Mah Birfdeh Jus Fer Meh
Sunday, May 04, 2008
I’ve been reading up on LolCats a bit much of late.
Pretty durned funny stuff, though.
Lolcats ‘n’ Funny Pictures - I Can Has Cheezburger?
Anyway.
It’s my birthday today. I had a good one.
Specially Thank You to My Sessie and Girls who caught me right away this morning (after their LONG day of mass Tea Party business).
And too, Thank You to Lib for the Great Card (I’ll tolerate the spankin-please don’t spit on the cake but don’t feel too bad if you do since I won’t eat it anyway-and I’ll come looking for the eye-poppin-hug soon).
And all you guys who didn’t get to it, you still have a whole day ahead of you to remember since I’m WAY ahead of you (lucky me, I get more like 48 hours of birthday instead of the normal 24).
The coolness that you see on Paperscreams (did you see the button JavaScript magic yet?) is a lot of what I did.
Took the day off work (of course), but will have to make up for it tomorrow.
My boss is gonna take me out for dinner (and a movie!) but he’s not cute and his name isn’t Anika, so it won’t quite be perfect. He just called and we’re going for STEAKS! Haven’t had a steak since I left the U.S.A. many moons ago.
Here’s an update on my last few days of activity.
I have been reading a very odd combination of material this past week.
I read Ender’s Game twice in a row (yesterday and today), just to make it sink in (government, leadership, military and teaching philosophy).
I read Starship Troopers yesterday (government, military, leadership and teaching philosophy).
I read sections in Deuteronomy from the Bible (government, leadership and law).
Earlier this week, I tripped through Joint warfighting concepts by a retired Major General from the Army (senior mentor’s group for the Joint Chiefs).
I also have been studying Maritime Operations Centers philosophy (headache and a half).
I am dreaming of another military book (30 bucks at the store), called “Rethinking the Principles of War”.
The first two books I listed are in the Junior leadership section of the Navy’s Professional Reading program. I think they’re above the level for some of the people we consider junior right now.
The last one, “Rethinking” is on the Senior leadership level (the big dudes). I’m drawn to those professional writings far more than to the “entertaining” war stories and attempts to teach via entertainment. I read technical documents. Why? Dunno. I think I might have issues.
But I find that I understand carefully laid out discussions and diagrams better than absorbing the same concepts from a fictional story. My favorite parts of fiction (Heinlein and L’amour are masters of it) are when the writer goes didactic. I’d rather read a well-spoken storyteller teaching me something than just cruise along with the characters.
Orson Scott Card, who wrote “Ender’s Game” is not so teachy, but his methods are pretty well thought out. I think he has a very good mind for process, and it’s attracted me to all the other books I’ve read of him as well.
But back to the “Senior” leadership stuff. I’ve always loved it. I love reading “heavy books.” Technical, didactic, in-depth studies get me all sorts of happy. Drives Anika nuts, I’m sure, especially when, at the same time, I can’t stand Tolstoy and all them long-winded European/Russian writers. Weird?
I hope I can get into one of those hard-hitting leadership schools someday. I’d love to take some college courses on the rough stuff, too, like in the war colleges and military studies stuff.
But, on the other hand, what good is it going to do if I get all versed up in this stuff? This is the heaviest question on my mind. I see how powerful this knowledge can be, and how far it can serve in the military or in important organizations, but I’m not that guy? Am I?
Anyway. I’m having a happy birfdeh.
What I’d like most right now is:
Kisses from my girls
Hugs from my girls
Seeing my girls
Eating dinner with my girls
Sleeping with my girl
Playing with my girls
Sitting around, doing nothing with my girls
Yeah, that’s what I’m getting for Christmas. Haha.
Final Update: My boss was the BOMB! We went and shot a couple rounds of pool at Sherlock’s (a great pub) and I had a superb Guinness (tap, of course) and then we went to the Factory for dinner. Prime Rib 500g with mashed potatoes and Amstel (tap again, of course). It was heavenly. I haven’t had that quality (or quantity) of a steak in a very long time. I’m fat, dumb and happy. We talked, ate, ate and talked and I am more than well cared for. I’m almost excited to go back to work tomorrow.
Thanks, Boss, you da man.
Happy Birthday Bunky!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Joscelin,
You are our sunshine and sparkle.
You make all your sisters laugh.
You make everyone love you.
Four is just like three: You just walk around being acute pain!
We all love you, Bunky. We are so glad you came to live with us.
BUNKYBDAY.jpg
Oh, and I forgot to put this part up, BluJay! From work:
Joscelin,
On behalf of the Crew of Commander Task Force 56 I send you this Happy
Birthday. Started by your Dad the notes below were from the crew. In
this small chain of notes we want to say you are important to us here
and we wish you a heartfelt Happy birthday.Joscelin Enya Cadence Hickok will be 4 on the 30th of April.
She is the sunshine of the house, always bouncy and crazy.
She follows her sisters everywhere and they all love to play with her.
We call her Bunky when she’s excited: it’s one of her first words and
it grew into a nickname.
She’s got the curliest red hair you’ve ever seen and the funniest antics
in the world.
She’s so ticklish you can get her to laugh from a video camera in
Bahrain.Joscelin is the darling of the family. You’d like her too. --RH
Joscelin,
Happy Birthday! Just wanted to let you know that your Dad is doing a
great job out here, and I’m sure that he misses you and your sisters
very much! --Kevin R Lohrke
Joscelin -
From across the miles comes a note full of smiles wishing you a Happy
Birthday.
Cheers --Jason Gilbert
Happy Birthday Joscelin! Your dad rocks! I know you miss him, but he
is making us miss you - he talks about you and your family all the time!
Thanks for sharing him with us. --Dave Luchau
Happy 4th Birthday Joscelin! All of us in Bahrain enjoy working with
your Daddy. I’m sure you miss him, but know he thinks of you every day
and misses you terribly, but is looking forward to being back together
with you and your family next year. We all hope you have a special
birthday! --Murray Fink
Happy Birthday Joscelin. --Pete Holdorf
Joscelin, Happy Birthday! We hope that you have lots of fun on your
special day! --CMC Carpenter
Leadership Philosophy By Pooka
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Here is where I am, philosophically speaking.
Some background first: I am an E6, which is also referred to as a First Class, or OS1, since I’m an Operations Specialist. I won’t give more details than that, since it would take another 2,000 words or so to explain all that I do or have done in my almost 13 years of service. What I’m writing is more on the philosophy of leadership than an E6 discourse, but it’s written in response to some Bigger Than Me material, so I began thinking from my own level. Of course, if you know me, I start small and end up huge in scope most of the time.
Much of this can be taken home or to work, whether in the military or not. I believe that we live in a world that is dynamic and rejects cookie-cutter and monotony. We don’t live as robots, and it is very clear that the generation that is coming into power (the 18-25 year olds right now) is going to press that dynamic culture even farther. This in consideration, I’m on board with most of the change we have before us. So I’ve tried to appreciate it in my Navy and in the way I look at my job and lifestyle in the Service.
All this being said, I am NOT the prime example of the qualities or integrity portrayed in this picture. I am all too aware of my own shortcomings and lack of ambition. I enjoy being proactive and pursuing the ideals about which I am writing, but I’m far from reaching the mark in any of them. I’m just a regular sailor Joe who wants to do a good job at work, avoid the dumb stuff (inherent in nearly every profession under the sun), and hopefully help others.
I have no desire to be the great leader of the fleet, or even of my little command. That’s good work for somebody with more ambition. I want to provide for my family and serve as best I can, not to reach the top of the food chain. I don’t have that perfect demeanor or image, I don’t pursue all the right “checks” to get me into the running for greatness. I figure my greatness is enough when I’ve left an assignment better than it was when I checked in.
All that said, here’s my long essay on the “sarge” of the Navy, leading into a broader perspective of things:
Definitions:
Leading Petty Officer: usually an E6 in charge of the division or workplace.
The Mast: Navy-speak for higher levels of command like the Commander or Staff.
Unit: Ship or other group that is considered a command (my current unit is called a Task Force Commander)
Chief: E7-E9, the top of the Enlisted chain.
Deck Plate Leadership: Teaching and leading with hands-on practicality, not just sitting behind a desk and thinking deep thoughts.
Big Navy: those Washington type folks who make the overall policy and climate for the whole Navy.
Master Chief: The Old Man of the Navy. He knows all and has the answers. Most are known to have served aboard ship with either Columbus or Noah back in the day.
Leadership
First Class Petty Officers are more than simply the best workers. They are more than just the best problem-solvers. First Class Petty Officers are the culmination of all the best parts of the Enlisted ranks, salted with the growing perspective of more than just the first-line environment.
As understanding of the mission grows from the immediate workplace, the First Class becomes more involved in the greater vision of the command and the operations that go on outside the command in the combined forces and in the greater Navy itself. He becomes more than the Work-Center-Supervisor and is learning to become the fusion between policy and performance.
Policy is that arching governance that drives entire commands to success. It is essentially the same as a small work center or single office’s climate, but includes greater forces from outside the immediate organization. The First Class must be able to drive his personnel not just in completing the daily routine, into understanding the why and how of the long-run. Knowing the Real Purpose of the unit and its capabilities and limitations in view of the policies and missions beyond is what allows him to excel and meet the standards of the Chief.
First Class Petty Officers by their definition should already be in the mode of perfection in their integrity and their dedication to the job. What is needed now, for the next horizon, is a grasp of how the greater force interacts. He who would become a Chief must become a leader who is able to liaise between his personnel and those above him to bring unity to the workforce. He must both understand his superiors, through conscious study and effort, as well as his subordinates and peers. Facing challenges and conflicts, he must be able to “present the case” to the Mast and to return the results to his personnel in a manner that does not undermine the integrity of the Chain of Command.
An E5 at the “top of his game” in skill can manage his tasks with efficiency and capability. Therefore, the First Class who is not already the technical expert in his field is behind the power curve. The reason for exceptional skill and experience is not to be able to do the work in place of his subordinates. He must know the work that progresses in his workplace so that he is able to guide all aspects of it.
His role is that of mentor, which does not focus specifically on technical wizardry, but in motivation and cultivation of his team into that same capability that made him a First Class. He has reached beyond this immediate sphere of the “job” to the philosophy and vision that forms the spine of the work force. Technology and textbooks should be old news and a resource that is called upon in times of immediate need, not as a routine performance. The LPO that must do the work is not an LPO at all. He is an overpaid tradesman.
Leading Petty Officers communicate the standards set forth by the Navy not by preaching alone, nor by example alone. They are capable of knowing whether words or actions will resolve the matter at hand. The environment should be managed through motivating others to excel at their tasks and to take on what is left waiting. They should most of all know what needs to be done so that they may enable their personnel to do those things.
“Know your sailors.” It is imperative that First Classes understand their people. This includes their backgrounds, capabilities, experience, attitudes and desires. Failing to embrace this vital information is to remove the heart from the mission and the vision of the command. Knowing what makes individuals tick is what enables leaders to engage them in the team. Signs that the LPO does not have this skill and knowledge include an environment where the E6 and CPO are doing all the work, and the E5 and below stand around, waiting for direction.
In all reality, the focus of our training, our direction and the many fine products that come from the offices of the Big Navy are applicable to every single leader in the Navy. It could be stated that the Navy as a whole, as commands, fleets and regions needs the focus on leadership as is frequently put out to us from Big Navy. We all have a need to understand “deck plate leadership” and that “above the weeds” sort of guidance as well.
We must let the team understand this message, revisiting it frequently and purposefully, and demonstrate that everyone benefits from the grasping of true leadership in the field and office. Classroom leadership training is a rare thing, which is regrettable in light of the fact that, in recent years, these courses have grown robust and effective in their content and application. As the fleets attend Team Trainers in technology and warfare operations, we should also attend, as groups, leadership continuums and seminars. An annual requirement for formal training could go a long way in opening the eyes and imaginations of our leaders, both future and existing.
We should take the time to focus on this leadership concept. Rather than simply read the articles, or talk about what Some Important Big Guy said last week, we should be setting aside time to work over the concepts that make good leaders. We can’t wait for the workplace to simply grow new leaders, though it is the greatest proving-ground. The days of waiting for a “natural” just won’t serve any more. We must drill in leadership as we drill for combat, making the uncomfortable into the comfortable, the hard to grasp into instinctive.
Training our personnel to skill sets and leadership should come in one continuous package. Empowering them doesn’t just mean leaving decisions up to them, but giving the means to make decisions and the skills to act upon them. Junior sailors can make decisions that affect entire commands, which indicates they are in need of the big picture we so often assume is too heavy for them. This decision-making at low-rank levels is constantly going on, though often it’s not officially noticed.
• We still need to improve on our career development programs, our counseling and our guidance. We must pay closer attention to what leadership skills can be communicated and how.
• Jumping on the instant fix, and taking the decision from our operators because it’s more efficient or just easier doesn’t make good leaders. Leaders must be willing to accept risk and lessened efficiency in the short run in order to provide long-term improvement. We must be willing to “take a hit” right now with the knowledge that our sailors’ next command will reap great benefits from our sacrifice.
• Taking time with our teammates and subordinates is important, and they want it from us. To know our leaders is paramount, and to appreciate them for what they are requires that knowledge. Meetings and briefs become exclusive or too “aloof” for our people. Time can be worked into regular or official team gatherings to develop unity.
• We must create a culture not of waiting for direction, but engaging at the immediate opportunity with the confidence of empowerment and the capability of good training. Leaders must expect decisions from their subordinates. Subordinates must want the same thing the leaders want. We must see eye-to-eye on the workplace, the mission and the external forces and realize each element blends into one cohesive Navy.
In this age of computers and messages flying to and fro at speeds faster than the human mind can digest, we need leaders at every level and every component. Not just one for each division or section, but the whole must become filled with leaders. We need the E1 to come to the field with some concept of leadership right at the start. An understanding of leadership produces greater quality of followership, and it starts the grooming for Master Chiefs and admirals at the most receptive level. Why make the new guy wait until he’s middle management before training in leadership?
We don’t always have time to call on the boss any more. The successes and failures of leadership in the Navy are visible to the whole world and our personnel interact outside the Navy just as visibly. We must enable our workers to lead their teams at all levels, which will decrease response and decision-making times many times over.
We should make our success something personnel can take home with them. If family and off-duty environments affect performance, then should we not make our sailors’ ability to work with people be applicable to their off-duty world, to be able to better guide and serve their families? Here is the tie that creates a “holistic” approach to leadership. Take the WHOLE sailor into perspective.
We have all heard of those leaders who were beloved by those they led. That devotion is cultivated by all that I’ve written above. If we’re going to send our people into harm’s way, our best practice is to lead them in battle, lead them in peace, and show them how we lead so that when time comes to Relieve the Watch, we can trust our successors to be loved as we were.
About the author:
That would be Me.
I have almost 13 years in the Service, and am shooting for E7 and O-1 at the same time this year.
I have worked on three ships, two staff commands and several other remarkable jobs over the years.
I have led divisions of personnel, and I have been led.
I have taught Officers and have learned from Junior Enlisted.
I have written policy for people way bigger than me and have failed to adhere to policy far more often.
*This long-winded discourse is not endorsed by the organization for which I work. All of this is my personal insights on leadership and, though couched in the perspective of the Navy, is intended for leadership in general.
From The Sea
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Part III
Paradise
There was a little port, a long time ago, where I found some life. This place was a pearl of an island in the necklace of gems that encircles the Caribbean. The sands were pure white, without a dark drift or occlusion of construction to ruin perfect crescents. The people there were sunny and colorful, just as the daylight and tumble-down sort of town in which they lived.
The ship was at anchor, perhaps a mile from the coast, so we hired boats to wing us in to shore. The rides were insanely fast, bumpy and exhilarating. Spray from the bow soaked everything in the boats, and the coxswains (pronounced cox’ns) were absolutely nuts, chasing each others’ wakes and thoroughly tumbling me and the rest of the passengers about like dice in a cup. But it was amazing fun.
Pulling up to the tiny slip that had been reserved for us was as smooth and effortless as the ride in had been bruising and jolted. I remember climbing up to the pier a little unsteadily, blinded by the bright sun. Only an hour ago I had been finishing up nearly an entire day of work in that dark dungeon of combat, so the light was stabbing the beginnings of a headache into my skull already.
Not to be discouraged by a little rough ride and mild blindness, I stumbled off down to shore, trying to lose my sea-legs and figure out what should be first on my agenda. The hardest thing about a liberty call is to decide whether to eat, explore, expend (money) or just expire. All I wanted to do was find a quiet shanty and collapse in the shade for a short nap. Maybe until noon the next day would suffice. But that was just not going to be acceptable. The time ashore was short, maybe two whole days at best, so I had to make the very best of it and in short order. So food had to come first. If you can’t rest, you need energy, so I headed for the nearest fare.
Now in foreign ports, there are three principles to consider. First, there’s always the five star extravaganza to be found in resort hotels. I’m convinced there are no more places in the world that do not have these in some form or other, and it was certainly the case here. Five star means clean, bright, full and expensive. Very good food and very pricey. Some ports, like Thailand’s little secrets, can provide a monstrous spread for a minuscule price, but that’s Thailand, a whole different story I’ll tell you someday.
Second, there’s local. Local food is the best. Find it, eat it, hate it if you will, but to avoid native food is the greatest insult one can deliver to one’s self. Never mind insulting the natives. They just want your money (though are certainly pleased beyond compare to hear praise of their own cooking) or your attention, or just to know you. They don’t mind your quest for familiar food, especially when food-queasy stomachs cause social disasters. But the flame-broiled thingummy on a stick is to die for (and if it kills you, you died well, at least, and probably on a full stomach).
Third, there’s the fear factor. Don’t go for local in the dirtiest corner of the back alley. There are limits to everything, and risking the inclusion of pre-dead food that is only reported to be freshly killed is somewhat unhealthy, and you just can’t know, so if there aren’t any customers, it’s probably for a reason.
So I remember a great meal (and a little worry that I might have got too close to the third principle. And there is a cure, usually, which is beer. Now in liberty ports, even the girls drink the beer. This is an international law and is immune to gross-out and unladylike labels. Not only that, but the water is automatically under principle three and not even suitable for teeth breeshing.
Food problem solved, and still unsteady from the ship we headed off into the noon sun. Or was it that last beer? Exploration was the next thing to approach. I (and my partners, who had finally met up and eaten, having come late from the ride to shore) went off to see the sites.
This fine little town, sort of run-down in a loving sort of way, was as colorful as a basket of Easter eggs. Houses were painted, roof to doorjambs in the gaudiest colors you could imagine. Pink coral was built right up against blue that was bluer than the sky. Red and purple buildings clashed with faded, minty green ones. It was a pure riot of colors. Everyone had a different color, and a camera would die of confusion before getting a good shot. We wandered past these houses and shops, stopping to gawk in front of the most garish ones, wishing we could have cool houses like these.
The streets were half paved and half dirt. The dirt appeared to be winning the battle for supremacy simultaneously attacking the sidewalks to secure even more territory. Drifts of dirt were everywhere, and we had to watch our step at every turning, because some of the dirt was also part of the houses’ drainage systems. Dump the water out the front door, into the dirt, which keeps down the dust and also the trespassers. We steered wide of the mud puddles and simply wandered.
Wandering in a Caribbean port is a rather scientific sort of thing. First, it’s terribly hot. Maybe not as hot as, say the desert in Arizona, or in the middle of the ocean on the ship, but it’s hot. We needed to stop for drinks nearly every half-hour. Exploration required a good memory of where we’d been, too, because the map of the town was good for finding the edges and the beaches, and that was about it. Directions were in Spanish, which put our odds of getting back pretty much dependent on our memories. It was custom for one of us to become the chairman of the committee for remembering how to get back. Lastly, in the science of wandering the port town was the goal. This was the hardest thing to determine, for someone always voted for another round of that fantastic native brew, others wanted the local historic sites (they have these, just like five-star hotels in every port, though you might not ever realize the historicity), others wanted that mysterious beach that was the legend of every port (and we searched every port to find it. I saw it once, but that’s also another story, like Thailand, which you’ll hear of another time).
In all, it was settled that we would find the quietest beach with a restaurant, a bar, a souvenir shop and beach-furniture all at once. It’s not too far-fetched a quest for all this in one package, for the liberty port is always just as you imagined it, and even more like you remember it..
We certainly did find the place. A little lagoon, far enough off the beaten track to avoid the rest of the fleet of sailors who had come ashore, was lined with palm trees and guarded by the clearest, bluest water imaginable. There was a break, a line of rock at the seaward end of the little cove that was our beach, which kept the waves from the open sea from roughing up the water. We could swim in perfect, smooth, sparkling water without fear of being knocked about This is vital when crossing one-handed from one end of the beach to the other, holding food or drinks above our heads along the way. But that was later on.
We settled down, with a swarm of well-dressed waiters (it turned out this was a five-star beachaurantbar) guiding us to pristine, white lawn chairs and low tables. Our orders duly submitted, our cold drafts in our hands, we all leaned back in unison, to rest sore legs (I think it was five miles from the slips to the beach) and feet.
And we all jumped right back up again, screaming in agony. You see, we’d done a very smart and very foolish thing both at the same time. A hot day means no shirt. And we had shucked our tops as soon as we were clear of the mobs in town (rules from the ship said keep clothes on unless at the beach). So the girls and guys (girls kept their swimsuit tops, because it wasn’t that kind of resort island) had spent the better part of two hours roasting in the midday sun. Sunscreen only works to a limited degree, specifically limited to whether you remember to put it on. So our backs were burnt to match the colors of some of the brightest buildings in town, and hurt to even look at. We all entertained ourselves by making white prints on our pink skin for awhile, but eventually someone came up with the bright idea that the water was cool and would provide relief. So in we went.
About the time I was sighing with relief, the cool water lapping up against my chin, the food came down. The service apparently had dealt with this sort of thing before, and had all our orders on big plates, cups filled with napkins and cutlery, and they called for us to come and get it. Bemoaning our predicament, we struggled our weary way from the water and to the waiters. Food won out over comfort.
But the masters of our paradise lagoon would have none of us coming up to the tables. They handed us the plates, the cups, more beer for those who had free hands, and pointed across the water to the rocky break. Ah, heaven. There, only a short swim away, was a natural table, smooth and just waiting for us to set up camp. And the one-armed, slow pilgrimage to cool watery dining was underway. It turned out that, though we couldn’t see it from where we were at the start, there was also a low-lying floating platform near the break, just right for climbing on, or setting the more stable items we carried. And there at the break, the bottom was just the right depth for nearly floating, tip-toed on the soft sand, that we could eat with heads just above water. I’ll never forget that dinner. What a fantastic way to dine. Friends, cool water soothing burnt skin, great eating and all the clumsy silliness of trying to keep afloat and keep the food dry at the same time. We laughed and carried on for the rest of the afternoon, shopping and sightseeing and even time itself forgotten.
When the food was done and the sun was setting (we ate long and lavishly, like monarchs in ancient eastern feasts on these liberty trips), there was nothing left to do but lay about, floating, playing at water acrobatics, and drinking away the night. When the sun was gone, the lights at the bar went on, and the whole scene was suddenly spectacular. The lighting was all colored globes and hot yellow spotlights splashing the water and rocks with color. Music started up (they all know the American routine in every port, especially these secret hideaways). Jimmy Buffett and all the classic island songs blared out from crackly, half-ancient speakers, and everyone became famous singers at once.
We stood up on that float, which was fairly challenging, since we had to share the space aboard with a pyramid of dishes, bottles and cans, and none of it, nor us, too steady in any case, and sang our hymns of the tropics to the rest of paradise. We sang of Mekong, the stars, our left-behind loves (and new ones, for some), our great country, our beloved homes, our dogs and our starry night. There were enough songs that even the actually good singers grew hoarse and eventually sounded just as horrible as the rest of us. It was incredible, the whole day.
Round midnight, we finally trucked our debris back up to the waiters, who smiled knowingly, took all our money and helped us find our things and gingerly patted us on our backs as we headed up to the road back to town. Nary a word was shared between us and the staff, as neither party knew the others’ language (at least admittedly, of course, since most places a ship can visit actually house people who can speak better English than us visitors who are native speakers). We worked our way back to town, unsteady now as we had been on that float. I don’t think a single moment of the day had been steady, now that I consider it, but it worried none of us at the time.
We found our hotel, just a two-story piece of construction, just a few minutes down the road. There, we managed to barter two rooms in exchange for tokens and ball caps, and a few other odds and ends of Americana (the money was all back at the beach, remember). We sent the girls to one, the guys to the other, and everyone found their spot for the night (strangely all face down), and died that peaceful death of having done all there is to do, with no worries, no deadlines, and no strength left to deal with them anyway.
Those trips to shore were the absolutely essential part of a sailor on the water. This, too, has been a mandatory tradition since the first crews set out in search of what the sea offered. Port calls mean absolute freedom, release from the lines, the heave, the watch, all those things that command our very souls at sea. When the ship leaves port, all bills are paid, but when the ship pulls into port, all pains are relieved. Some say they’ll return to those tiny paradise places one day, to retire, or just to visit. I don’t think I will, for I wouldn’t like to find out that they weren’t paradise places but simply moments in time, made fine, made wondrous because they were simply just what was needed for bleary-eyed feeble sailors who had been too long at sea.
Some men were made for the sea, but the land is their home. Not all men will know the life that is the sea, but not all will know the absolute that is land because of the sea.
Out.
Poetry Month
April is apparently Poetry Month. I never realized there was such a thing. I thought it was Spring Month, or Showers Month (though I get one in nearly every month). So I got a few links and trips over to the .orgs and .coms of poetry to see what’s happening in the greater poetry world. Um, I’m sorta disappointed. There is some fabulous stuff out there, and some that is pretty, flowery and basic. But the majority of what I encountered was, well, not what I think of when I read poetry.
Here’s what finally prompted me to plug in my 2 cents: http://bibchr.blogspot.com/2008/04/i-dont-get-modern-poetry.html
I won’t claim to be an expert, by any means. The fact that I’ve recorded over 200 poems in various forms doesn’t make me a critic. Or maybe it does, but not any sort of critic who has a voice worth listening to. I know what I like, that’s for certain. I am picky. I seek imagery, first of all, then an emotional tie to the imagery. Some of the stuff that’s floating around the poetosphere is rather hard to swallow. Let me make an example of a few things I read today, using the style and content I feel is equal, rather than quoting directly.
This
poor kid I know
wrote a bad line or
two
Thinking there
was a point that
The diesel mechanic
might get out of
smudgy paper which stinks
if you leave
it in
the trash can
So empty
It and think
about what you just did
Because some
body else is probably
thinking about
what they just
did
So I just sat back
Sat on my living
room chair
And sighed
deflatorily commentious
because
I saw all this
on TV
You see what I see? This is the content. Now I see some of the same in my own work. But I see in my work a manipulation of words and breath, an intent to draw multiple images from two sentences that aren’t punctuated for that very purpose. Maybe that’s what others are doing and I just don’t see what they see?
I try not for measure but rhythm. I try to write for a span of words that draw a real, palpable emotional image. Sometimes it becomes a real image in itself.
But why talk about some dude and his car and a rap song and what-not, using truncated sentences just to make 50 lines of poetry that neither rhyme, draw a meaningful picture or anything? Capturing a teenager, his ‘tude, his hanging out at the mall with his friends and his brand-name articles, splitting the 100 words or so into bite sized pieces and calling it poetry just defeats me.
Maybe I’m just off in my own dimension, with my own views. Maybe I just ain’t on the same wavelength as the writers of these works that I don’t get. If that’s the case, then maybe somebody has the same idea of my own poetry, which makes it all fair and square. Easy enough.
I’ve been to a poetry reading, a few, actually. The stuff I’ve heard read there has rarely been more than some guy spouting about being dissed or getting beat up or something. Am I a rare breed who actually feels more than the superficial things of pac-man t-shirts, happy-meals and what kind of car you’re driving? Or am I just obtuse like every other poet. So obtuse as to be just like the rest of them… unintelligible to all but myself?
Below are a couple of links to my likes and dislikes. I took completely from random, using none of my personal favorite artists in the examples. I also tried not to classify them as good or bad by their subject (unless it was just plain unreasonably dumb), but by their imagery and all that other stuff I think is important for a poem. If you see a comparison, that maybe I’m over critical or maybe right, let me know. I can always use some humbling. I can also use some confirmation that I’m not insane and that there are some pretty crummy examples of poetic travesty out there. There are two rules about poetry. One of them I’ve broken a few times.
One: Never read your poetry aloud. You sound stupid. Get somebody else to do it and suddenly it sounds unbelievable.
Two: If you’re a famous poet before you’re dead, you probably stink. If you’re a famous poet after you’re dead, you might stink. The fundamental fact is that your readers determine whether you stink, not you.
because you think, therefore I stink or do not stink, not because I am. But my reading aloud stinks regardless.
LIKES
LUING
The Gardener 38
Sonnet LXIV
Our Fear
Ring out, wild bells
DISLIKES
Beauty
Family
From This Height
NOT SURE
oh antic God
Heaven
Windchime
The Emperor’s Dream
Searching these out, just at random, I realize that poetry is pretty durned subjective. So I’ll stick with my preferences, remove my foot from the circle of engagement. I’ll leave all this stuff here for readers, because it’s good to pay attention to the rest of what’s going on around us. I sure could use a round-trip through reality’s network. My stuff is great, to me, to you, but not necessarily to you. Their stuff is just the same. I don’t get it all, but a pulitzer prize for writing about chickens in tights with bling and a falchion, riding bayliners through the skies must mean something, somewhere, to somebody. ( I made that one up).
So this post is mostly nonsense. Fitting, int it?
From The Sea
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Part II
The Watch
There is another solitude I would like to describe to you. The lookout has always had a legendary sort of imagery, and there is good reason. From ancient days, the lookout has been the sacred eye of mariners. Lookouts have served on every ship in every era, long before systems and tools were used. The weather eye, and the crow’s nest, the forecastle (pronounced fo’cstl) and The Watch, have become bywords that mean vigilance, readiness and sight.
I spent many, many hours topside as a lookout. I had binoculars and a set of headphones with a mike, and nothing else out there, standing on the weather decks, just waiting for something to appear. Long, salt-crusted days in the rain, the blistering heat, the rolling ship and endless searching are the heart of the watch. It was a waiting that you’ll never find anywhere else, with the ship constantly moving underfoot, the spray in the wind, working its way into every crevasse your skin or clothing may afford. The true “salty dog” of the sea is a lookout, and you can see it on him. Out there, I smelled salt, tasted it on the air and every time I licked my lips. It crusted up on every surface of the decks and railing.
There was rarely much shelter out there on the watch, and the wind blew from every direction, sometimes enough to knock me over and sometimes barely enough to cool me down. At times the swell of the sea could pitch the boat enough that there wasn’t much time for looking out, and I’d spend sometimes hours just holding on, trying to keep balance, and peep out over the rails whenever I could. It could get hair-raising back aft, when the entire stern of the ship would clear the water and I could see down into foamy depths just before the whole ship would shudder and slam back into the blackness, sending showers of brine up to flood the decks. It was an awesome time, and would put the fear of God into anyone.
The sun would beat down, truly viciously sometimes, and burn my ears and nose, and I had a perpetually cracked, windblown look during those times. It wasn’t really uncomfortable, after a while out there, for a man can become accustomed to just about anything when put to it for long enough. But there were days when looking out was an exercise in endurance, for the South Pacific, down by the equator is more water than air, more fire than water, and the decks become a frying pan, the black sailor’s boots boil the feet, and no amount of shade does a bit of good. Not that there is much shade in a lookout’s life. The clearest, unobstructed view does not permit much in the way of shade.
But more often, it is another realm of peace, to be a lookout. Hours of staring at the sea, eyes roving from horizon to sky and into the water over and over become hypnotizing routine. It is a time to think, reflect, to dream up the impossible, or the attainable. Many a plan did I concoct while perched on the capstan on the fantail of my ship, dreaming of my true love, or of the next port, or of the last port. I wrote poetry in my mind out there, and thousands of little thoughts and whispered words found their way from me to the deep.
There’s a clockwork sort of system that a lookout uses, and it’s enough to lull even the most active mind into daydreams and even hallucinations. Scan the horizon, inches at a time, from right to left, work systematically, from degree to degree, work the scanning inward, toward the ship, bit by bit. Take to the skies, looking up, looking outward, always trying to keep imaginary sectors, little pieces of the whole picture in mind. Anything that moved, anything that wasn’t sky blue or sea green was a target. Remember where it was, or you’d lose it. Over and over, with my private self in the back seat, roving the seas of memory or prophecy, my eyes would engage and re-engage the things I saw, to report them to combat or work at them until I could figure out what they were.
I saw whales, dolphins and flotsam at sea. Sometimes the strangest things would show up, like wood in the middle of thousands of miles of empty waters, days from land. The gulls would follow the ship out to the ends of the earth, swooping and diving in the wake, occasionally perching up on high masts or stanchions. Ships were amazing things to watch, sometimes but a tick-mark on the horizon that would be visible only for a few minutes, or sometimes in long hours of waiting, would grow to be monstrous floating boxes that dwarfed my own vessel, carrying cargo from somewhere far away to another place far away.
I wrote little letters, sometimes, on tiny scraps of paper that I brought with me for the purpose. I’d write prayers, or letters to my beloved, whom I’d never met back then, or just dreams and cast them to the wind. Often I’d smoke and simply shuffle through the files in my mind, just pulling out the things that I never had time to deal with, wrangle with them, put them back and just proceed on. To think, with nothing to do but think, is an amazing activity. Sometimes I’d sing, and my voice, with no audience but me, the waves and the wind, would ring in all sorts of songs and lyrical musings. I came up with some of my favorite poetry out there on the water.
Sitting in the dentist’s office, waiting for that final call to the chair is no comparison. Thinking for thirty minutes, or maybe an hour, the magazines all read last visit and the TV broken, is not even close to the long periods at sea, with no mission or diversion but to look out, keep the mind active and truly ponder things. I have spent more than ten hours at one shift, simply standing at the rails, lifting the glasses, looking into the distance, seeking the danger, the friend, everything and anything, and it is amazingly effective focusing.
I remember a day when the skies were blue, and the clouds were just puffs of cotton in the sky. Within four hours they gathered, sort of meandering together while keeping up with the ship, and by the time I was ready to head back to my rack for some needed rest, they had worked up into a shower that sped up, drenched the ship and vanished in the ten minutes it took for my relief to take over. I was soaked to the skin after four hours of roasting on the nonskid. We lookouts became the real weather men at sea. That’s where the weather eye comes from. If one spends enough time just watching the waters and the sky, the weather and the currents become as knowable as a book. Just the movement and the shape of clouds can indicate the likelihood of rain, the winds will tell where the shade is going to show up, and when to duck inside to dodge a squall on a cold day.
In time, the whole realm of the watch becomes mystical, though, for to ask a lookout how he knew what was coming up would often result in a quick glance, a shrug and that distant look of one who has tuned himself to the sea and has temporarily lost that connection to his own kind.
Out.
From the Sea
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Part I
The Night
Inside the ship, where I worked, the sounds were that of a meeting just adjourned. Voices from a dozen conversations bounced around the walls, echoing in some places, barely audible in others. The sound-deadening material made strange things happen to the ears, so sometimes I could hear what someone was saying from across the room, and other times I could barely hear the person next to me. And beneath it all was the static of the radios, the hum of computers and other equipment. It was a droning sound that could set the ears to ringing if one stayed in the middle of it long enough. It was always dark, and the flashes of light from computer monitors and control panels made the place look like some dismal attempt at Christmas decorating. It was usually frigid, because the electronics had to be kept at about 60 degrees in order to stay stable. Too much heat would kill them easily, or even cause fires.
It was always busy in there, but sort of lonely, for the voices were always detached, the topics always about something “out there” beyond the skin of the ship. And everyone, always, had their senses tuned to that outside, constantly, vigilantly listening, looking, even feeling for what was out there. Every single person in Combat was searching the hundreds of miles in every direction for anything that moved. Whether in the air, on the sea, or under the sea, everything was looked for, looked at, analyzed and followed. That was what we did. We did it to keep the ship safe, keep the other ships who were with us safe, to keep our country safe.
Often I would escape the buzz and whisper of Combat when I could. I’d go topside to get a clear head, or just to get free from the constant pressure of watching, waiting. Nobody in the world who has not been there can relate to the incessant pressing, the crowding, obsessive leaning in all directions that goes on in Combat. The movies come close to capturing the environment, but even they cannot put that environment around and into the watcher.
So topside I would go, up a ladder or two, quietly passing through the hatches and doors to the darkness. The smoke break was a completely different environment. Here was very little talking, and almost complete darkness. Sometimes only a couple of people would be there, sometimes a dozen, depending on what time of night it was. And it was almost always hot, humid and very smoky. There were special curtains set up that would permit no light to go outside the frames of the ship, and they also prevented the spray from the sea and the wind from coming through, so the smoke built up.
It was densely smoky sometimes, so that I often didn’t really need to light up any tobacco. Just being there got the nicotine in, and it was pretty rough to breathe, but the escape was worth the discomfort. Rarely did anyone talk in the smoke break. Sometimes, if the night lighting was out, the only thing to be seen would be the cherry-red tips of cigarettes, cigars and pipes. A brief flare would illuminate a face, just for a moment, and eyes would meet and recognition would be indicated by a nod, or maybe a curt word. But we were all seeking the solitude, the freedom from the press of the watching, waiting, the barrage of information flowing.
And in there would be little noise, other than sometimes the rushing sound of vents and fans, or the vibration of the hull from heavy seas or the engines back aft as they ran through their paces. It was peaceful, if stuffy, and a moment in which a man could stop his mind’s circling and just be.
Many times I would fumble my way through the blackout curtains to the weather decks. There, where normally our presence wasn’t allowed at night, would the real moments of release come. On a night with a good headwind, there was virtually no sound. The front of the ship would part the blowing, break it up and as it blew aft, the sounds of the mighty vents and stacks and the jet-engines inside would be muted. Sometimes the only things to be heard were the waves as they gently slapped the sides of the ship, or when the bow came down amidst a large swell and crashed, lifting the spray up over the bridge and down on amidships where I would stand.
If anyone else was outside with me, I never heard them. Sometimes we’d nod at each other, but we didn’t communicate. Topside at night was like a sort of holy thing. Nobody talked. We just stared out at the sea, at the horizon, at the stars or the moon. On a clear night, with the moon low in the sky, there was a magical trail that led to the horizon, nothing but writhing light on the water, plumbed straight by the white globe in the sky, but never quite reaching it.
And the silent nights, the ones where there was no spray, no waves, those were the most incredible. Then the seas were glass, like just before pulling to port in San Diego, glass that had no flaw, no bubble, ripple or movement at all. It was an experience to shut down the very voice of the soul. Nothing could move or make a sound in those moments. I’d stand there, hands in pockets, sometimes a little breeze would toy with the cloth of my pants, or tousle my hair. Sometimes it was so still I thought that all had simply frozen in time. That was peace. There is no peace that can compare to the dead of night on a calm sea.
I’d stand there, maybe for 10 minutes, simply breathing, not really blinking or shifting my feet, just standing. There were no thoughts in my head. The watching, the thinking, the waiting that was down below, inside the heart of the ship, were down there, couldn’t follow to this completely separate world. It was like two absolutes, buzzing life, incessant, and clear, numb peace. In both one can lose his identity. Below, I could lose myself in the spiral of information, in the continuous feeding and taking of thoughts and words, the numbness of perpetual motion. Above, I could lose myself in the darkness, the silence, the motionless still capture of a metal and water existence.
I can’t say that I love the sea, but I will never entirely lose her when I finally depart for shore. These nights, and many others about which I think I’ll tell, are what, even centuries ago, maybe millennia, are what men mean by the call of the deep. There is nothing like it in all of Creation. Nothing.
Out.
The Categories of Paper Screams
Friday, April 04, 2008
Here it begins.
Would you feel the cold, the diminishing sun, the desolation?
Nightfall is here for you.
Do you seek the sunlight, the rush and joy of living, discovering?
Sunrise is here for you.
Do you want to chase the mist and wandering screams?
I have the shadows here for you.
Do you want that other place, where I’ve wandered, the old world, old words?
Here are the paintings.
And next, the book. Paper Screams, From A Distant Place. It’ll be on soon. I’m gonna do it. In the meantime, enjoy my reorganizing and editing. I’ve cleaned up and re-posted almost every poem. Corrected some archival errors and some historical junk. It’s way cooler than before. Enjoy.
You can help me out by taking a fresh look at my work. Tell me if I sorted it out right. Tell me if the four categories are good ones, or if I could change or add to them. What do you see? Leave a comment or email me.
Think Outside The Life
When I went to work on Sunday (which is Monday for us here), I was a regular worker. I had my desk job and lots of paperwork. I had a few meetings to attend and a couple to prepare for later in the week. I am the slave of a pretty good master here. My boss treats me well and does a fair job of teaching me the work. I’ve never done this sort of work before, for the most part. I’m in manpower and long-range project stuff. Mostly I just analyze information and feed it to the right medium for publication.
But I’ve been seeing this problem over the last four months. It’s a communication problem, and it deals with teamwork and efficiency. I have been trying to wrap my mind around it and it’s a pretty tough thing. I wish I could go into the details. I can talk about the dynamics, though, and the story that unfolds with all this.
Being the NG (New Guy) in an office where everyone else is pretty much well established in their role and expert knowledge, I’m in a tough place. I don’t have a whole lot of confidence in my critical skills. When I see a problem, I try to fix it, but when it’s a monumental issue that comes from everywhere in the workplace, it’s different. My first reaction to perceiving a problem is to doubt my view. I’m the NG and I just don’t get the process.
Basically, this is a team system, sort of like a think-tank. There are, say, 10 folks on the team. They each have responsibilities to produce a product. One is for immediate projects, things which are in progress right now. Another responsibility is for long-range stuff, like what’s coming up in a month, or a year. A third job is sort of like evaluations, which takes the details going into these projects and checks to see if they’re suited to perform. Everyone works together, though, with the evaluation guys feeding their information to the long-range and short-range planning guys, and the long-range guys feeding their projects to the short-range guys when it falls into the window. It’s like a collaborative working-group that is dynamic, constantly working, and not really End-Goal oriented (in contrast to a team that is involved in construction, building complete=goal met). We’re in management of all projects, upcoming and ongoing. The environment demands well informed and proactive workers who collaborate, rather than specialize.
All of these projects are being run by other people outside the office, with teams of their own. We’re like the contract-management team for a vast collection of contracts that each have a different purpose.
Here’s the main issue. There are two guys, the main leaders, who have 90% of the information in their heads. They have the details, the projects, the teams for each project and the authority all in their heads. And they do all the work. It’s very efficient, of course, because a one-stop-shop with all the needed resources and decision-making skills cuts out all the red tape and complications of “too many cooks in the kitchen” and it smooths communication, since everyone just calls one phone number for support.
Here’s what I see. I see all the rest of the people in the office spinning around and not doing anything. We’re like Kinko’s, just personal secretaries to the two head honchos. We produce work by their direction, but have no participation in the processes behind the work. We make copies, we design presentations, chart the statistics and, in general, just make it easier for the heads to run their show.
Sounds okay, right? Good system?
Not to me. Look at it this way. Each person here has, say 10 years on the work-force. 10 people combined have 100 years of experience. Several of us have much more than 10 years working in our organization. I’m estimating at least 200 years of experience, really.
The way these sorts of programs work is radically different from the way we function right now. Teams work as teams. And the nominal way this office was set up was as a team. A brain-storming, problem-solving team.
And I think the heads are wearing themselves down. They work too hard. They’re at work late into the night. They are constantly running and eventually that running is going to fail.
I have the way, I know it. I know what we can do. It’s pretty simple. Give us the world. Really. There’s a good, simple process that explains this. Data flows up, decisions flow down. What we need is to put the slaves to work in developing all the things the heads need to make decisions. The heads need to sit in their offices and be free to think great thoughts while the slaves are crunching everything through the gears of collaborative problem solving.
How did I get to this vision? I see the little problems first, and they lead, step by step, to the massive one. Confusion about what one team is doing “out there” and what they’re supposed to be doing. Consistently broken communication lines that keep us in the dark until something monumental happens and suddenly we have to backtrack to find out the source of the problem. Lack of ownership. We don’t own our work. We have no vested personal interest in the work we do.
People have intimated or out right said I’m negative at work. I look at things and see what’s wrong with them. I’m anti-social and aloof. I don’t assume responsibility. I’m just not a team player.
So I finally started working this mass around in my fuzzy head, and I Eureka’d it. I found it, I cleared the fog and identified what was there. And I found the solution. I wrote the solution and backed it with precedence and examples from the most reliable sources.
And I showed it to my master, and I showed it to a fairly objective party. And I tried to sell it. And they both liked it. But there is the end of it, at the moment. Two more problems arose.
Master said he loved it, but master is leaving in a few weeks, forever. He’s being replaced after a long, hard tour here, going home to his girl and a well-deserved vacation. He isn’t able to commit to long-term fixing. But he’s putting what he can into at least bringing it as far as possible before he leaves. He made some good observations of what’s likely to happen, though. How do you tell a CEO that he needs to change unless you’re another CEO? Master isn’t a CEO and I certainly am not (being about 6 levels below Master).
Now I thought of this early on. So I devised the “back-door” reform program too. It has mostly to do with getting the team to start flooding the bosses with the information we’re really supposed to develop and keep the faucet on full until we break the wall of isolation. Force the bosses to realize that we’re doing more and better work than they can alone. It’s a sound plan. The problem here is that another problem exists. The team has been in the current dynamic for too long. They are compartmentalized, office-cube type thinkers now, who only focus on the immediate product they are assigned. They don’t think outside their box. As a whole, we are robots now. And none of us play well with others.
I don’t play well with others, either, but I do think outside the box. I hate programmed situations where punching the same size hole in the same size card is the whole process. I can’t do that kind of work (you’ll never see me voluntarily on an assembly line).
Okay, back to the plan. I showed this to the objective friend (he’s one of us in name, but is primarily involved in one project that doesn’t share much with the rest of the team). This guy is Very seasoned, with Lots of experience and the ability to understand what’s going on. And he agrees with my analysis. But he gave me pretty much what seems an ultimate answer.
Dude, you’re never going to see this plan fly on your own. You’re doing the work of someone who is about 8 levels above your grade. You’re doing officer work, and you’re enlisted. It’s incredible that you’ve got this ability to perceive what sucks and then figure out what to do about it. Most people just sit at their desk and say “This sucks,” but don’t do anything about it. They just sit around until something changes, which is usually a new assignment. You are wasting your gifts as an enlisted guy. You should be an officer.
What? Uh, I’ve spent the last 12 years avoiding the idea of being an officer. I don’t want the headache. I don’t want the level of authority.
But, you do want it. You have the solutions to the biggest problems in our organization and you want to put them to work. That means you want the authority.
I guess this means change my course. It’s weird. This is the first time I’ve ever thought about it. And it’s kind of scary. As me, right now, I can’t really chart my course. I don’t know where I’m going to be next, or what I’m going to do. I’m at the mercy of the Organizational Gods who put me where they want me and then I have to follow the directions of whatever master I get. As an officer? I can see so much more clearly just what I can do. I can predict the types of jobs I’ll have, I can identify many of the potential conflicts and I can actually see how I am able to deal with those problems. I can set a standard for my own performance, because I can tell what is going to be asked of me, which rarely happens in my current grade.
Why has it taken so long for me to see this? Is it just timing, coincidence that finally somebody saw what was there and said it? Or have I hit the level that I need to be able to take on this idea?
I still have doubts. I am constantly at war with my confidence. Have I got carried away with something? Am I so selfish that I devise my own sort of false reality in which I am king? Do I have such a low level of regard for myself that I engage in fantasy that puts me in the important section? Or am I right?
In my logical brain, I’m right. Dead right. I can see this through, both the fixing of the operation and the officer thing. I can put my finger on the reasons why, the explanations how, the description of outcomes.
In my other brain, the one I don’t like very much, I see a little kid who wants to be important, something more than a shadow. I see a guy who is not satisfied with where he is and is constantly trying to get out of it. And I see a me who, upon seeing something attractive, too easily gets carried away with it and fails to see the truth of the situation.
So the plan? The change in career? I want ‘em. I want them a Lot. I just don’t want to find out that it’s all a pipe-dream of my own construct.
I Want Paper
Sunday, March 30, 2008
I have 236 poems, in Paper Screams. I think that would translate to almost 500 pages, considering a lot are more than a page long, but maybe less. I haven’t tested that.
I want to go back and put them all into image files (good fonts, all prettied up). But I want most to get them on paper. I want a book. I don’t think a world-wide publishing campaign is in order. I just want a dozen or so, to give to people who like the stuff. Poetry doesn’t sell well until the author is dead, and I have no intention of croaking off any time soon.
But what I’d like is imagery to go with the poetry. I don’t think I could ever turn out 246 individual paintings to go with this book. I couldn’t turn out half that many. I’m just not that much of an artist. I can imagine the amount of work it would require to do a good job, and it’s not up my alley. I toyed with the idea of photography, too, but that’s still a huge undertaking. Maybe less than painting, but still a monumental task.
But it seems, since I’m such a picture type, that it only makes sense to set up Alana with illustrations. Plates, like old books have, or maybe sporadic glossies?
And the name? Alana has personal meaning for me, and that’s about it. Maybe “Paper Screams, Alana’s Tome,” or something?
And organizing? I could do a backward-forward type book where you flip it. Put the happy stuff on one and the dark on the other. But there are a lot that don’t clearly fit into either space, and there are a LOT more dark than happy and undetermined combined. What’s that take to sort out? Maybe two volumes? Shadows and Sunlight? That might work. Boxed set?
I sure would like to put this stuff to a good block of paper, though. My bookafile nature just wouldn’t be satisfied with even a hugely successful web-based poetry production. I want a couple of solid, well-crafted books with all my poetry in. How to do that?