Monday, June 24, 2013
Seems like I am still going to have to wear something to protect that foot joint. I am being sent to get myself a crow boot that will continue to provide support, more comfortably than the current boot does. I am supposed to wear it most of the time. Looks kind of forbidding to me. Here is a pic I pulled offline. And what a name!!! Oh well, at least I have my foot.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Trip
And now, with all those old posts transferred over to this blog, it is back to the present!
Trip is the name I have given to my orthopedic boot. I have worn Trip now for just under six weeks. Tomorrow, if all goes well with the xray at the podiatrist's office, and the joint in my foot has healed, Trip and I will part ways. And my life will get easier.
Trip is the name I have given to my orthopedic boot. I have worn Trip now for just under six weeks. Tomorrow, if all goes well with the xray at the podiatrist's office, and the joint in my foot has healed, Trip and I will part ways. And my life will get easier.
Claudius, 2000-2011
Claudius, one of my two cats, slipped peacefully away right before our eyes this past week. He began the day hardly able to walk, and crying in pain. He had weighed over 20 lbs. Now he weighed nine. We took him to the vet wrapped, like a little baby, in a blanket. On the way home we were both crying. Cats do not just take up residence in your home. They get inside your heart in a wonderful way.
I wrote this poem today in memory of many happy times over the past decade.
FLY AWAY
Fly away my little friend;
With purrs you warmed my heart.
You snuggled soft upon my lap,
But now we have to part.
Fly away my little friend,
A friend I loved so dear.
You never spoke, you never talked,
Yet your voice I still do hear.
Little darling, little friend,
I am grateful for the days
You shared my home and touched my heart,
In soft mysterious ways.
Patrick A Rose
Feb. 1, 2011.
First published Feb. 1, 2011.
Betty the Bird Brain
Once upon a time there was a Canada goose. She was a magnificent
fowl, as fowls generally are. She was covered with feathers and had a
beak. Her name was Betty.
Betty looked like a typical magnificent Canada goose. Deep down inside her birdish soul, though, she had a yearning, a yearning to reach out beyond the limited social realm of bird-dom. Even though she was not merely a bird, but a goose, she was growing tired of the soul-destroying shallowness of a life spend flying around making honking noises, landing on ponds, and generally fouling their banks. Betty wanted more.
One day, purely by chance, as she was flying from one pond to another -- alone, because she happened to be in a grumpy solitary mood that day-- she looked down at the front lawn of a house she was passing over. There in the middle of the lawn was a bright shiny red something. Whatever it was, it looked powerful. It looked strong. It looked so ... mmmmmmm masculine. Betty's heart started to go plippety plop -- the palpitations of love.
She adjusted her wing feathers -- the bird equivalent of flaps -- and slowed her airspeed. She banked. She banked some more. She was dizzy with love. And even though she was a bird, she was about to make herself airsick.
Finally she plopped down, clumsily, on the bright green lawn, in front of the bright red shiny masculine machine.
How does a bird that is bored of bird-dom but is nevertheless still cursed with a bird brain, reach out romantically to a machine? Inevitably, she did so in a stupid way; and it was beyond stupid, for the only word to describe the consequences is "tragic."
Those of the human ilk find much of nature to be savage. Hence the use of the word "savage" to describe animals, I suppose. And indeed it can be savage. Think of the poor male spider who gives it his all, and then is eaten by his mate. Think of cats -- tom cats -- who get all torn and scratched fighting for the right to mate with that cute little sweetie with wide brown eyes and with whiskers to die for. Think of germs, which reproduce by splitting in half!! 'Tis a very brutal world.
No ending was so tragic, though, no love so destructive, no affection so misplaced, as the attraction which Betty had for this machine.
Perhaps Betty imagined, in her bird brain, that the machine had feelings, and perhaps even a name. She might well have honked, in the language of Canada geese, the words, "I adore you, my love, my love whom I have lovingly named Larry." Perhaps she did think of him as Larry. We have no way of knowing, of course. What we do know, though, is that -- and this is not simply tragic but also horrifying -- "Larry" was not a being with feelings, but was, rather, a machine with blades, big and very fast blades. "Larry" was a lawn mower. He was one of those wonderful new remote-controlled lawn mowers.
In his living room, a human called Bud had just replaced the batteries in the remote control for his bright red new remote-controlled lawn mower. He pushed a button, at the very moment that Betty the shameless was trying to place a kiss on Larry's shining metallic surface.
It would not be appropriate to describe all the heart-rending details of Betty's demise. Phrases such as "blood mixed with feathers," and "severed webbed feet" come to mind, but will not be elaborated upon here, in this public forum.
Bud is still cleaning up his new lawn mower. Poor Bud.
And poor Betty.
First Published Oct. 10, 2009.
Betty looked like a typical magnificent Canada goose. Deep down inside her birdish soul, though, she had a yearning, a yearning to reach out beyond the limited social realm of bird-dom. Even though she was not merely a bird, but a goose, she was growing tired of the soul-destroying shallowness of a life spend flying around making honking noises, landing on ponds, and generally fouling their banks. Betty wanted more.
One day, purely by chance, as she was flying from one pond to another -- alone, because she happened to be in a grumpy solitary mood that day-- she looked down at the front lawn of a house she was passing over. There in the middle of the lawn was a bright shiny red something. Whatever it was, it looked powerful. It looked strong. It looked so ... mmmmmmm masculine. Betty's heart started to go plippety plop -- the palpitations of love.
She adjusted her wing feathers -- the bird equivalent of flaps -- and slowed her airspeed. She banked. She banked some more. She was dizzy with love. And even though she was a bird, she was about to make herself airsick.
Finally she plopped down, clumsily, on the bright green lawn, in front of the bright red shiny masculine machine.
How does a bird that is bored of bird-dom but is nevertheless still cursed with a bird brain, reach out romantically to a machine? Inevitably, she did so in a stupid way; and it was beyond stupid, for the only word to describe the consequences is "tragic."
Those of the human ilk find much of nature to be savage. Hence the use of the word "savage" to describe animals, I suppose. And indeed it can be savage. Think of the poor male spider who gives it his all, and then is eaten by his mate. Think of cats -- tom cats -- who get all torn and scratched fighting for the right to mate with that cute little sweetie with wide brown eyes and with whiskers to die for. Think of germs, which reproduce by splitting in half!! 'Tis a very brutal world.
No ending was so tragic, though, no love so destructive, no affection so misplaced, as the attraction which Betty had for this machine.
Perhaps Betty imagined, in her bird brain, that the machine had feelings, and perhaps even a name. She might well have honked, in the language of Canada geese, the words, "I adore you, my love, my love whom I have lovingly named Larry." Perhaps she did think of him as Larry. We have no way of knowing, of course. What we do know, though, is that -- and this is not simply tragic but also horrifying -- "Larry" was not a being with feelings, but was, rather, a machine with blades, big and very fast blades. "Larry" was a lawn mower. He was one of those wonderful new remote-controlled lawn mowers.
In his living room, a human called Bud had just replaced the batteries in the remote control for his bright red new remote-controlled lawn mower. He pushed a button, at the very moment that Betty the shameless was trying to place a kiss on Larry's shining metallic surface.
It would not be appropriate to describe all the heart-rending details of Betty's demise. Phrases such as "blood mixed with feathers," and "severed webbed feet" come to mind, but will not be elaborated upon here, in this public forum.
Bud is still cleaning up his new lawn mower. Poor Bud.
And poor Betty.
First Published Oct. 10, 2009.
Piano Practice
There is something to learn from learning the piano as an adult. It
is most likely too late in life to become good enough for Carnegie
Hall. And it is certainly a time of life where hours and hours of
practice are simply not possible. In fact, once one takes into account a
very busy work 
schedule
and that undeniable sense of fatigue at the end of the day, it is
amazing I practice at all. Actually, for my last piano lesson I didn't
-- practice at all, that is. Except for the few odd minutes at the
keyboard while waiting for a meal to cook. So... while driving to my
lesson, I did what most men are particularly talented at. I searched
for some excuses. Not just one excuse, but excuses.
The first excuse was easy. I had been traveling. Not only had I been traveling, but I had been to Arizona and New Mexico before heading back to Atlanta. I was thinking of throwing in a related excuse and mentioning that I had gotten some desert dust in my eyes in New Mexico, but decided against it. It is never good to appear too pathetic.
The second excuse suddenly hit me -- fortunately only in a metaphorical sense, since I was driving. The mot du jour would be "dabble." Not only does the word have a certain breezy sound to it -- try saying it quickly five times in a row -- but it was the TRUTH!
Oh yes, I have been taking piano lessons for about ten years now. But I have not been practicing that much for those lessons. I have learned a fair amount, for sure. But I could have learned so much more if I had not dabbled. I dabble at learning the piano. But -- and here was the sudden insight that metaphorically hit me while driving -- it is not necessarily bad to dabble.
We cannot excel at everything. We do not have the time to excel at everything. And it is just as well, because we would than fail to excel at being humble. Adult piano lessons are not about excelling. They are about adding something of balance to one's life. They help one understand music better, enjoy music better. They enrich the mind. They lend cultural depth in an electronic instant world.
I was set. I sat down at the piano, and explained to my teacher that I had been traveling, so had not had a chance to practice. Then, after a subtle but calculated pause, I added that what what I was really doing was dabbling at the piano. I mentioned the way it added a certain balance to my life.
She nodded wisely and agreed wholeheartedly.
I have a terrific teacher, don't I?
Originally published July 4, 2009.
The first excuse was easy. I had been traveling. Not only had I been traveling, but I had been to Arizona and New Mexico before heading back to Atlanta. I was thinking of throwing in a related excuse and mentioning that I had gotten some desert dust in my eyes in New Mexico, but decided against it. It is never good to appear too pathetic.
The second excuse suddenly hit me -- fortunately only in a metaphorical sense, since I was driving. The mot du jour would be "dabble." Not only does the word have a certain breezy sound to it -- try saying it quickly five times in a row -- but it was the TRUTH!
Oh yes, I have been taking piano lessons for about ten years now. But I have not been practicing that much for those lessons. I have learned a fair amount, for sure. But I could have learned so much more if I had not dabbled. I dabble at learning the piano. But -- and here was the sudden insight that metaphorically hit me while driving -- it is not necessarily bad to dabble.
We cannot excel at everything. We do not have the time to excel at everything. And it is just as well, because we would than fail to excel at being humble. Adult piano lessons are not about excelling. They are about adding something of balance to one's life. They help one understand music better, enjoy music better. They enrich the mind. They lend cultural depth in an electronic instant world.
I was set. I sat down at the piano, and explained to my teacher that I had been traveling, so had not had a chance to practice. Then, after a subtle but calculated pause, I added that what what I was really doing was dabbling at the piano. I mentioned the way it added a certain balance to my life.
She nodded wisely and agreed wholeheartedly.
I have a terrific teacher, don't I?
Originally published July 4, 2009.
My Mum
Stella Rose, my mother, and one of my very best friends, left for
Angel Land on Monday, Dec 1, just over three weeks short of her 83rd
birthday.
I
am going to miss you a lot, Mum...all the wonderful phone
conversations...all the silliness...and your gentle but deep insights
into people and into life itself. You are going to be a terrific angel,
though, I suspect, one of the more mischievous angels. Heaven is a
beautiful place. It is also wonderful fun.
"There's a better home awaiting,
In the sky Lord, in the sky."
Originally published Dec. 3, 2008.
"There's a better home awaiting,
In the sky Lord, in the sky."
Originally published Dec. 3, 2008.
My Brother
My brother died last week. He led a hard life and had been sick for a
long time. I shed tears at his passing, and I send forth smiles at the
knowledge that has woken up in a better world. One day we shall meet
again, Michael. Little brother, I have written this poem for you.
My Brother's Journey
My Brother's Journey
Life's journey is a mystery,
Winding path to heaven's love.
Our lives are each a story
Which ends far up above.
Winding path to heaven's love.
Our lives are each a story
Which ends far up above.
My brother's path led downwards,
Down to years of pain.
His steps were merely shuffles.
The road was dark with rain.
Down to years of pain.
His steps were merely shuffles.
The road was dark with rain.
Yet deep within his spirit,
His fire was carefully kept.
His love, his passion, glowing,
His brilliance merely slept.
His fire was carefully kept.
His love, his passion, glowing,
His brilliance merely slept.
Today his eyes do sparkle,
His mind is filled with fun.
He walks that world where all shall go,
The paths of angel-land.
His mind is filled with fun.
He walks that world where all shall go,
The paths of angel-land.
Patrick Alan Rose, Nov 25, 2008
Originally published Nov. 25, 2008.
Sinuses and Foreign Heads of State
Last
week I went to an ENT for a problem with a sinus infection As I walked
into the office of this new doctor, I was blithely unaware of the
potentially international significance of my two innocent-looking
nostrils. Soon, though, I was asked to sign the Notice of Privacy Practices of this Ear, Nose & Throat Clinic. Listed were the many circumstances in which they would be permitted to release my Individually Identifiable Health Information ((IIHI).
Yes, you may have guessed it! They are allowed to release information
about my nostrils "in order to protect . . . foreign heads of state."
Nostrils
may be small seemingly insignificant orifices. They may produce
unpleasant discharge (sinuses not overly terrific, or S.N.O.T). But who
would have guessed that they have their own small place to play in
international affairs?
Originally published Nov. 25, 2008.
Ballet and Parking Lots
I did not start going to the ballet until late into my forties. It
seemed like something to avoid. My sister had had ballet lessons. My
daughter had had ballet lessons. Ballet seemed like an alien feminine
pursuit, something to be ignored. I don't even remember how or why I
first went to a ballet, but wow! We were living in Cincinnati at the
time, and the Cincinnati Ballet
was exceptional. I was hooked. These people floated through the air.
They painted scenes with motion instead of pigments. They sang with
their bodies.
Ballet is not as popular as, say, [fill in the blank]. The people that go to ballet are not just any people. They have been captured by the magic of a gentle world. And this was obvious after we left. The parking garage was awfully badly designed, and very hard to get out of. Yet, there was no aggressive garage-exiting. People were polite, and polite beyond anything one might ever see elsewhere. They waited for their turn to merge into the one lane heading out of the one exit.
Politeness is something kind and human and gracious and civilized. Politeness behind the wheel was a fitting postscript to the gentleness of dance.
Originally published May 15, 2008.
Ballet is not as popular as, say, [fill in the blank]. The people that go to ballet are not just any people. They have been captured by the magic of a gentle world. And this was obvious after we left. The parking garage was awfully badly designed, and very hard to get out of. Yet, there was no aggressive garage-exiting. People were polite, and polite beyond anything one might ever see elsewhere. They waited for their turn to merge into the one lane heading out of the one exit.
Politeness is something kind and human and gracious and civilized. Politeness behind the wheel was a fitting postscript to the gentleness of dance.
Originally published May 15, 2008.
He Sits
One of my cats sits next to me. He sits and he is warm and
quiet. He and I are comfortable together. We know each other. I have
had him since he was a kitten, and he is almost eight years old now.
I suppose it is this sense of belonging, of shared experience, that makes us part of one family. Even though our experiences of this relationship must surely be very different, still, I am his owner and he is my cat. And it feels good.
Originally published May 13, 2008.
I suppose it is this sense of belonging, of shared experience, that makes us part of one family. Even though our experiences of this relationship must surely be very different, still, I am his owner and he is my cat. And it feels good.
Originally published May 13, 2008.
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