Archive for April, 2011


I once read of a no-makeup day–a woman (a fellow blogger, I believe) suggested that women go without makeup for a day.  That would be a good idea for women–but especially for us men.  Makeup fools us, even intimidates us.  Because of it, we men forget women are as human as we–tend to see them as goddesses.  I think if women never wore makeup, in our society, both sexes would be better off.  But that’s just my radical opinion.

One of my favorite actresses is Kim Hunter.  I see her often on episodes of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.  But she is best known for her role in the original Planet of the Apes.  Like most of the actresses to whom I’m most attracted, Kim Hunter is before my time (Planet of the Apes was made in 1968, when I was two).  Thank God for photography, however–a person can be seen and enjoyed by generations of kids like me, who feel they’d fit-in better in previous generations anyway.

This is Kim Hunter:



Can there be such a thing?  I guess–especially if you believe as I do, that it’s better to do the right thing for the wrong reason than the wrong thing for the right reason!  Or maybe I just like the twist!

I notice that my blog has taken on a theme of the color brown, the past few posts.  This wasn’t planned.  But in an attempt to exorcise this angel, for the moment, let me present an excerpt of mine using the same color–then move to a poem of mine using a different one (blonde).

This is an excerpt from the same published nonfiction piece of mine cited in this post:

     As with music, film, and literature, I live through phases with women, which eventually connect into circles.  Now I’m in a brown phase, in which all my fantasy-girls have brown (or black) hair, and brown eyes–and blondes, whom I used to favor, seem bland!

     Even real women fit this mood–as proven at a dance Friday night.  This time, there were women my age, and younger!  Still–old, charming, better-dressed men made their moves on my selected brunettes, before I had enough Guinness Draught to do so!  I hate being forty-two–older women call me too young, younger women call me too old!  Maybe this is the dark side of God, at work–as if to overtake my dark side!  And only another Hindu passage sustains me: “You have but the right to perform action; you have no hold on the results thereof.  May you not seek the rewards of action, and may you never engage in wrong action.”  I have no hold on the results of my actions, thus I am comforted.  For resigning myself to the moment attracts peace.

And this is a poem I wrote in 1989, for the same class mentioned in the previous post.  It is the only sonnet I’ve ever written–and finding fixed verse so difficult to write (as I still do), I had a hell of a time with it (this has also been included in my writers’ group’s monthly newsletter):

For Rebecca

Scott ____

I wandered into an April night alone

The purpose lost in clouds that passed the moon

And scattered its light until it was outshown.

If she existed, I knew she’d be here soon.

I searched for her like every night before

Imagined that she graced the shaded lawn.

Was drifting scent mere honeysuckle, or

This feminine fragrance to which I had been drawn?

When she appeared, I shivered first with fright

Then joy.  Her blonde hair flowed

So warm upon that lacy dress of white.

I gazed into her eyes, where love softly showed.

This dream of her was all the love I knew

Until she vanished and came to life–she’s you.


I use the above title because it’s something my mom sometimes says when she’s really offended at something.  But it’s somewhat of an oxymoron, isn’t it?  Nevertheless, I’ve always been amused at the expression.  And she might definitely use it, if reading this post (provided I publish it)!  Sometimes it’s fun, for any blogger, to be a little daring!

I was thinking earlier about memories, and about sex–volatile combination, huh?  Among many of the creative writing classes I took at the University of South Alabama, one was Advanced Poetry Writing.  My instructor–like those for my other writing classes–was an accomplished, published writer herself.  And she had us write many different kinds of poems.  Fortunately, for me, most could be free verse (I’ve always found fixed verse–you know rhyme, rhythm, meter–very difficult). 

And one assignment was to write a poem about our earliest memory.  I have many very early memories–my longterm memory is better than my shortterm.   Yet at that time (1989) my earliest memory was this: I was about four, and my mom was visiting a neighbor, Mrs. Brown.  Like my mom, Mrs. Brown had a husband and children–and was about the same age.  On this particular afternoon, my mom had taken me with her to the Brown’s house.  And I played with toys (airplanes, as I recall) with her son on the floor, while she and my mom sat on the couch, and talked.  I can’t remember Mrs. Brown’s face, but she was quite attractive.  And sitting there, on the floor, I happened to be at eye level with Mrs. Brown’s…and I kid you not–it aroused me!  I couldn’t get an erection that soon, of course, but it definitely aroused me!

So I wrote the following as my assignment, in 1989:

Staring up Mrs. Brown’s Skirt

Scott ____

The unknown turn-on pops

Into the vision of a four-year-old

Like a ripened peach.

She doesn’t see me seeing up her skirt

As she sits in grown-up chatter with my mom.

What is that place within her skirt

Between her soft, smooth legs

Beneath her pantyhose–

As brown as her hair, and more brown than her name?

Why does my stomach drop to the floor

And why do I like it so much?

(I didn’t know you then, but I wish I knew you now!)

That last line I put in parenthesis, because I recently removed it–feeling it didn’t quite make sense.  But my instructor was impressed enough–and this, along with several other poems, got me an A in the course!


And this is my favorite from the fifth segment of The Friars Club Encyclopedia of Jokes (categories under the letter, E):

In the days when tall wooden ships sailed the high seas, there was this one ship sailing during a war.  That morning, the lookout shouted, “Enemy ship on the horizon.”

The captain said to his ensign, “Get me my red shirt.”

The ensign, rather bewildered by this odd request, did as his captain ordered.

Though the battle was a long one, the captain and his crew managed to fend off the enemy ship.

Later that day, the lookout shouted, “Two enemy ships on the horizon.”

As before, the captain said to his ensign, “Get me my red shirt.”  And, as before, the ensign did as his captain asked.  The battle took the rest of the day to fight, and again they managed to defeat the two enemy ships.

That evening, the ensign asked his captain, “Sir, why, before every battle, do you ask for your red shirt?”

The captain replied, “Well, if I am wounded in battle, the blood will not show and the crew will continue to fight.”

The crew was listening, and they were impressed.  They had a brave captain.

The next morning, the lookout shouted, “Ten enemy ships on the horizon.”

The ensign looked at his captain, waiting for the usual orders.  The captain said to his ensign, “Ensign, get me my brown pants.”

(As you can see, the captain was right, and the ten enemy ships were destroyed!)


Okay, so my answer to the previous question didn’t even require words!  But this one from Gregory Stock’s book does:

If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one ability or quality, what would it be?

I would be a shape-shifter–I’d have the ability to morph into any living thing (plant or animal), then back to myself at will!  I could be anything–or anyone, including a much healthier version of myself!  This is the main reason I’m so fascinated with werewolves!  I could become an invincible superman, with unlimited strength–or a tiny bonsai, admired by countless people!  I could fly as a hawk, swim as a dolphin–the possibilities would seem endless!

The following music-impression poem of mine illustrates this shape-shifting dream.  I wrote it in November, 2009, and it was included in my writers’ group’s monthly newsletter.  As with all my music-impression poems, its title is that of the recording that evoked these images in my mind.   

Indian Music for Sitar and Surbahar: For Meditation and Love  (Imrat Khan, with Shafaat Miadaad Khan)

Scott ____

Rag Jog

Aunt Veronica has arrived early, so I have to keep her entertained until Mom and Dad get home from work.  She sits across the red room from me, smoking, looking bored–as I talk too much, even for a thirteen-year-old.  When I’m forty-three, I’ll swoon gloriously in her cigarette smoke–then stop chattering, and approach her.  For she is brown-haired, brown-eyed, brown-bodied, like Natalie Wood.  And she’ll receive me ravishingly, since my fantasies never fail.  The live oaks, from which Aunt Veronica was born, are also brown, especially when wet.  Brown too is the Darjeeling tea in my Washington National Cathedral cup, the end table on which it sits, the arm rest on my recliner, the sharpened end of my pencil, the cardboard notebook I use to steady this spiral one–and probably the sitar and surbahar from which this brown-sounding music moves.  Brown is the color from which all colors bloom.

I meet Renee at Yamato, a foolish choice for a first date.  But this is the hostess from Logan’s Roadhouse, of whom I drunkenly asked her e-mail address.  And after dozens of ignored e-mail invitations from me, she has finally accepted.  I just hope they serve saki–I’ll need it when I’m served the check.  Outside the restaurant, a down-and-out dog sniffs a McDonald’s bag along, in the breeze bestowed by the pleasantly disappointing Tropical Storm Ida.  Along the sidewalk comes a bearded beggar (a biker before he had to sell his Harley).  The manly man tries to pet the dog, but it flees.  And the kindred man kicks the McDonald’s bag, bitterly.

Rag Saraswati

Shape-shifting is my favorite sport.  I was Aunt Veronica, I was Renee, I was the bearded beggar, I was the dog.  Now I am a rat snake, awakened from hibernation by a dream that I was a possible poet.  From beneath a palmetto, I sway my way through a fence, and onto the Pensacola Municipal Golf Course.  An old man soars a ball a great distance, to the approval of his peers.  I find it, once it hits the ground–then grasp it as with an egg, and return it to the golfer.  But just before his club hits my head, I swoop into a hawk–and ride Ida’s still lingering winds, above hundreds of houses, on this Veterans’ Day.  My parents have invited me to Mobile for Thanksgiving Dinner.  But since my car is unstable, I’ll fly there today, just in case–then morph into myself again.

Well, dinner was delicious–I return to Pensacola as a flying fox, and to my recliner as the possible poet.  I frantically dance lines of some of my worst poetry ever, before this raga ends.  Perhaps if I sip a cup of Irish breakfast tea, I can then be more original, creative, and clear–but there simply is no time.  So I put the damned notebook down, and just listen!


Another question from Gregory Stock’s book is this:

What would constitute a “perfect” evening for you?