The Birds and the Bees

As you may know from my last post, I will be resurrecting some blogs from the old MySpace. This is the first of my adventures back in time. The posts here will have the same titles as the orinial MySpace posts. I will preface each with the original posting date and probably a brief word on what I think of it in retrospect.

This entry is from 5/31/2013. The "poem" is down right terrible, although I still personally relate to the nostalgic images of a better time long gone. However, I like the thoughts that follow the poem, which might not make much sense out of context. In case you haven't noticed yet, my favorite subject is SYNCHRONICITY! This entry offers a good example of how, sometimes, things happen for reasons other than what you might have originally intended. In this case, I wrote a poem not for the sake of beauty but because it helped me realize how to help my friend.

When I was younger
My mom made the car dance
And we didn't talk of tire tread

When I was younger
Ladybugs hitchhiked hence
Carried carefully on my head

When I was younger
Strawberries were sweet
And sold at county fairs

When I was younger
My friends were afraid of bees
Because they ruled earth and air

When I was younger
The lake was a brief vacation
For the swans on migration

When I was younger
You could see at night
By the firefly light

When I was younger
Everything was a painting
It was all poetry

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

So, this is my second attempt at posting this. In my last attempt I wrote (to the best of my recollection):
"Not what I was looking for. I was trying to be less structured, but my mind instantly saw the patterns and wanted to put them in order, to twist the portions to fit the pattern.
I think words have a mind of their own. I think words want to be in order aesthetically. I think words are offended when not arranged carefully."

The irony of this is that what allowed me to remember what I had written after it was erased was the relationship between the words. The very structure I was fighting is what allowed me to resurrect it. Aha! And now I know how to help someone I know for whom I previously had nothing useful to say regarding the problematic situation! Blessed serendipity!

Back to the work at hand, it might yet be a good base idea. Sometimes I write something terrible but come back to it later and write something better. It does at least convey what I want it to say.

Sometimes the way to say more is to say less, let the others fill in the rest.

So that was that. Hopefully tomorrow I'll have something better to share with you. But this does have deep personal meaning for me. It is not only a longing for my youth, when I didn't have to worry about wear and tear on tires and tie rods. It is also an expression of the desperation with which I view the apparent destruction of my world. The bees, the fireflies, the ladybugs are all disappearing. The strawberries are sour because they have all had the sweetness bred out of them in favor of looking plump and red when they finally make it to your grocery store from God knows where. The famous Pungo Strawberry Festival is a disgusting mockery of our once great agricultural heritage. Last time we went there was only ONE vendor with anything even relating to strawberries. Day by day, year by year, I watch our agricultural land destroyed and replaced with Walmarts and McMansions as the increasingly imaginary "green line" gets pushed further and further south. I see the Sunsations invading the Outer Banks. I see our local culture disintegrate, as the Jewish Mother, The Heritage, the 31st St park are all sacrificed to the "if you build it, they will come" catering-to-imaginary-wealthy-people-over-the-REAL-interests-of-the-community school of thought that reigns supreme on the City Council. Finally, it is about the death of a spirit. The death of the ability to see the magic in every moment. I don't see dragons anymore.