Brooding at my desk
From an open book
Resisting a hand full
Of sleep from time
To time, recalling
As I drift forward
Or aft the soft sail
Boat sway on a calm
Day, Susan brilliantly
Smiling into a morning’s
Rising sun – time stilling,
Watching my main
Sail flutter, and never
Caring until that time
Ran out and runs out still
Sitting here snapping awake
From my palm-perch which
I flex and flex until I have
The feeling back – the
Rest of me though loses all
That is back there once again
If you wish to die, strike one on
Your keyboard. When the next
Screen appears, select your
Reason from the ten provided.
After this you will need to strike
Your signature key. If you
Do not have such a key,
Go to the “create your signature”
Screen and create one. You will
First need to answer the questions
Listed. You will be notified within
Two weeks if your signature has
Been approved. If your yearly
IRS Tax bill has been under ten
Thousand dollars a year, expect
Near-term approval. If higher
You will be directed to a Grief
Counselor. If after two years, and
With your counselor’s approval
You still wish to die, your request
Will be reassessed and you will
Be directed to a new Grief Counselor
Hobbling along a cobblestone
Road, it won’t take long
To run me down. How far
Can I get? I’m sure they
Wish I were not out here
Ahead of them again, but at
Least I’m no one urgent.
My existence anywhere being
Merely overdue. There were
Calculations, slide rules
At first and adding machines,
But now its smart phones and
Artificial intelligence. It knows
Each step I take and where
I’m likely to go. When I don’t
Go there, an algorithm files
Another complaint of the sort
I’m tired of responding to,
Searching down this road
For a better place to hide.
In the last act, viva voce,
The soprano softly sighed
Gasping the words of her
Remaining song. They were,
She sang, of her love and how
I’d vowed to care for her
Until this our end now
Being portrayed. I could
Not then sing. I tried
Instead to smile. Her wan
Look faded with each
Uttered word sung softly
In diminishing refrains.
We heard the approaching
End. I sang the anguishing
Solo as the lights dimmed. The
Ushers jangled the doors wanting
Us gone. With my hand in hers
I turned to the emptying chairs
And bowed -- one – last – time.
Having been given the murder
I quickly scanned all the
Previous detective had, the
Rusty knife, the empty shells,
The blood-soaked room, the
Body stretched upon the floor.
My old mind feared I wasn’t
Up to the task; yet I’d always
Managed once I focused upon
The crime. I stood in
The dark and conjured
The man who killed the woman
Upon the floor. The door began
To open. I drew my Glock and
Moved against the wall.
The killer had returned to
View his crime. He came
In nimbly, firing, but I
Was the quickest into his
Darkness and into mine.
One more silence to add
To all the rest, resting in
Peace perhaps, he surmises
Leaning back into his agitation.
It’s hard to sort the maybe
From the inevitability of
Dissolution. Words swirl
Perhaps, thinking thoughts
Being in nine decades
Past what most think
Convenient, too old to
Learn the new procedures,
Too set in his ways to
Accept the urging down
The stairs, the bucket
At the bottom, the crutches
And alarm clock chanting
Electronically with no way
To shut it off, the instructions
Being too small to read with
The weak eyes of such a man.
I am running again, faster
Than before, with phantoms
Thrusting larger, slavering
Jaws joyful under smiling eyes.
Street after street we pass
Beyond the critics who can’t
Accept her as she is nor me,
Never having studied the wall
Nor seen its etchings, “snap,”
The whip flicks out. I don’t
Feel it as it does. My dog would
Field the insult if I did, caring
At its peak, and I’ve no
Wish to create more.
We come back up the canyon.
Careening cars flick by, whistling,
Honking. There is a flutter of rain.
Nothing slows. We’re again as we
Were earlier in the day. She doesn’t
Pause to judge me nor I her – nails
Sparking on the road as we run by.
There will be an article in the 4-17-25 issue of the New Yorker on the Dire Wolf. I am a subscriber and they also send me their news letter which also has this article.
Much of the information contained in the article I had already encountered elsewhere, but I was shocked to learn at the end that the scientists do not intend to let their Dire Wolves, two males and one female, breed. So I sat still for a long time thinking about it.
The Dire Wolf, they tell us some place doesn’t derive from the wolf but from the dog, Canis Familiaris. Perhaps this breed of Canis Familiaris was never domesticated, but it could have been, as all dogs after them, that we know about have been.
The article is full of how much the science costs, but there is also mention of application, which when it happens is a way to get paid for their work. I suspect more than a few wealthy dog lovers would pay for a breeding pair of Dire Wolves. The idea of the Dire Wolf as a pet was in this article dismissed, but the wealthy dog-lovers I imagine could spend a lot of time with them and verify that they are as safe, for example, as safe as any of the ferocious dogs you can see on Youtube being described as the best protection you can own. The Dire Wolf, never trained to be a ferocious guard dog might very well be less dangerous than some of our ferocious breeds, some of which are larger than the Dire Wolf.
The tenor of the article prepares us to understand that an important impetus in the science is in getting the presently extinct breed back into nature in order to bring nature back into balance. The Woolly Mammoth is described in that regard. If they get this animal de-extincted, they can get herds of them shipped to Siberia where they can stomp and poop about and reestablish a balance of nature – make Siberia habitable once again – perhaps double the population of Russia, create more soldiers. Putin should be delighted.
There doesn’t appear to be an equivalent niche for the Dire Wolf. Some areas have been rehabilitated by the ordinary wolf, the wolf which had been part of nature before we killed them off. They have been reestablished to good effect. No one is likely, I wouldn’t think, to suggest that the Dire Wolf could replace them and do a better job.
But just being looked at by this dog-lover in the midst of his outrage, consider all the jobs we’ve given to the ordinary dog. There is a very strong argument to the effect that we humans did not evolve all by ourselves. We evolved in symbiosis with the dog. For example, we could never have raised sheep that need the dog to herd and guard them. We could never have established villages which needed dogs to guard and warn us of danger. The list is long. Everyone knows it.
But, the scientist might object, just because the Dire Wolf is genetically a dog doesn’t mean it could ever be pet quality. Look at the African Hunting Dog. Can anyone imagine trying to make a pet out of one of those? Well, maybe not. And perhaps the Dire Wolf may turn out to be no more safe to cohabit with people than the African Wild Dog, but note that the scientists, without even raising the question has determined to let this revivification of the Dire Wolf die out.
The Dire Wolf went extinct just after humans during the last ice age came across the Bering Straits and south into the North American continent. Many other species went extinct at the same time. Maybe there were other reasons for the cataclysmic North American loss of species. Never lost, were smaller canids that were less harmful and more useful and agreeable to humans.
There is no evidence that the Dire Wolf was ever domesticated, and I’m not suggesting that they ever were, but what boots that? Any day on Youtube you can watch videos of species such as the cheetah and panther that have been domesticated and are living uncaged in someone’s home. Surely a form of Canis Familiaris wiped out during the taking of the Americas by prehistoric man should not be excluded because it once hunted violently in order to make its living. We are all part of the species that once did the same thing.
Before posting this note, I read some other articles. There are some who argue that too little has been changed from the present-day wolf for the now-being-touted Dire Wolf to legitimately be entitled to that designation. Ah me, anyone exposed to the sort of breeding that exists in dog-show circuits might with the same justification deny that any breed is truly entitled to its name. Whatever it is that is lying near me on the floor as I type, I have great affection for it, her in this case, Jessica, and whomever they are that are on 200 acres somewhere hidden and intended to live their lives as a scientific experiment, but prohibited from breeding and intended to die once again as a species, despite the vaunted term they bandy about, “de-extincted”
You know how when you walk
Through mud each up-step
Involves a suction-pop telling
You you’ve left the earth
One step at a time, she being
Unwilling to let you go?
You might try dying
And break loose, but
She’ll hold you fast to
What she needs, and if
God lets you watch your
Remains, you’ll be
Appalled. The mud you
Slid through becomes you.
In all the earth there is a
Great coming back to what
Will be whistled out of
The wind, and in that
Bristling sound all of us
Will sense the force before
Which all of us answer.
In past times swimming
I was determined in
Ways untested. Far
Enough away to be
Able to say I’d given up
Thinking of being there,
Failing in being despite
The old confidence
I had back when melded
To my current state of mind
Which while blended
To each conscious step, left
When I dreamed of being
Beneath the kelp drifting,
Dreaming like a bass in
The sun which shined down
Between the leaves bright
In the world where no
One breathes. Small fish
Swirl away leaving large
Ones like me breathless.
Flying too close to the sun
Then lying panting as I now
Am with broken wing, all
Thoughts of vaunting my
Gladiatorial pretensions have
Faded beneath his causing,
As though He never noticed
Me, scrunched up in
My room reading what
Ever is left. He may not
Notice this reconciliation
As if it stands for all the
Flying I’ve done and
Thinking still to do in
These inept times, and there
Is no one left to compare
Them with. What ever boast
I might think hasn’t wind
Enough in it to be heard
Beyond the room I’ve dithered
To. There is still some
Barking to be done, but not
By me and squawking with
McCaws who voice their own
Version of these times as I descend
And ascend the stairs beyond
My room, as I once approached the
Sun till He wearied and sent me here.
I hopped from rock to rock
Not fearing what a misstep
Might bring. I could dance
Away from any such thought
Or eventuality. My days
In those leaps and landings
Were the words later heard
In a daze sitting at a
Desk dreaming I might
Hold my breath forever,
Phrasing the swirls and
Surges down here
Where one must belong
To a toiling or if not
To be a fleeing,
Days pinned down by
Circumstances and books
And well toned high
Heels not suited to
Sand but well trod anyway
Keening with seabirds’ swearing.
What inklings rise up
Round about like worms
From moist soil look
Askance as I, have
Their work to do
And I may have mine
It sometimes seems
Late in the day torn
Bleeding from the
Pushing and shoves of
Medieval medicine’s
Demands, I have hand
Cuffs some place,
Lost, perhaps, a sign
That I’ve been and
Then forgotten save
For regular visits
Not to be missed
Lest I fall from grace
And am erased
Before my time.
David Pryce Jones in an article on Evelyn Waugh wrote, "About the best that most writers can expect from posterity is cultural embalming, probably in the form of a monograph written by some academic paid to read books nobody else is reading." The prospective writer might take note of this as he evaluates, as much as he can, his future. We learn from history that the term "immortal" was applied to a number of writers and poets, but if we examine those writers and poets we in almost all cases observe that their immortality has expired.
Is
the work of any modern writer or poet likely to be less
transient than the tunes the modern teen-ager listens to? I was
once enamored of Chinese poetry before China transitioned into
Maoist Communism. I read poems about old men boating down to
picturesque meeting places where they would drink wine and read
recently written poetry to each other, poetry that they had
written. They pretty much all seemed to write poetry. It was
enough for them if their friends liked it. There was no thought
of achieving immortality as poets. They wrote for the joy of it
and listened to each other read it in the same fashion.
I wonder if in modern day China the poets I read (in translation) are still being read today -- perhaps only by "academics paid to read books nobody else is reading."
So
if today a young person discovers he or she has writing ability,
there is a great market in fiction of various genres, but
perhaps, the the number of people who make a financial success
of this approach isn't high. There are several other fields
that seek good writers. In my own case, I was hired by the
Chief Engineer of the Skybolt program back in 1959. The Air
Force complained that Douglas engineers couldn't write well
enough to be readily understood by Air Force personnel. I had a
wife by this time who regularly spent more than I made, and
since the realm of workers (not managers) at Douglas Aircraft
was a meritocracy, I learned a variety of other skills and thus
managed to work there as Douglas merged with McDonnell Douglas
which was eventually bought out by Boeing.
Now at age 90 I can sit in my second-story study and look out my window through the trees at mountains that were within walking distance when I retired here 25 years ago. Now because of a damaged knee I wouldn't try to walk that far. In any case I don't wish to. I do still write a lot. I keep journals, write a lot of letters, and a few articles and poems I might post on a simple blog that was set up for me by a nephew many years ago. The stats tell me that 1,783,486 have looked at various of the articles and poetry since it was first set up. It's been convenient. For example, I had always planned to study the American Civil War and so several years ago, did that. I ordered probably most of the authoritative literature on that war from eBay and Amazon and joined forums discussing various matters, strategies, battles, theories about the merits of various generals, etc. Tempers can run high on these subjects. For many, I found, these Civil War discussions were overriding. I was invited to stick with it and make everlasting friends with those I agreed with, but after I had enough, had written enough articles, I stopped, gave most of my Civil War books to my brother-in-law and went on to other subjects.
Another reason it does not seem wise to seek literary immortality is that our language is rapidly changing, and has been for a great many years. No one will understand what we write in a thousand years. Anthropologists and geneticists estimate that our species has existed for about 200,000 years. We have had written languages of any sophistication for less than 12,000 years.
One of our "immortal" authors, Geoffrey Chaucer lived from 1342 to 1400. His famous work is the Canterbury Tales. I've read them several times and took an upper division (elective) course in Chaucer where we were given to read him in the original to get the rhythm of his poetry correctly, but we weren't required to read him in the original for understanding. And, unless one becomes a scholar and specializes in Chaucer and Middle English literature, one isn't going to be able to read this literature in the original with any degree of confidence. Was Chaucer concerned about his "immortality?" It has been only 625 years since Chaucer died and no one today is reading him in the original except for academics paid to read authors no one else is reading. Even if we count translations, I wonder how many read Chaucer in translation today.
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