FROM THE BOOK OF QUESTIONS #5

Another provocative question from Gregory Stock’s book is this:

If God appeared to you in a series of vivid and moving dreams and told you to leave everything behind, travel alone to the Red Sea and become a fisherman, what would you do?  What if you were told to sacrifice your child?

Well, since the Creator is pure spirit, He (and I use the masculine only because I can relate to it better, being male myself) would probably not appear in any dreams, visibly, except perhaps as a near-blinding light.  More likely the Creator would simply speak to me in such dreams.  That aside, I would probably leave everything behind, travel alone to the Red Sea, and become a fisherman.  Of course I’d have to operate from one of the nations that border the Red Sea.  My first choice would be Jordan (at the Gulf of Aqaba), and my second would be Saudi Arabia.  Though I have fished, many times, for pleasure, I’ve never done it for a living.  Still, I’d just go to Jordan (or Saudi Arabia), and await further instructions from the Creator.

As to the second part of the question–if I were told to sacrifice my child, I would know this was not coming from the Creator.  In one of my music-impression poems I state, “…I know not what God is, but what God is not.”  And our Creator, being holy, is definitely not one to tell anyone to do anything evil–like sacrificing his/her child.  Yes, I am quite familiar with the story of Abraham being told to sacrifice his son, Isaac (Genesis 22 : 1-18).  But I don’t consider the Bible, or any other text, to be the all-inspired word of God.  As stated in my creed, “…God’s Word is not limited to one form of communication.” 

Still, as with most mythology, this story may be based on an actual event.  My mom, a devout Christian, yet an enlightened one, once explained the story this way: Abraham had come from a land where the gods were believed to require child-sacrifice.  So it’s possible that Abraham believed this new, monotheistic God required it too.  Yet as he prepared to sacrifice his son, something changed his mind.  Perhaps he realized the true Creator was not evil, thus wouldn’t suggest he do anything evil.  Perhaps even Abraham happened to be listening to the Creator, in that moment (I believe the Creator is always speaking to us, though we almost never listen), and received word of the Creator’s true nature.

So in summary, the Creator might suggest that someone do something good (leaving everything behind, traveling alone to the Red Sea, and becoming a fisherman would be good for me, since I have no wife and no children).  But the Creator, being holy, would never suggest that anyone do anything evil (like sacrificing his/her child).

PINING: MY LATEST POEM

Recently, my writers’ group published the latest issue of its biennial literary anthology, and I had the honor of having six of my poems included in it.  As with previous issues, I mailed copies to acquaintances, friends, and family members.  One of the acquaintances to whom I mailed a copy hasn’t even acknowledged it, let alone thanked me.  But I didn’t expect her to.  Still, after mailing it to her, I was inspired to write the following poem, which is included in the December edition of my writers’ group’s monthly newsletter:

Pining

Scott ____

He mails his latest published poetry

To a woman with no interest in poetry

A woman who’s never rejected his attentions

Yet never accepted them.

Jesus cautions him, “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs

Neither cast ye your pearls before swine…”

To which he argues, “But maybe these words will win her, Jesus

Unlike those before.  Maybe this time she’ll share coffee and cake with me

If nothing else.”

He knows the inescapable wisdom of Jesus’ words

Yet foolishly mails his own words

To her, anyway.

Perhaps everyone needs someone for whom to pine.

(The woman for whom the poet pines resembles Gillian Anderson, though Gillian Anderson probably has much interest in poetry.)

STILL HERE–THE POEM

I just Googled the poem mentioned in my previous post, and feel it too valuable not to be posted in its entirety.

Still Here

Langston Hughes

I been scarred and battered.

My hopes the wind done scattered.

     Snow has friz me,

     Sun has baked me,

Looks like between ‘em they done

     Tried to make me

Stop laughin’, stop lovin’, stop livin’–

     But I don’t care!

     I’m still here!

STILL HERE

I remember a poem from primary (or secondary) school, called Still Here.  The poem was accompanied by a photograph of a rugged, old man.  And it read, in part, “I been scarred and battered.  My hopes the wind done scattered…But I don’t care, I’m still here.”  This is somewhat how I feel right now.

I’ve been doing the online dating thing, for the first time.  I joined the site, not so much to find a girlfriend (though that would be nice), but to motivate me to get out and exercise.  My health has never been poorer.  I eat the wrong foods, have developed high cholesterol in addition to my high blood pressure, drink too much coffee, and don’t get any exercise at all.  Shortly after joining the online dating site, I joined a health club down the street.  I really wish I would have joined the health club first.  Because, instead of motivating me to get out and exercise (decreasing my risk of stroke or heart attack, under the self-pretense of becoming more attractive to women), the online dating has kept me indoors more, worrying with the online courtship of the same women.  It’s strange how personal plans work so well, in theory, but not in practice!

I’ve also been having one hell of a time with my psychiatric medication–one in particular.  This medication has always been the most helpful for my OCD, but it’s very difficult to get the dosage right.  Too little, and it doesn’t lessen OCD symptoms enough–too much, and it causes OCD symptoms to increase.

I write all this not to vent (though I appreciate your kind attention), but to let you know I haven’t forgotten you, my readers and fellow bloggers!

And to uphold my reputation as a connoisseur of hot women, let me post the following photo.  This actress, Sandra Gould, is best remembered for her role as Mrs. Kravitz on Bewitched, but she was well-known long before that.

SOMETHING HIGHER

For this music-impression poem, I used an album entitled, Taqasim: Improvisation in Arab Music (UPC 7 44457 73742 2).  The composers/performers are Ali Jihad Racy and Simon Shaheen.  This is magnificent music, full of energy, and unmistakably Arabic–I recommend it to anyone!  The poem was included in the August edition of my writers’ group’s monthly newsletter–and one of my fellow members said it was my best yet.

Taqasim: Improvisation in Arab Music

Scott ____

Maqam Kurd

This humble gravestone vibrates as one amidst Stonehenge, or on the Egyptian or Mayan pyramids might.  Every stone vibrates, I suppose.  This stone is not alive.  And it’s not the deceased who vibrates it.  It’s the mason, the maker of the stone.  He poured his energy into every grain, and his energy remains.  I see her among stone columns, a dark woman in a bright land–or a fair woman in a dark one.  She I can see, yet cannot touch.  So I distract myself with the hawk that hits my living-room window, in error–and with the stray kittens I take to the cat orphanage, to protect them from the hawk.  The hawks that grace my lawn are drawn to me, I would like to believe.  How presumptuous!  For I know it’s the squirrels, the songbirds, and the occasional rats to which they’re drawn.

Maqam Nahawand

Pour me not a glass of tequila, but a cup of coffee–here in this Mexican space I revisit, Juarez, which could just as easily be Persian.  How strange in my hypertensive state that I prefer the killing coffee to the calming tequila.  For that which powers me to write most wildly could render me powerless to write at all–I swallow spit, at the thought.  What vibrations saturate my skin, as strings are plucked like plums!  Sometimes they sound like motors revving in the distance of space, or voices calling in the distance of time–or heartbeats amplified twenty times over.

Maqam Bayyati

What of the steeple, the minaret, the pagoda?  Each points skyward, as if toward the Creator of the sky.  Yet so does the oak, the pine, and the bamboo stalk.  There is something higher here.  Some try to deny it, most try to define it.  But few realize that human arrogance is simply ignorance.

SPHERE OF MY WISHES

This photograph by Oleg Kosirev is entitled Sphere of Her Wishes.  It is the most tasteful, yet most arousing nude photograph I have ever seen.  The model’s name is unknown, but she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.  I normally don’t display nude pictures on my blog.  But it would be selfish of me not to share this one.

WHAT IS REALITY, ANYWAY?

To write the following music-impression poem, I used a CD entitled, Sarangi: The Music of India (UPC 0 14431-01042 2).  It’s a beautiful recording, and I highly recommend it.

The first part of my poem uses actual dreams I’ve had.  And the second poem uses real-life experience.

Sarangi: The Music of India

Scott ____

Rag Bageshree

She meows as she wakes, time to feed her.  Yet then she’s my wife, time to feed me.  I roll over to touch her, and she’s gone.  No, this is reality–don’t wake me to my daily nightmare.  And I’m back in the surreal life I love.  My sister, Elaine, is Mary–holding our infant, Jesus, as I watch for thieves in the Egyptian sand.  Then I’m in a grocery store, eating cookies off a shelf, as a banquet of wealthy families looks at me with indifference.  And I step outside, into a 1950′s darkness.  I approach a group of rebels who welcome me in their stance, near a street sign.  When they ask my name, I reply, “I was freedom, before they modeled you.”  And though I’m as clueless as they, as to what I meant, they smile and offer me a beer.  Now I’m back in a classroom at Mobile Christian School.  My fellow students fill the room, yet there are no teachers–indeed no adults at all.  I turn to Jamie, and ask her to go home with me.  She agrees.  When we return, I ask Denise the same, and she agrees.  I take home and bring back one girl after another, until I hear a gavel.  I am forty-five again, yet at the U.S. Capitol.  Senators from West-Coast states declare secession from the Union.  But before I can ask why, a senator smiles, and shows me to a window.  He opens the curtains to an Ireland-green land, and I am there.  The prehistoric people seem to say I’m related to them.  And when I motion that I cannot understand their words, they direct me to a golden wall adorned with alphabetic characters unlike any I’ve seen on Earth.  I’ll be here long enough to learn their language, to choose a wife, and hopefully to remember them.

Thumri

A rooster calls dusk into dawn, as I watch a train below in Brownsville.  I walk on.  I speak to no one on Cervantes, but the buried in the Jewish cemetery, to whom I say, “Shalom.”  And as I pass the projects, I pray for the poor.  Yet as I pass mansions on Scenic Highway, I scoff at the thought of praying for the rich–until I realize they have problems too, beyond the financial facade.  And I pray the same prayer for them.  Upon returning, I stop beneath an oak overlooking Escambia Bay.  I stretch my arms skyward, and pray for myself.  Then I breathe the knowledge that my waking life isn’t such a nightmare, after all.

CHECK OUT THIS POUT!

I’ve neglected my blog for a while, and am trying to get back to it (I’ve got alot of things going on offline that are interfering).  But here’s a quick pic of another gorgeous classic actress, Phyllis Thaxter.  What turns me on most about this woman is her lips.  Though I’m not a lip-man, but a hip-man (the most important physical feature on a woman, for me, is her hips–I like them large, it obviously goes back to human evolution), a good set of lips is a plus.  And my favorite kind is the permanent pout, as exemplified by Phyllis Thaxter.  Notice that even when she smiles, her lips look as if she’s pouting.  I think the reason I like lips like hers is that they seem to convey a sense of need.  And everyone–especially every man–needs to be needed.

EVERY MAN’S DREAM: SISTERS

Olivia de Havilland

Joan Fontaine

HAPPY 77th, MOM!

Today is my mom’s birthday–and just as my dad is, she is alive and well!  I spoke with her a moment ago.  The weather  in Mobile is sunny (it’s stormy here in Pensacola)–and she is picking blueberries from one of the four very high-yielding blueberry bushes she and my dad planted in their backyard.  Whenever I go to Mobile, I am greeted with blueberry pancakes, just one of her specialties!  My mom has always been a wonderful cook–I wish to God I would have appreciated the delicious, healthy meals she prepared for me as a child! 

My mom is a retired CRRN (certified rehabilitation registered nurse).  She was in her 40′s when she attended college, then nursing school–inspired by my oldest sister, Cathy, who’d done the same.  She was the oldest student in her class, and graduated with top honors!  She then worked at Mobile Infirmary (where I was born), and later at a rehabilitation center, primarily with chronic-pain sufferers.

My mom has always been the spiritual head of my family, she had me baptized in the United Methodist Church as an infant.  My renunctiation of organized religion (including Christianity) is thus very painful for her.  I have explained to her, many times, that I believe in the same God she does–just see God in a different way.  Yet this is no consolation for her.  She continues to try to get me back into the fold–to believe that Jesus was the incarnation of the Creator.  But as I’ve mentioned in a previous post–we have no control over our beliefs.  Still, I no longer resent her mild proselytism–for I know she fears for me, and this indicates her love for me.  In fact, I accept her Christianity–along with my dad, she is very active in volunteer work through her church, and helps alot of people!

My mom has also always been very helpful regarding my mental illness.  Because my mental illness is hereditary, both of my parents (and my sisters, to some degree) are mentally ill, particularly with obsessive-compulsive disorder.  They deny theirs, and I no longer bother trying to convince them of it.  But while so many mothers would deny their children’s mental illness, my mom accepts mine.  Along with my dad, she has been an active member of NAMI (the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill), since I was diagnosed in the late 1980′s.  And she gives me lots of advice, and tries her best to understand my illness better–reading and listening to as much as she can on the subject.  In fact, she sometimes gets a little carried away with it, presuming to know my diagnoses better than I do.  But as with the religious issue, I have come to accept this.  Because, again, she cares about me– she loves me in her own way!

And as with my dad, sometimes I dislike my mom.  But I always love her.  For she is a part of me too!