Less Than Desired

I just saw another one of those "Eat this and never diet again" posts. They are like a seductive voice tempting people to just believe their lies, and their dreams will come true. Here's how it really works. If you're not the weight you want to be, then you need to eat less and exercise more--preferably weight lifting and resistance exercises that build muscles which burn more calories up to maintain than fat does. Then when you are down to the weight you want to be, you step on the freaking bathroom scale every morning. If it shows you are over your ideal weight by even half a pound, you eat less than day. If you find you are eating less than you want nearly every day, you have it about right.

Mind Snatchers?

Dave Coverly has a comic--sorry, I can't copy it--of a mother and two kids. The mother says, "When I was your age, I had to write in a style called 'cursive'." The two kids standing before her text messages to each other. The boy's text reads: WTH is mom saying? The girl texts back: IDK.

This comic strikes terror in my teacher's heart on so many levels I can hardly type fast enough.

First of all, my grandmother was a penmanship teacher. Cursive writing was her specialty. She lived to be ninety-six, and her handwriting was as beautiful at the end as you can imagine. Even strokes, lovely curves, not a wobble or hesitation in any letter. It was a work of art--something that is going to be lost, if not already, in the next decade--maybe forever. Even when people do not express themselves well in words, their penmanship can demand respect. Words are precious. A beautiful hand shows how each word is labored over.

Let's look at the male dumbhead in the comic next. He is so slovenly, that he expects his reader to know what he means by WTH. Sure, we can guess quickly enough, and some of these acronyms, BTW, are so well-known that they hardly need a second thought. But then again, what the heck/hell is a writer doing making his readers guess at his meaning! Wash ten hippos. Welcome thy highness. Where's the happiness? Wish to hiccup. Why try, hothead?

His sister is even worse. She can only manage the first letter of each word she wants to say, and she can't spell, so the reader is even more challenged.

Beyond these first reactions come deeper ones. They are in the same room, but they are not conversing. Texting is not conversation, it is flash messages. They don't respond to their mother. They don't even look at her or each other. They are incapable of any communication that is harder than a twitch of their fingers. They are conversational couch potatoes.

Their communication style, which is anemic, is nothing to their lack of cerebral activity. They are almost intellectually dead. They don't know what "cursive" is. They don't have enough curiosity to ask their mother to explain herself. They don't even have the intelligence to figure out that she is the one they should ask the question to. The boy at least has listened to his mother's statement enough to arouse some uneasiness, but the sister is a rock.

I hear statistics of how much time people are spending on these handheld weapons of mass social destruction. It is frightening. Will they get over the fad and reenter real human interaction? It is too soon to say, but it feels like an invasion of the mind snatchers?

Bread and Birds

Kneading bread while watching birds,
I see them hop and flit and pick and fly,
Leaving tracks in fresh fallen snow.
They feed since fast the day goes by.

Punched down, the bread is left to rest
To breathe and grow and stretch and sleep,
Like the living loam of earth beneath
The snow that blankets it so deep.

Dough surges up to peek above the bowl,
The darkness deepens early in the winter skies.
The birds have gone to roost till morn,
And like my bread, so slow the moon will rise.

An Ugly Poem by Someone Who Can't Sing

Singing off key
With a voice that cracks,
Croaking not warbling,
Grasping for breath,
Losing the melody
(Pretending it's harmony),
Gravelly notes,
And a beat that falters.
In spite of all this
To sing with my soul
Pleases my Father.
That's enough for me
To endure listening to myself.

Blueberries and Serenity

I just read an article about a billboard in Michigan. It says, "I'm concerned about the blueberries." See this. The man basically was encouraging people to be sensitive to others' troubles and help them out if possible. In other words: do good deeds--pay it forward. It comes across as very feel-good-about-yourself-by-being-nice. I really don't have any problem with the concept, except that it still bothers me. Why? It's a new godless version of the golden rule. It is basically saying that lots of real problems could be solved if we are just selfless. This is true, but the deception is that the solution is too simple. It forgets that we are sinful. It also forgets that helping people out there is much easier than fixing up the messes we've made with people right here--in our own circle of friends, in our own home, in our own bedroom. It's like the Serenity Prayer without the first word and the second stanza.

Under Observation

A break in the foliage,
A fluttering weed,
Shadows and darkness
And rustling speed--
Something has passed
Like a flighty thought
That escapes my attention
Before it is sought.
A turkey, a chipmunk,
Or maybe a deer--
It shot into the bush
Before I knew it was near.
Safe now and still
In the coolness and shade,
It watches my movements
From its gloomy glade.
The tables are turned--
I wanted to see
To admire and thrill!
But the "it" watches me.

Let the Party Begin

There is not a breath of wind. The trees stand perfectly still, silent and thoughtful. The dogwood, ever impatient, has shed its green gown for a red one. They are all like brides, awaiting the celebration--not ready to sport their wedding finery. But that glorious day is coming, and they will parade their colors in heady celebration. The party begins, the wind picks up, and the leaves begin to dance and swirl and fall, till the trees stand naked and exposed for a long and dark wedding night.