Archive for the Philosophy Category

Words Tell IT All

Posted in Arts, Bird of Time, Culture, Education, Humor, nuance, nuance, Philosophy, poets, poets, The Arts, words on July 20, 2014 by bird of time

England. The English. English. A tiny island stuck on Winston Churchill’s back.

It shouldn’t be odd to me that the scrappy Churchill with his wonderful words should be the savior of this scrappy England. What a great pair, a great icon.

I’m a poet, a writer and I love words.It doesn’t matter what they say; it’s what they are. It’s the secrets they hold.The treasures they reveal. My high school English teacher, Jane Pavey later Stephans, gave me one of  my greatest gifts when she told us to look at the root of our words. Each word is a history book. Each word can tell stories of long boats and horned helmets, of the good ship Bounty (or not so good). and even ragtime and Beatles. It can tell if the old village was Saxon or Norman, tell its age by knowing that. It can sing and boast and weep:

“And Crispin Chrispian shall ne’er go by
But we in it shall be remembered
From this day to the ending of the world,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;”
(Shakespeare, of course. Henry V)

We band of brothers. It isn’t quite what Shakespeare meant, but the tiny island is a brotherhood of men created by the Phoenicians, by old Greek gods, Caesar, the Picts and Franks and Saxons. They, like the Happy Few have left their mark on the language and the people.  England and English itself – a happy brand of brothers. A kinship of words.

They say the language is so difficult to learn because of all the nuances, because the same word can have entirely different meanings like junk, ship, and junk, trash. There are all those ghosts in the language. But It has a wealth of expression that is perhaps unmatched.

Even the sounds of the words are like a picnic in the United Nations. Harsh sounds, or soft, sometimes lilting sounds.  Good Night. I’d guess that is German from the gutteral sound of it. Actually, the dictionary said Anglo Saxon, Germanic, of course.  gòd niht. The German is Gute Nacht. I don’t know for sure as I don’t often hear them, but I think I hear a softer gutteral sound in Polish and the Balkan states.  In England I love to listen to the accents and try to figure out where in England they are from. Some of it sounds a bit like a foreign language.

The soft, gliding sounds: sibilant, a Latin hiss. That delights me: a Latin hiss. What a picture! In spite of how much I like English I think Italian is the most musical of all the languages – it rolls and spits and kisses and even laughs. If I had to give up English I’d go dancing in that wonderful Italian  barrel of grapes marked for the finest wines.

And then there is the meaning, the nuance that makes a Shakespeare, a Browning or an Emily Dickenson. Look at the sloop, a barge, a clipper and, of all things a junk. England, the land of The Navy. Almost all of English  history can be seen in its ships. The most beautiful,  the heart-stopping clipper ship: clip – race fast, Old Norse – who better with those wonderful long boats? What a vision.  Junk, the ugliest of the ship words (not helped by its twin, junk for trash.)  It is still the most romantic:  Malay – adjong. You never hear it any more, I suppose it is not PC, but when I was young every concert singer sang On The Road to Mandalay, where the flying fishes play. Where the dawn comes up like thunder out of China ‘cross the bay.  Strangely, the beautiful song came from a definitely un-PC poem by Kipling.

Everyone jokes about reading the dictionary as the most boring pastime in the world. But I love the words, I love to see where they are from, what they can tell me what is new or remind me of the old, the romantic. They are the tag lines of history. I think if there were a University of Words, we’d have a very educated, civilized society.



Saturday Night. Another World

Posted in Bird of Time, conservative, Constitution, Culture, Humor, Opinion, Philosophy, Politics, The Arts, wordpress with tags , , , , on May 21, 2014 by bird of time

A lady never tells her age. It just sneaks out when she isn’t looking:  her manners (or lack of them), the smile that a word might bring, even the swear word she might use when she is totally annoyed. I have no doubt that by the time this bit of whimsy is finished you can tell the month, the date and the year I was born.

Well,  almost.

Someone mentioned a poem they had written about a Saturday night.

Saturday night. Another world.

In this real world, well, the Old Grey Mare, she ain’t what she used to be. Saturday night now means ho, hum. There is nothing on television until Fox’s Bulls and Bears at eleven. Don’t know where the Brit Mysteries went, but since that station only has eight months of programs (four of appeals), there is no point in looking for them. Perhaps this is one of those gifts that keeps on giving.

Saturday Nights. How I loved them. As a kid, it meant a movie. And later, a movie with that good night kiss you sang to yourself about all week

i lived in Toledo, Ohio in my sort of single days. You know, that town that everyone makes fun of. Actually it wasn’t bad then. It has one of the world’s best art museums and the theaters still had wine velvet drapes with gold thread, small restaurants in a downtown that stayed open for the movie crowd, street cars that ran only on the hour after twelve and I think stopped totally at two. Several of the nicer restaurants had a dance floor and one of the stone quarries offered dancing under the stars. I’ll take that.

Saturday actually started on Friday nights. Hair, nails, iron our special dresses and shine the shoes – an evening routine that was the equal to any “I have to wash my hair” excuse.

Then the dressing up for Saturday deal. White gloves. Highest heels we had. The latest in hats (or not). Then downtown on the bus for lunch – for which my future sister-in-law, friend was always half an hour late. Our favorite lunch place was  the restaurant in our favorite store. Later I’d take my kids there for their birthday lunch.

At Christmas time the stores filled their windows with manger scenes and angels that left you gasping. My store had the best Santa in town.

My sister-in-law was a tiny thing and there were always great bargains on the racks for her. So we’d head for the dress sale racks. There was always a clerk to greet you and actually wait on you. She’d check your dressing room to see if everything was alright, see if she could find something for you, or get a different size. For a long time, she got a commission but that disappeared about the time the clerks disappeared.

After that we’d go to a smaller but pricier place to drool over their hats.  If only I had those lovely things today. big black and huge straw, sparkling white Scarlet O’Hara hats, little straws that actually did have cherries or tiny flowers and ribbons on them, a black Ingrid Bergman hat from Casablanca, a stacked straw, a glorious pink hat with big pink roses, a white fur that the Czars’ wife might have worn. Oh my.

If I could have some reminder of those days, I’d take the hats, plus maybe one wine velvet dress, one lavender cotton with big embroidered lilacs, and one pair of gold sandals.

it was like a gigantic treasure box. No bare shopping malls. Just “Downtown” where all the good things were. I wonder if New York City is still like it was when I visited th city with Macy’s and Sacs, a .small downtown  A mall just is not the same. No romance. No big deal.

The stores then had a book and a candy department, and a yard goods department. Big bolts of heavy Skinner satin and lovely soft Pendleton wools. Huge books of patterns for beautiful dresses and fuzzy pajamas. They had one of the prettiest leopard print furs I’ve ever seen. I don’t like most they look so artificial, but this was soft (fake furry) and beautiful.  I made a coat I loved for years. It was my signature coat.

I had my first two charge cards there, down town. My behavior was never so good again as it as with them!

And that was just the afternoon.

I don’t know what Saturday night is these days. Just another day to go out?

It really was the highlight of the week. If you were lucky, your date was a good dancer. If not it was movie night. The theaters were always packed. We didn’t usually bother with the first couple of weeks of a block buster, but settled for a good one in one of the smaller theaters. And yes, there were balconies and snuggling, but those weren’t our choice of seats if we could help it.

Then waffles and coffee in one of the small restaurants that catered to the movie crowd.

I look at the block malls and the tiny bare theaters and I’m glad I’m not a kid now. I guess maybe the screen  elements are worth the excitement of going to the movies, but I can’t think of trading that for the wonderful voice of Ronald Colman, or that lovely, deep French voice of Charles Boyer murmuring in your ear.

Those were the best of times, the worst of times. The worst only because they are gone forever Another world.


Posted in Bird of Time, Culture, Humor, Opinion, Philosophy, Politics, The Arts, wordpress, words with tags , , , , on May 18, 2014 by bird of time

Words can be like little gifts that arrive unexpectedly, and if we are lucky, hang around for a while for us to enjoy.

Lilacs. That one could keep me smiling for hours. It brings in its train, home, May, blue skies and a scent even lovelier than roses..

I’m a dyed- in-the-wool romantic who believed in fairy tales and happily ever after, as a kid. While happily-ever-after days seem to be gone for a while, hope is the one thing that never fled Pandora’s box.

But this is all a bit of a tangent (one of those words that keeps on giving, you can fly off on a tangent and land anywhere).

The other day I was kind enough or cruel enough, to suggest to a friendly poet that a certain word, therefore phrase, was weak. Cry, for instance. Not that there is anything wrong with crying – we couldn’t be sane without it, but this particular image came across as whimpering, crying  like a baby. I suggested he try the thesaurus for a better word, like weep which shows the situation is serious, sad and worth crying over.

There are some who make it a point of pride not to use the thesaurus. Well, McGee, you’re a better man than I am! (You must remember Fibber McGee and Molly, the old radio program? The one with the closet where everything fell on your head, once you opened it? If you don’t, Google it and give it a try). Now that is a lovely tangent, isn’t it?

But all those words in a thesaurus! What a treasure of emotions, of life. The poet was writing about a coming storm. The picture it brings to mind is of thunder and pelting rain But that kind of storm usually passes quickly and normally a grown man doesn’t cry because of it. He said he wanted to say it was not only a physical but an emotional storm.

Ah! Then, take that word “coming”. Not very exciting, is it? So we go to the thesaurus to see if there is a word, just one, that expresses our fears, our terror, dread, perhaps only annoyance, or a meaning close to coming. a nuance like stalking, pursuing, that gives us a more emotional picture.

It puts a whole new spin on things, doesn’t it?

There is another, beckoning tangent if I ever saw one.

Our whole world is being led to disaster by nuances. The word has a new definition : a  White House spin, a place where  we are led down a garden path. A laundry enhancer which bleaches the spots to make the truth less ugly.

We don’t have to think about a war on terror. All we have is a man-caused disaster! When you think about that, there is a delicious irony in the phrase. Man certainly is making disaster. He is a disaster. And calling the Ft. Hood massacre, “workplace violence” is trying to make it sound as though someone threw a book or swore. Or perhaps one of the soldiers slept through his duty time and didn’t cut the grass around the big flag pole.

When global cooling turned into global warming, which included an ice-cold winter of discontent, the blushing faces of those in the white-house came up with climate disruption, as though climate were a mild, controllable wench who suddenly lost her cool. She forgot to take her tranquilizer!

A nuance is a fanciful partner in our life of words. You know, those things that allow us to communicate with, to charm or, sadly, to harm our neighbors? A nuance can spread the wealth (make every one rich?)  or take from the rich and give to the poor so we can all be equally poor. It can turn a coming storm into a spot of trouble or a cataclysm.

Or it can be a gigantic lie.

Perhaps, instead of nuances, I should opt for the bald truth!





Posted in Bird of Time, Free Speech, morality, Opinion, Philosophy, shame and morality with tags , , , , , on May 7, 2014 by bird of time

Once upon a time –

Sorry, I can’t resist. Every time I start anything with those four words, I get groans and a lecture on how a writer should never start anything with that phrase. But I love doing it. Mischief? I don’t know – I love corny jokes and puns, so maybe that’s it. Or maybe that as a child I loved fairy tales.

I’m one of those odd writers who have no idea what they are going to say when they sit down at the computer. Oh, I have something I want to talk about but haven’t a clue even how to start. Everything I say depends upon that first sentence. Once that is down, I never get a writer’s block. It’s quite possible that before I’m done, my reader may wish I did. The words flow.

There is one word that I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. Shame.

Once upon a time shame was a major player on the stage of life. When I think of the word, the first thing that comes to mind is Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter” and I cringe, thinking of all the heartbreak the combination has caused.

I’m not quite that old, but old enough to remember when “shame on you” was a normal thing to say to a misbehaving child. Again I cringe at the thought. Shame can be a good teaching tool but it can also be a destroyer. It takes real wisdom and love to know the risk.

The other day a friend and I had a “discussion” (a polite argument, rather) about saying someone was a liar. He said it was a hate word. I said it is a fact. If a person lies consistently, he is a liar according to the definition. Even more so if it is done with malice as certain of our politicians do openly today. Some people do have a habit of elaborating tales consistently, but we mostly look upon him (a generic him) with humor or tolerance.

And again, I’ll go back to once upon a time and recall that to be named a liar was truly a shameful thing. In the movies men got shot for that.

The problem is, today we have so few moral standards that shame is almost non-existent. You can’t have shame if noting you do is shameful. The total reluctance to admit that anything is bad encourages bad behavior.

A big part of that is being politically correct. It too encourages bad behavior. To not say “terrorist”  but “workplace violence” not only mitigates the horror, but the guilt of the murderer.

I don’t like to think of people deliberately being cruel to each other – verbally, since that is what we are talking about. But the bigger cruelty is to encourage.our politicians to deliberately lie with a straight face, allow children to tear up a school hall.and urinate all over and call it mischief, to be so politically correct that you cannot speak of an evil act without being fined or jailed for “hate” speech. A difference of opinion is not hate.  Truth is not hate. It is a fact.

We need to get our act together. Words have meanings. Truth is truth. Shame can be useful. We need to be honest enough to know what is shameful and what is not.

Words used to distort are as big a lie as a direct statement of untruth. Distortion is an untruth.

Let’s buy every politician a dictionary and let us start being honest with each other. Let children know that actions have consequences and good character means what it says.

Let’s cut out this politically correct nonsense. No matter what you say, someone, somewhere in the world will  be offended.  There are always at least two sides  to a question, therefore, half the people will be offended all the time.

Grow up, people. If everyone is so thin-skinned, everyone needs a good dose of reality.



Words Spell Where the Heart is

Posted in Bird of Time, Philosophy with tags , , , , , , on May 4, 2014 by bird of time

I haven’t posted in a long time. My overdrive ran out, I guess.

I didn’t run out of words, I ran out of heart.  All of this political dirt, all the  worldly dirt gets to one sometimes.

But about two weeks ago now, we found that my daughter-in-law who is really like a daughter to me, had cancer and that it was at an advanced stage, that she was in a lot of pain.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have much hope for her, but sometimes God insists we hope and who are we to argue?

God won’t be argued with much anyway. He isn’t like Obama who says go sit down and shut up when we protest. At least with me he doesn’t. It’s more like Francis Thompson in Hound of Heaven. He pays no attention to my stupidity at all.

I fled him, down the nights and down the days

I fled him, down the arches of the years

I fled him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears–
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after

But with unhurrying chase

And unperturbed pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

They beat–and a Voice beat

More instant than the Feet–

“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”

Whom will thou find to love ignoble thee;

Save Me, save only Me

All of which I took from thee I did take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.

All of which thy child’s mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:

Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”


We look so hard for what we believe is happiness, but it isn’t really, is it? It is more of the same. Another piece of furniture to use or not use, a car so that we can run faster.  We want to love yet fear the loss of  love or even set out to lose it because we don’t understand it. Or we don’t like the cost of it:


“For, though I knew His love Who followed,

Yet was I sore a dread

Lest, having Him I must have naught besides.”


It probably sounds a bit blasphemous to think God will be unvaryingly patient. Perhaps it sounds like taking him for granted. But sometimes it is just desperation and hope. We keep running as though we were going somewhere. In the end, there is really no place else to go. We have to stop and let the footsteps catch us.


***An after note. it is now late 2012 and my “daughter” died shortly after this article was written.  After the funeral we all went outside and released balloons. Every one of the balloons went straight up into the sun.

God’s footsteps caught up with her.