Break out of your routine

Some people are in awe of the unnatural. Producers know this, and birthed "Reality TV." Which if you watch it at all, you know isn't real. The sadistic producer is somewhere just off camera encouraging the "actors" to ham it up, lay it on think, cause trouble. Dull people don't get into the house. People are cast in these shows based on their ability to provoke. People in the awe of the unnatural watch these shows with aplomb, enjoy them, boost ratings.

Other people sit on the fence with faux lives. They like to watch other people break out of the routine. They take seminars and classes on becoming free spirits. They attend churches and read books on facing their fears. But when push comes to shove they won't deliver. They can't take the chance. They will stay put. They have no poetic advancement. They have have an inner romantic, they just won't let the romance out.

To write poetry you need an eye for the absurd. You see things differently. You mouth the words. A big vocabulary is nice, but turning the phrase is the real gift. A radical new way to describe the same old blog, that's the port of call for a poet. I had a friend in college who used to like roaming the neighborhood at 2am. It sort of freaked out his wife. He liked the quiet. He liked to observe. He drew conti drawings in black and red of leaves on the ground, odd shaped seeds. He saw where everyone else saw and dismissed. His drawings sold for over a thousand dollars each.

The super realism was fine, no doubt a skill honed from years of art school. But why, you wonder, would people pay for his work when anyone could go out with a camera? It was the way he framed things. The focus of his intent. He brought the leaves into your heart and out again. He showed you a new way to see. He created a profile, so to speak, for a relatively inanimate object. Every object manifests some reflection of the intelligence that created it. We just have to open up to that reality for it to be a daily delight.

Another friend of mine wrote a poem once about a dog by the side of the highway. How the stray was waiting, in faith and patience, for those who dropped him off to return. No part of his body was not alert. The fur was matted, the ribs showed through the skin, but his eyes remained fixated on the far off. He was searching for the familiar car, the familiar family. He would wait until he was killed by another driver, or rescued, or starved. Don't we all by pass animals like that every day? We can be sad for a moment, or not. If we are going to function properly we can't give them too much thought. Unless we read a poem that makes our eyes burn with tears. We think of the faith animals put in our unworthy race, poor things are at the mercy of our finances.

Sometimes my routine is broken by things completely out of my control. My husband left. My job evaporated. Children grow up, move out. Friends get divorced and married. The street I like to drive on needs repairs. I take a new direction. I hit a cul-de-sac and turn around. I breathe deep. I continue to believe that one day this economy will reinvent itself. Someone will hire me. Life will change.