If Freud Had Been An Astronomer

Okay, yes, I'm busy, but I saw this pic and decided to post a quickie. Nature has some interesting shapes, no? The shot depicts "the pillars of creation" in the Eagle Nebula. Well, I suppose creation has something to do with it.

She Ate It, Not Me

Just stopping by to say "hi and hello" to everyone I call a blog neighbor. My time is still not my own--I am working on an unusually hard manuscript for a client right now--plus I have to exercise more because of irregular heartbeats (arrhythmias). Finally, having been abducted by aliens recently, I am writing a book called NO, I WON'T BEND OVER. Geez, the grays need to subscribe to Cinemax.

Thanks to Charles for his review of my novel. He's a consummate professional when it comes to writing, so I really feel honored to get his thumbs-up.

Hope everyone is well and happy and healthy and ready for summer. As Garrison keillor says in Writers' Almanac every day on NPR, "Do good work!"

Later!

Stone Canyons

The grimace flies by,
the trickle of pedestrians
tucked into overcoats and suspicion.

There is no conversation on the underground bullet,
Fifth Avenue a stampede of meaningless strut.
Taxis weave, leaving yellow ribbons on the street.

Hookers pose in Times Square like mannequins.
There is no life in the museum.
Freeze frame: everything is silent.

Picture: copyright, William Hammett, 2007

Review: Not Just For Vegetarians

I first learned of Not Just For Vegetarians by Geraldine Hartman when I visited her blog, Veggies, Crafts, and Tails . I’m a mediocre cook (and not a vegetarian), but I found Geraldine’s recipes quite delicious and easy to follow. There’s something for everyone in this book: muffins, scones, and breads; snacks and appetizers; soups; salads, dressings, and spreads; main dishes; family favorites; and desserts.

In the book's opening pages, Geraldine explains in clear prose why she became a vegetarian, noting ethical reasons among others. She also accurately explains how a vegetarian diet is more digestible by the human body and that a majority of world populations is vegetarian by choice. By choice, you ask! Yes, for when a vegetarian diet is practiced correctly, it does indeed provide the complete proteins that the body needs to be healthy and energetic.

The recipes are also written in an easy to understand manner, so there’s no need to be frightened if you’ve had past experiences with cookbooks that looked more like algebra than food preparation. It’s user friendly in the extreme. There’s also a glossary of terms that helps one instantly learn about the food substitutions that are a part of a vegetarian diet. Additional information is also provided so that vegans can adopt the recipes to their eating habits.

My favorite recipe since I first learned of the book has been “The Best Scalloped Potatoes.” Other favorites are “Easier-Than-Pie Veggie Pie,” “Red, White, and Black Chili,” “Veggie Pot Pie,” “Zucchini and Cheddar Fettuccini,” “Rice and Red Lentil Salad,” “Winter Harvest Soup,” and “Easy Corn Chowder.”

The above are only a few of the great choices available in Geraldine’s book. There is quite literally a recipe for any season, mood, or frame of mind, plus the recipes are good if you eat alone or are throwing a dinner party for ten.

Most importantly, these recipes are, as the title suggests, not just for vegetarians. They offer a variety of options for people who simply want to try something different or move away slightly from the “red meat mentality” that most everyone grew up with. Whatever your reason for trying out the recipes from Not Just For Vegetarians, you can be sure of two things: 1) you’ll be eating healthier, and 2) you’ll be enjoying good food that won’t leave you hungry when you get up from the table.

You may puchase the book at Amazon: Not Just For Vegetarians.

Bike Ride Around America

John Hall is a friend and former classmate of my older brother. I say “older” because, although there are only two of us, I am six years younger and much better looking. But I digress. John’s wife Jane was diagnosed with breast cancer and, thankfully, she is doing very well after a year of treatment. At 62, John is riding 12,000 miles around the perimeter of America to raise awareness about cancer and funds for cancer research. You may make donations to the Lance Armstrong Foundation or the Providence Alaska Medical Center (John is an ER physician who lives in Anchorage) or find out more about John, his odyssey, and his wife by simply visiting his blog at Bike Ride Around America . If you simply want to wish him well or offer your prayers and support, I know he would appreciate a comment on his blog. Although he has a small support team traveling with him, it’s a long journey and will take 120 days. It is John's hope that if he can save just one life by encouraging someone to get a mammogram, the ride will have been worth it. There are links to his site in the sidebar (Support Cancer Research) and link list number two. The first pic is John biking across the Mississippi River, heading into Louisiana. The second is a pic of John. Thanks all.

The Nude Burrito

Now that I’ve got your attention, this is just a little “hi and hello,” plus a note to the kind folks who stop by for a poem and a beer sometimes (that would be nice, wouldn’t it?) that I’m taking queries for my next ghostwriting client and am mired in emails, phone calls, negotiations, yadda, yadda, yadda. Gotta pay the bills, so logically I have to make sure someone pays the Bill. I’m still here and will read your blogs, but won’t make the rounds as quickly. Will post less frequently … I think. Who knows. I’m also having some back trouble, so I have to portion out my time at the PC carefully, moving around a lot to look out windows and fold underwear. I carry my Nikon binoculars in case I spy a nude burrito in the neighborhood. Voyeurs 'R Us.

At night, I stretch out and watch cable news channels, having become a political junkie. I won’t say who I’m supporting since I observe the cardinal rule of “never discuss religion or politics.” I would vote for Pat Paulsen if he were still alive … and if you know who I’m talking about, then you’re in my age bracket.

Late news from the lit marketplace. I’ve been reading how college kids are getting fabulous book deals in less than a week by having a high concept related to large numbers of hits on their blog or website. Rule #1. Don’t have the book written (or more than a chapter). Concept + existing interest = “pre-sold” according to an A-list agent. Makes it sound painfully simple.


The photo is the Triangulum Nebula. I couldn't find a pic of a nude burrito.

You’re Mozart. I’ll be Bach.

One Single Impression: Color

red hair on shoulders
the sun speaks copper accents
I study abroad

Hot Green Apocalypse

The road is serpentine,
ten thousand years old
and disappearing into the thicket
of ultimate repose.

It is a bad omen.
Stone and fire
have glinted machinery
from the void,

steam and atoms
spiraling into the hands
of a smith
girding the planet in steel.

The beast has consumed
ribbons of rust,
lapping clouds
of red miasma.

The holy man and poet
die in their caves
while the earth purges itself
in hot green apocalypse.

Sounding

First, a little housekeeping. Both Shauna and Bernita are running PAYING IT FORWARD contests at Shauna Roberts' For Love of Words and An Innocent A-Blog respectively. (Charles, I missed yours because I did my taxes at the last minute--mea culpa.)

The following poem was one of my first posts when I started blogging last November. I'm bringing it back now that the blog is up and running, so to speak, and because today is going to be very busy. And oldie and, hopefully, a goody.

Outside, the moon floats through a leafless tree,
riding peaceably the road well taken
through Orion with his boots in the snow.
A mongrel underneath the tree
paws the ground at carp in the stream,
settles composedly in a mongrel’s dream.
Within, the woman turns, unawakened,
leaving the trace of a dream in a sigh,
and draws the patchwork tighter over shoulders and hips
weighted in the furnace hiss that serves as lullaby.
There is no reading to be done,
no study of poets, of Coleridge
contemplating frost at midnight.
Rather, the plumb for stillness wrapped in ice,
the maple sprig glazed by the stream,
is the night itself, dark and frozen,
hanging from the silver throne of Betelgeuse
by a rarefied thread that issues
the sounding of a sleeping world:
life, like the north gate,
is held fast in winter’s skin,
and yet there is the fire of a cold star,
sap-filled roots, a moon riding the sky.
There is a pulse in the stream, somewhere.
There is the trace of a dream in a sigh.

(First published in American Poets & Poetry, 1999)

picture: copyright, William Hammett, 2007.

Afternoon Prayer

I toss a handful of words on the meadow
while pondering seeds and the hidden nature of things.

A stone rolls away from the tomb
as I resume sweeping the porch.

Amazon to Discontinue POD Titles Not Printed by BookSurge?

Angela Hoy, editor of Writers Weekly newsletter, alerted me this past week of news pertaining to the publishing practices of Amazon, which recently bought BookSurge. I know many of you publish with major houses, some with independent presses, and some with POD outfits. As a ghostwriter, I keep abreast of the POD industry since some of my clients are businessmen or women, such as motivational speakers or business owners, who wish to self-publish or use POD to publish "in-house" because they have their own marketing platforms. I thought the following was interesting and so am passing it along.

Since acquiring BookSurge, Amazon intends to gradually disable the "buy" buttons on its website for all POD books not published through BookSurge. (Why Amazon would want to do this is a bit strange since BookSurge, like Publish America, is erratic in the quality of its product and receives a lot of complaints at Writer Beware and other online watchdog groups ... which is not to say that all of their clients are dissatisfied.)

It's also a strange marketing move on the part of Amazon since, while the average POD title only sells 148 copies, Amazon nevertheless sells tens of thousands of POD titles every year.

The Washington State Office of the Attorney General has received numerous complaints from both POD companies and individuals. The Attorney General's office believes that such a move by Amazon may well constitute "monopolistic practices" and has referred the issue to its anti-trust division. Links to the Writers Weekly article and the response by the Washington State Office of the Attorney General are provided below. The Writers Weekly article has internal links for anyone who wishes to register a complaint with Amazon.

It's true that most POD titles are poorly written and edited, but not all. But that misses the point. People should have an outlet for their work, and let's face it: while there are other online sellers, such as B&N, Borders, Books-a-Million and a hundred others, people gravitate to Amazon for books like shoppers gravitate to Wal-Mart for laundry baskets and kitchen utensils. With traditional publishing being very hard to break into, I also think it's a bit Orwellian to start limiting the ideas that can reach mass circulation.

Writers Weekly article: Writers Weekly: Let BookSurge Print Your Books--or Else

The Attorney General's Response:
Washington State Office of the Attorney General

The Dead Are Forever Writing Letters

The dead are forever writing letters,
their bodies mulching into leaves.

Maple parchment tells me a young bride
was killed by the undertaker’s son.

Snow and dirt and time
archive the words we choose in death.

Free verse or rhyme,
we are all published in the end.

Cycles

naked
at last I stand on the savannah

the sun carries away
the final day

the flat acacia supports twilight

all others have gone
into the long night
of a thousand years

over at last
the millennia

crickets smooth the grass
with song

the last word
or the first

I raise my arms
to become
the mountain in some new creation

Eve steps lightly from behind

this time she will not charm
or listen to the twisted vine

Stream of Consciousness Friday

One can't have too many reminders that this is Autism Awareness Month, Please check out the blogs at snoopmurph and also Mother of Shrek to find really great info on autism, as well as blogs authored by parents with the most loving of hearts. I know there are many more such parents--if I have forgotten you, please forgive me.

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As many of you know, Dave Kuzminski at P&E is being sued by a publisher and two agents because he had the audacity to do what he has done best for approximately a decade: tell people who's honest and who's not. He doesn't deserve this and is considered one of the straight shooters in the writing community. He is asking for help with his legal defense. You can click on a DONATE button at Preditors and Editors. Even A-list agents don't always act professionally, and Dave's source of info is invaluable.

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I started posting some flash fiction a month or two ago, and at the time I supplied a link to the work of David B. McCoy, who, like myself, is a fan of quirky short fiction. Since 1978 he ran Spare Change Press. David emailed me recently after a Google search turned up his link on my blog and told me about his other work. Anyone interested in some good short fiction can find more about David B. McCoy at David B. McCoy and Origami Condom Issues and finally The Book of Scars.

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Stream of Consciousness Friday

today we’re playing for a sunbeam grilled cheese maker … friday’s quiz: how many people know what etaoin shrdlu means? … true story: i once almost killed a groundskeeper the only time i played golf … some guy dove behind his truck just in time … an errant ball … speaking of errant balls … better not go there … hello would you like to go to the errant ball tonight … go red sox … i’m not an actor but I play one on tv … mark twain said opera isn’t nearly as bad as it sounds … like most libras i don’t believe in astrology … i once almost had the fillings slapped out of my teeth many many years ago when I decided to see if the produce section really was the place where singles met … “how can you tell if they’re ripe?” says i … i wonder if she knew how to make errant melon balls … let’s have some animation again … enough with the pixar stuff already … well, the nurse says I have to go to the day room for my meds … so long until next post … good night errant good night john boy

Clowns

[For latest prompt at One Single Impression]

They are the guardians of color,
the avatars of belly flop
and gargantuan guffaw.

With rainbow frizz
above flat feet slapping laughs,
they embrace the innocence of all mistakes

as they pratfall into dreams,
greasepaint smiling like a loon
or a drunken Christmas aunt.

Only after years have made mockery of play
do we turn away from the bulbous nose,
cringing from the funhouse echo of facade.

Pic: public domain

Tracks

Rusted railroad tracks
buckle beneath the water tower.

The hard yellow sun
pulls dandelions from a rotting grade.

Breath is shallow, short,
arteries twisted away from ties that bind.

I stutter-step through gravel,
recalling your journey away from the heart.

A Question of Balance

Archibald Wix was a retired banker, meek and mild, who lived his days in ease … if ease can be defined as listening to the incessant nagging of his obsessive-compulsive wife, Clara. Archibald usually turned his hearing aid down in the evening while reading the paper. It was a sacrosanct hour, when silence and the crisp pages of the Herald, spread wide, blocked out whining that had begun thirty-seven years earlier.

“Your shirts are hanging crookedly on the hangers again!” Clara shouted from the kitchen.

Archibald turned to the Science and Technology page and read that mini-black holes, no bigger than the wart on a stepmother’s jaw, drifted through space like vagabonds looking for handouts. Well, in theory, at least.

“Archibald, you left your cup in the sink again!” Clara said with vocal cords raw from years of finding fault with the cosmos.

An hour passed, and Archibald turned his hearing aid up to see if any natural disaster other than Clara required his attention. He lived near the San Andreas Fault, and sometimes the earth did a quick mambo, rattling the china cabinet. He heard a melodious voice singing in the kitchen, a voice with the clarity of crystal and the timbre of a medieval damsel singing ballads to her suitor. It was a situation that called for investigation.

“Hello, Archie,” said a comely woman in her early forties. “What would you like for dinner?”

To Archibald’s left, a small black dot was floating through the kitchen, boring into the wall as a small, tinny voice called from the dot’s infinite density: “What are you up to, Archibald? Who is that woman in our kitchen? Get me out of here!”

Archibald wasn’t a scientist, but he knew that black holes not only gobbled up matter but also coughed up molecules on occasion, like cosmological burps. A mini black hole had apparently wandered through his kitchen, making both a deposit and a withdrawal. So long Clara, hello Elizabeth, the name of Archibald’s good fortune.

“How did you get here?” the banker inquired.

“I’m not quite sure,” Elizabeth said. “I remember being somewhere very small, like a genie’s bottle or a magic lamp. But I know you’re Archie, and now I’m here in the kitchen. So what would you like for dinner?”

“You,” replied Archibald Wix, not feeling the need to provide any astronomical explanations to a woman just moments away from the delights of courtly love.

As a banker, Archibald had always kept his books balanced. The universe had given him far more than a gold watch in return.

Eternity in the Key of C

I tap the yellowed piano key with a bony index finger,
a C that stirs the marble-top bureau,

family pictures, wine glasses in the oak cabinet.
A French tapestry captures the one-note melody,

an orphan tone already dying.
I examine the faded oriental rug,

a thousand silent notes woven into fractals,
indigo snowflakes from an opium dream.

I hit the C again, the wire an old man’s vocal cord.
It is a feeble “yes” in a quiet room,

a museum where even the sunrise has been archived.
I glance at my body in the armchair

by the open window, summer breeze blowing
a white lace shroud over my face.

A heart attack, I think.
Yes.

There is a polite knock at the door.
Floorboards creak as I shuffle through the parlor.

Eternity, waiting on the porch,
has given me time enough to say goodbye.

After Reading Haiku

I sit in the sunroom,
looking at the yard I have given back to nature.
It is time for wildflowers and weeds
to grow tangled and tall
in the orgiastic bolt that is spring.

But there are words—

old pages yellow
the story of small kisses
roads in deep green woods—

that I cannot shave from my tongue
with razored thought grown dull.
They grow reckless, wild,
like ivy that will stitch the trellis
until it falls over the windowsill,
circling my bed on a night
when I dream of love.

I must bolt from middle age
without manicure, without edging,
a sprint to the last breath
that will see disorder weave foolishness
and disregard into ruts of routine.
The papers on my desk must not be left too neat.
My clothes must be found on the floor,
shoes tossed in the hallway
in a manner that will puzzle progeny.

Beyond the sunroom,
blades of grass are hatching conspiracy.
The ox-eyed daisy has poached the loam
where roses and lilies held sway.
Decades hence,
people will say my final years
were roads in deep green woods.

Picture: public domain

Big Apple Pics

Well, it's time for something different, so I thought I'd post a few pics from a trip to NYC in Jan., '07.


This shot of the Empire State Bldg. was taken from the top of 30 Rockefeller Center, home of NBC Studios and SNL, Conan, Nightly News, MSNBC, etc. I waited until the last possible minute to take this picture so I could get a "good" sky and have just a few rays of light hitting the right side of the building. It's a melancholy shot, and it gives me the feeling, given the state of planet earth, that this could be what the last sunset might look like.

I know--everyone has seen the Statue of Liberty, but take a look at the size of the people standing at the foot of the base. They are miniscule. Liberty Gal is big! I was overwhelmed.

I felt sorry for this gull sitting on pilings in New York Harbor. It seemed to be a very philosophical bird, looking at vast distances and considering its place in the world or perhaps contemplating where it must go next. Or maybe it was just taking a rest.

That's a reflection of my son in a puddle of water. He was 18, and I think it reflects who he was (and is) given that no one really has any sense of clarity at that age. At 19, going on 20, he is still an upside down, fuzzy character who thinks he knows far more than he does. He's majoring in classical guitar.