Free Fall Original

essaysbysean.blogspot.com

Headnote: This would have run last week, but Brexit took my attention.

Hello Reader

Got originality?

Today’s post? Not quite my usual free fall. (Which I won’t define yet again) 

Secondly, from Friday, is a piece about me. As you may recall, I never compose a blog post about myself, but this surprise piece was speed written at the Friday Free Fall group, at Alexandra Writers Community Centre (AWCS)

Firstly, from Sunday, are two fun poems. You see, I attend, at AWCS, a weekly Poetry Cafe, run by an authentic fun poet, Laurie Fuhr. (With a drop-in fee) She leads by showing us examples of other poets, perhaps with whiteboard class exercises. I like how Laurie’s original, for I don’t believe there is another such “free fall poetry” group for hundreds of miles. The most fun part, for me, is how Laurie has us write poems, right there in the cafe, in speedy free fall style. Too bad we only have enough time at the end of the class to go around reading only one or two of our poems for that day; how nice to be with other enthusiasts.

Of course we all use our special poet’s pen and paper—except me. My own originality is that I often make my poems rhyme, which is not how modern poetry goes, and that I always use my laptop because the screen helps me to make patterned poems.

Prompt-

We generated a long list of Irish words, then I chose to go with “castle.”

On the emerald isle stands a castle grey

Where the winds rush through from far away

Away in time rushing around the stones

Where green grass blows over long gone bones

About the castle rush little feet scampering

Children outside in their jerseys—no pampering

They lean out from casements, and no they don’t fall

Castles are for the quick, for one and all

Behind the stones spy fairies, they who love the kids,

On the bench are old parents, who pop the lids

Of their Guinness and their sweet cigar cases

While kids look for fairies, and run their races

Simple stones for simple folks

With simple pleasures and simple smokes

As children climb and skip and run

A windy castle is so much fun

We forget old bones below our games

Old bones that once had played the same games

Prompt-

Laurie showed us how a poem can use a series of rhetorical questions

When you see my castle do you think of me?

When you think of a queen do you know of me?

Do you know I had a name, and a husband dear?

And we once had lives, although it’s not so clear.

Can you leap as high as Michael, run as fast as Bridget?

Can you balance on that rock, without any fidget?

Do you fashion cones and pines into some sort of widget?

So like my Michael, and my dear lost Brigit

Do you like the wind playing through your hair?

Do you love the gulls slanting on the air?

Do you thrill to ride on a sweet old mare?

So did I, so did I, racing on a dare

Do you wonder at my life, from my castle’s stones?

Do you wish there still were horses here, greys and roans?

Do you wonder when I join the wind in doing a moan?

It’s because I miss you children, and now I’m less alone

Prompt- 

unwrapping memories

I’ve been thinking lately of unwrapping memories as I read of the dysfunctional family of novelist Pat Conroy. One of his younger brothers, who works with disabled children, really can’t stand to be around the other ones. One of them committed suicide but that was from clinical craziness when he went off his medication. Never do that.

Next month I am taking a two day course at Saint John Ambulance in mental health first aide. This will be right after my one day course in medication refresher for my disabled clients, which will be after my evening staff meeting, and all this will be during the week and a half I booked off. Strange, the money I save by having a “staycation” will go to Saint John, but I really want to know things. My brother still has a big scar, but at least I can stand to be around him.

A survivor I know thought that we can’t remember much because we had boring childhoods. That’s a nice thought. In the movie version of Conroy’s book the mother says the father never hit her. In the book version the boy goes to his dresser, because she always thinks that, and pulls out a bloody T-shirt he has been saving, in the hopes of breaking her denial.

God gives us denial for a reason, so I don’t mind it. When I get rich I’m going to go find my parent’s graves and I will remember only the good stuff. Because life goes on. As long as I’m not being an idiot it’s OK to forget.

I am going to be a Speaker for the Dead at toastmasters and I’ll just have to guess. And if someone asks if I’m speaking for a relative I’ll just reply how can I? Unless I’m a mind reader. Later, if I’m talking to a relative, I will remember to be humble and realize that my memories don’t have to be right. Best to get a second opinion on any that are too silly.

Sean Crawford

At Alexandra Writers Community Centre,

In the “C-space” building,

An old sandstone four-storey school,

Calgary

April

2019

Footnote: 
~ Speaker for the Dead is a science fiction novel by Orson Scott Card that will never be a movie, if only because it’s too psychological to film. In that world it takes no training or certification to be a Speaker, just the willingness to tell the truth about the departed, without whitewashing or darkening. The book won both the Hugo and the Nebula.

~ I might say that like Conrad’s young brother, I too work with folks with disabilities. Last night at Toastmasters we went around saying what we admired about the person to our right. Sharon liked how I worked with folks with special needs; her son has special needs. Sharon admired how I bring a "special take on things" to our club; she can still remember parts of my speeches from long ago, and she still quotes parts of them, to other people.