have formed policies to keep order and safety, to keep the peace. First, let’s review a few legal definitions, from Article 1 Chapter 6, Section 6-3 of the Glennville Code, the municipal body of laws, which may be necessary to understand all of the argument: one of the first is “at large” meaning “off the premises of the owner and not under the control of the owner, a member of his immediate family, or some other person, either by leash, cord, chain, or other holding device.” Our municipal code also defines “Dogs or cats running at large”, to mean any public nuisance dog or cat, or any dog or cat causing a disturbance while not on a leash or in the vicinity of the owner and obedient to that person’s commands.” The definition concludes by stating “A dog or cat is not running at large when it is confined within the limits of its owner’s property.” Note that the definition is one accepted by the city of Glennville, not merely one I’ve pulled out of Webster’s or Oxford. Allow me, if you please, to move ahead, considering the need to be concise. Of course, the reader may consult with the city or the library for a copy of the municipal code. Now, Section 6.5 (a) “Violations” states “It shall be a violation of this chapter for the owner of any dog or cat to allow said dog or cat to act so as to become a public nuisance dog or cat as defined in section 6-3, in the city.” I would hope that the council and the city administration could see that what we are talking about is simply the awareness and enforcement of existing laws. For six years, the author and his family have lived in Glennville, and for almost that long, we have experienced or observed the problem of stray, unwanted, and neglected pets along our street, in our neighbourhood, even in the county seat, by which the animal control is located. We see animals breeding without control, in the auspices of families who don’t seem to care, or can’t afford the fees to spay or neuter them. (There is a program run by the Department of Agriculture, which pays vets to offer these services at a discount or free to those who cannot afford them, but it has run short of funds partway through the year). Not long after we moved to town, a woman was attacked and seriously mauled by what some called a pit bull. Whether or not it was a pit bull, is not the point, but after all the hand-wringing and talk, and some neighbours organizing to get the authorities to do something, practically nothing was done to help prevent another such attack. Some dogs were confiscated, but even the question was left open whether the guilty animal was ever located. Then silence descended in the public arena (dare I use the key phrase “the media?” The attention shifted to other matters, 9-11, a couple of tragic murders, the ongoing drought, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. We write this in the wake of the city council’s recognition of current county board policy that, in so many words, the animal control will not pick up any animal unless it is declared to be dangerous. Has it come to this, that our leadership has produced only a policy which responds to crises? Our stray animal situation is both accidents waiting to happen and a brewing pandemic. Sooner or later, we will have another mauling, or another child strangled by a python, as recently happened in Southern Illinois, or an epidemic of rabies. Why, last year an Augusta area woman was pulled off her riding mower and torn to death by a pack of loose dogs. Her husband couldn’t hear her over the noise of the mower. In Florida, Department of Environmental Protection officials have documented more and more cases of boas and other exotic reptiles being abandoned and now breeding in the wild. Wildlife authorities estimate the number of songbirds killed by cats to be in the millions. And who isn’t familiar with the stories of fishermen finding piranhas on their line? This moves us to ask, when will we ever learn? What does it take for us to act to prevent a problem rather than to try desperately to repair the damage once it’s too late? One objection which seems reasonable is that we simply do not have the resources to deal adequately with the problem at hand. This is a realistic concern. Perhaps the business and private sector could get involved in the forming of a Humane Society. Possibly, municipal bonds could be put up for sale, to raise the money for a new animal control shelter, to be located in Glennville, or even for there to be some branch shelters located in Collins or Cobbtown. Some competition here between communities might not be a bad thing. On the other hand, here is a great opportunity for cooperation. Dare we dream?

(964 words)

Only as I write this, I realize I didn’t touch on the abused part, just the stray issue.

I would like to begin an essay on Graff & Graff’s biography for children, on Helen Keller.

Someone on 43things recently commented on Helen Keller and her life. By coincidence, I got a biography out of the children’s book shelf, “Helen Keller: Toward the Light” by Stewart Graff and Polly Anne Graff.” I had decided this summer I was going to get a series of books selected with the idea that my daughter could learn about the accomplishments of great women. To my delighted surprise, my daughter was really riveted to the story, from beginning to end. Even the three year old boy looked on in rapt attention, at least for the first couple of chapters.
With eighty pages of text and illustrations, font sized about 15, this is a book which can be enjoyed by all ages, really. Arranged in twelve chapters, the biography covers H.K.’s life from infancy to death. It introduces us to Anne Sullivan, her first teacher, and John Macy a later teacher, and Polly Thompson who came to care for Helen Keller in her later years. The Graffs do a good job getting the young reader to empathize with Helen in her infancy and childhood, and seeing what an amazing accomplishment both by student and teacher is Helen Keller’s and Annie Sullivan’s life.

Another book I got out for the children was Kenya. This is one of the geography series from Counties of the World. It has excellent illustrations and chapters organized to introduce others to this amazing country. We learn that in the Swahili language, Kenya is Jamhuri Ya Kenya, or Republic of Kenya. We learn of its capital Nairobi, whose name means in the Maasai language, place of cold waters. In Kenya, there is the northern half, dominated by dessert. Along the northern coastline, savannah abounds. Separating the savannah and the desert is the Great Rift Valley, up to 56 miles or 90 km. wide, and 10,825 feet or 3,300 metres deep. The Great Rift extends southward beyond into Tanzania, and nnorthward into Ethiopia.
Not only does this book have vivid colour photos, but it presents a map on p.86, color coded to show the regions, including a Nyanza region bordering Lake Victoria. Did you know, for instance, that there is a border with Sudan in the northwest? I didn’t, or I had forgotten if I ever learned this. There is Lake Turkana, which is a feature of the film The Constant Gardener (I haven’t read the book yet, does anyone recommend it?).
We are not done with this book yet, so I will be back to revise this little review. I do recommend it. My toddler, aged three, found the photos interesting. I’ll let you know how the six year old takes to it.

(The following essayette was first posted in one of the most obscure nooks in the desert of yahoo bulletin boards:

Top > Entertainment & Arts > Fine Arts > General > Poets Corner)

Where have I been the last four decades? It seems as if I’ve been in al-Sahara, or maybe somewhere on the tundra. I say this because as I scan the paragraphs and entries of Poet’s Market, I see so many strange new names, so few of the familiar ones. Maybe this is because I HAVE BEEN OUT OF IT. So many years homeless, on the streets, on the outside looking in, or in some confined space where I, as a homeless man sheltered on someone’s charity, I might have been lucky to access a small library, but more often that not, no—what I had was what I was lucky enough to carry on my back. So…

It’s been about a week or so since I finally bought a Poets’ Market, and I finally get the peace of mind, or the motivation, between helping my wife of my new fairy tale existence, to raise our two children, Altgeld and Annie Franck. I read what I’ve been doing wrong, then I read what I should have been doing all these years, if only I had had enough SANITY to focus and think, or if only I’d taken a different path. Wait a minute, I say, what am I doing? That useless and pathetic IF game.
Okay, I say to myself, get a grip. So I read:

Janet Leonard, Susan Rippe, Marie Kazalia, Pat Paulk, Pushna Ratpa Tuladhar, Aurora Antonovic. And I don’t recognize a name on here. Okay, I think to myself, do what the WM suggests, and let me read their works. Thanks to the modern day miracle of the internet, even though I still live relatively on the fringes of existence, I can now access SOMETHING more than I used to find in the precious time I had between surviving, time spent in libraries, book shops, or hostel day rooms. And I’m amazed at what I find.

For instance, looking up Pushpa Ratna Tuladhar, I learn that he’s a probably from Nepal, or Annapurna, or Assam. And he’s prolific. Here, see for yourself:

http://www.lightverse.com/LightVerseDocLibrary/frmViewSelectionList.asp

(To be continued For more writing by hajgora seven, look for cafegroundzero on allpoetry.com)...

Who am I? What have I done for you? Where am I headed, down that lonely road? Freedom, my love, where are you?

PS: I just quit my job. Yeah! I even got a paid week to be off looking for work. That’s quitting with style. Thanks, Boss! And thank G-d!

Today: Thor’s Day 15th June 2006

Here at Cafe Metro on M.L.K. and Jones, across from the Enmark station by the junction with I-16, with Buddy, a Viet Nam vet I met by the side of the road, route 17, in the “semi-developed” area between Richmond Hill and South Chatham.

Time pretty soon, I was going to say, to hit the road. Except Buddy’s now got hisself a piece o’ cheesecake, “It may sound corny, but Grandma used to make souse- hog head cheese, Oh! leave me alone, I’m in Heaven! No, this is cheese cake. But this don’t have quite the taste, It does have the texture an’ all. I ain’t complainin’.”

Time to check on my poetry friends. (Meanwhile, a poem lay ignored, stored only in so many points of energy, zeros and ones. Only by a miracle is this poem not effaced from the planet, or from the reaches of this mortal poet):

My first caveat is that all you’re reading
Is buffered by Prozac; first admission.

No, that’s a lie, because I ran out.
So… this is fueled by malt liquor.

I will only start to share my memories
Of melancholy, blue sadness and depression.

A swig, and here I go: as a young boy,
I had no inkling of what I felt, only loneliness.

The other kids left me alone or beat me, kicked me.
The only relief was to hang out on the edges.

By the age of twelve I began to think of death.
I had no idea how, only that death seemed an easier path.

My mother taught me that if Jesus could deal with his fate,
Then I could deal with mine; I bought this for the time being.

Fantasies of torture basements where I’d get back at mine enemies
Gave me some secret relief, but I grew tired of hating.

A man is not supposed to cry; a Catholic’s not supposed to want
to die, so I was between a rock and a hard, sharped edged place.

I still wonder to this day why I haven’t yet killed a man.
And must thank my mum she taught me Jesus’ loving plan.

In high school a jock revealed his knowing Buddha,
And ahimsa not harming life he woulda tried and true:

So I kept to the hard and rocky path to salvation,
And made of all the world my nation.

I’m not a rich or famous man today by any stretch of your imagination.
But I know I took the right path and it gives me satisfaction.

I still mourn and sorrow but now not just for myself.
I offer up my sadness to the love of others, for their help.

Depression doesn’t have to end in self-destruction.
You can make your way and manage to function.

I am standing under the shower head,
Letting weak torrents of hot water dribble
Onto my dusty, gritty, paint speckled body.

I work the papaya shampoo and hair with my fingers-
My wife buys the bathroom products
She’s done so since I was always busy on duty
Or at home writing.
One of these days
I’ll buy myself some almond-scented shampoo
Like I used to do in the days when I was single.

I might say I’m sick as a dog,
But the dogs I see wandering our town in packs
Seem to have so much more vitality than I feel now.
I blow my nose toward the drain,
Clear my throat, and let the water
Wash away dust, paint, dead skin and sputum
Down and away.

Twelve hours shift, happy birthday I sez to myself.
Every day we push hard to finish this great system
Which will sort and pack onions for stores
And the ubiquitous consumer;
voila, to your table!
I wonder that so much money can be made on onions.

Three days later I’m again getting ready for work.
One Sunday to get myself together,
Despite the looks and comments of others,
Who think nothing of working Sunday,
And think I’m a dilettante who won’t last long.
Now I’m fresh and renewed for another day,
And what it will bring.
Will the boss men look hard,
And figure I don’t give my ALL?

So much demand, so much supply.

I set aside my little efforts for a greater good.

I am barely standing under the shower head,
Letting weak torrents of hot water dribble
Onto my aching, tired, paint-speckled body.

Copyright 2006 by cafegroundzero.