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Excerpts from
Transcendental Trinkets See also Concord
and Other Manuscripts.
Let your life be a counterfriction to stop the
machine.
—Henry David Thoreau
 The
editor, known recusant of Concord, Massachusetts, has been battling with town
organizations for over a decade (e.g., Concord Poetry Center, Concord Chamber of
Commerce, Concord Cultural Council, Concord Festival of Authors, Walden Pond
State Reservation, and Emerson Umbrella for the Arts). Transcendental
Trinkets is a 150-page ongoing, unpublished manuscript, constituting highly
critical open letters to Henry David Thoreau, American Dissident broadsides, poems, journal notes,
essays, and satirical cartoons and watercolors. It bears testimony to the
fact that purposeful conflict with power can indeed serve as a great source for
creativity. Sadly, however, the bulk of the state's (and likely the
nation's) creative-writing professors refuse to even expose their students to it
as a possibility. In fact, I've only come across one professor in the entire
state who willingly does, Dan Sklar (Endicott College), who has been inviting me to his classes each semester now for the past three years.
How not to commend him for his unusual openness.
As for
the watercolors, a juried exhibit was held at the Concord Free Public Library
Art Gallery in August 2008 and netted the editor front-page coverage in The
Concord Journal (see
Interviews). One of the library curators, whom I did not know, wrote an email regarding that exhibit:
The only thing I know is that I have never seen anything like your work
in the Gallery. You don't soothe, you awaken.
About
a decade ago, I was arrested and incarcerated for a day in a Concord jail cell as
a direct result of a non-violent dispute with a Walden Pond State Reservation
ranger. On several other occasions, I was threatened with arrest for
protesting the lack of free speech at Walden. For more information on
those occurrences, see
www.theamericandissident.org/WaldenPondStateReservation.htm).
Finally, I couldn't interest
the Thoreau Institute in this manuscript. The Institute won't even permit
me to place free-speech flyers in its kiosk. It's curator
Jeff Cramer
refuses to respond to my letters. He figures as a
Chac Mool in the watercolor
below.
The Institute does publish books and not necessarily of the scholarly variety.
What really irritates me is this new generation of comfortable censors, entirely
indifferent to the principles of democracy.
The
following are excerpts.
Thoreau’s Ghost?
The brown elm, most tenuous of leaves here
in the winter time,
trembled slightly eastwards in the breeze,
appearing as giant scarecrow conglomerations
of apathy and death.
Still, the pine green was most prevalent round
the horizons of the famous pond.
A balmy 60 degrees blew straight across it
upon me.
Only a small portion of the water by the shore
was frozen over; driftwood bobbed close to me.
A lone boatman rowed a pathway through the
ice sheet until open water.
In the distance, I perceived my friend Jeanne
struggling along the slippery pathway.
Youth vociferated, though only for a moment,
while fishermen here and there remained silent.
The squawk of a lone crow resounded suddenly,
while I stood reading an official warning:
Attention park visitors, in
recent months we have
received reports of an
individual exposing himself
to park patrons. If you
encounter this person
while at
Walden pond,
please do not confront him…
Open Letter to Henry David Thoreau #15
Dear Henry: The Town of
Concord has become as bourgeois as it gets and not simply regarding wealth
accumulation, but especially with regards both sterility in the absence of
dissidence and pomposity in the boasting of distant history, including yours.
Here today, the nation is in a shambles; democracy is in a shambles! But the
Concord Cultural Council adopted a regulation prohibiting any proposal of a
“political nature”* apt to actually question and challenge the very status quo
that has been crippling the nation on both local and national levels. Imagine
the pert pouting pusses of co-chairs Kathleen Kennedy and Elizabeth
Harvey if you’d suddenly materialized to present them with a grant proposal
to disseminate the ideas you expressed in “Civil Disobedience” and “Life without
Principle”! The nation is in a shambles; democracy is in a shambles! But the
Concord Chamber of Commerce won’t let you know about that in its Visitors
Center, unless you step into the public latrine. “You can hang your stuff in the
bathroom,” suggested Town Manager Chris Whalen as a solution to my
complaint that it refused to permit me equal opportunity to post and stock
flyers.
“The Town owns the
bathrooms, not the Chamber of Commerce.” As for the Concord Poetry Center and
Friends of the Concord Free Public Library, they only invite writers with
bourgeois tastes and aesthetics to read to the “good society” that helped beat
up the nation which, as mentioned, is in a shambles. As for the Walden
Poetry Series, its “Poetry for the Spring Equinox to celebrate the beauty of
the natural world” is in your tradition, not of dissidence, of course, but
rather of botany. The only way “good society” and poet sycophants can deal with
you is in that castrated form. Once you’d said quite perspicaciously: “They want
all of a man but his truth and independence and manhood.” Perhaps host David
Bishop might spark invited poet David R. Surette’s reading by
having your local impersonator do pirouettes in a green tutu. Thanks
indeed to the flaccid poets of the day, Henry, you’ve become as safe as it
gets—mere fodder for “good society”! “Let your life be a counterfriction to stop
the machine” was your modus operandi, but certainly not that of local and
national poetasters! Imagine if the members of the society and institute named
after you actually heeded those words! Imagine if the teachers at the school
named after you actually taught the children to cherish them! And imagine if
the Corporate Outings, named after you held at the club named after you,
actually taught the attending corporateers to live by them! Sadly, today, those
words are simply ignored. Let your life be an unquestioning and unchallenging
part of the machine is a much more convenient modus operandi for them. In other
words, if that machine pays, Henry, then keep your mouth tightly sealed. “I ask
only that one fourth part of my honest thoughts be spoken aloud,” you’d
written. Well, you won’t even get one fiftieth here in Concord, for you’ve been
co-opted by the very “good society” you once described so well: “It is very
evident what mean and sneaking lives many of you live… lying, flattering,
contracting yourselves into a nutshell of civility or dilating into an
atmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity.” Well, I shall be distributing
copies of this letter to share our thoughts with those who surely would rather
we not share them, for potentially perturbing to the bliss of their Spring
Equinox. Best to you, Henry.
....................................................
*In October, 2009, the CCC
removed its stipulation that: “Programs in music, dance, visual arts, poetry,
literature, drama, the humanities and scientific interpretation for all age
groups will be considered, but not those of a political nature.” Evidently,
I'd provoked that removal. Of course, those who enacted the provision are
still, however, firmly entrenched in their Council seats, so will likely
continue to prohibit anything they perceive to be of a “political nature” from
equal-funding opportunity and simply reject it for other reasons.
February 24, 2000
Walden today for a change. Two
guys out in the middle of the lake on chairs ice fishing. The signs are up.
UNSAFE ICE/ NO GAS AUGERS. The cap is a reflection of water, for all the snow
of yesterday has melted, and two brave souls. The sun is out. It’s about 45.
A few mounds of snow on the ice… dead snowmen tumbled over. The path is
swampy. I have my rubber boots on, so no matter. Mushy. Squish, squish is the
sound today. Signs all over the place. ICE UNSAFE. Vertigo still in my head.
Jeanne suggests a little antibiotic diet this weekend. Evidently, I have caught
something.
I am alone here today. No
other cars in the lot but mine. Who knows how many times I’ve rounded this
pond. The papers this morning were loaded with a harvest of stuff to be
cartooned and lampooned and decried. Santana and JFK. Ruben Blades declaring
he’d rather attend the Grammys instead of
Clinton’s
King Carlos dinner.
The sun is bright now and the
fishermen have scattered off the ice. Who can blame them? I too shall scatter
off when cometh the bayonets. Santana should have spoken about the crap in
Mexico,
the massacres and drugs and America’s long shadow. He should have asked what
the audience of millionaire actors and musicians were doing about it? What were
the messages in their nonsense songs and films, if any at all?
Dead snowmen on the lake… and
the familiar noxious odor of exhaust from speeding locomotive. A slush of ice
upon the path. Rivulets. Spring is near. Hark! Oye
como va? Hey how you doin’ man? That’s the extent of coolness… the buffer. My
recent life has been a series of maneuvers and attempts at unraveling the truth,
the substance of my country tis of thee. That’s what my life has become…
unraveling the mysteries, the shroud upon
America.
Broadside
Rejected by Walden Pond State Reservation on the Advice of State Legal Counsel
Testing
the Waters of Democracy Today in Concord… and at Walden Pond
Question:
Does a citizen have the right to post criticism of a public organization on
public grounds?
Answer:
Legally, yes. At Walden Pond, however, definitely NOT!
“Since the Supreme Court’s decision in Hague v. Committee for
Industrial Organization (1939), it has been settled in the law that public
parks—since they are held in trust for the public and have traditionally been
used for assembly, communication, and public discussion—are “traditional” public
forums. […] Once a place has been designated a public forum, the government’s
power to limit speech there is extremely narrow. Viewpoint discrimination is
never permissible. Content discrimination (discrimination based on the subject
matter of the speech, whatever the point of view taken on it) is acceptable only
if the government can show the following:
1) There is a compelling state interest for the
exclusion.
2) The regulation making the exclusion is narrowly drawn
to achieve that state interest
3) The regulation leaves open ample alternative channels for
the communication.
Speech has been broadly defined as an expression that
includes, but is not limited to, what you wear, read, say, paint, perform,
believe, protest, or even silently resist. “Speech activities” include
leafleting, picketing, symbolic acts, wearing armbands, demonstrations,
speeches, forums, concerts, motion pictures, stage performances, remaining
silent, and so on." (Foundation for Individual Rights in Education)
Originally this broadside was
written for and sent to park authorities in response to a request for a sample
brochure of what I desired to stock by the info kiosk near Thoreau’s replica
shack. “I am sorry for the delay in getting back to you about your request to
leave your broadside in the brochure box,” wrote supervisor Denise Morrissey.
“I ran it by my ‘bosses’ at the Regional level and to our legal counsel in
Boston. Basically, the issue is one of space and fairness to all individuals
and organizations that might want to do the same.” Space? The park is
immense! And what about Free Speech and its legality?
On the Dissident Side
Toreau’s sense of ecology is
stressed at Walden Pond State Reservation, as opposed to his sense of
dissidence. For the socio-political status quo, ecology is far safer than
dissidence, though evidently ecology too can be dissident in character. “Disobedience
is the true foundation of liberty,” he
wrote. “The obedient must be slaves.” Now, what if those words were
plastered on the front of the Thoreau replica shack in large letters? The words,
if heeded, could be potentially damaging to any hierarchical organization,
including Walden Pond State Reservation. Contrary to most citizens of his time
and ours, Thoreau was eager to express the truth as he saw it. “Such
dangerous frankness was in his dealing that his admirers, called him ‘that
terrible Thoreau,’” wrote friend Emerson. In America today, “frankness” is
still “dangerous.” Indeed, to be “successful,” one must avoid “frankness” at all
costs. Thoreau’s definition of “success” was, of course, quite different from
that held by the general citizen of his day… and ours, though it clearly favored
democracy, while disfavoring all things working against democracy. The “machine”
that Thoreau wanted stopped was the money machine for its stifling affect upon
free speech and vigorous debate, cornerstones of democracy, and its demand for
rampant self-censorship.
 As a direct result of
the intrinsic corruption of that “machine,” in particular, at Fitchburg State
College, and the refusal of the local press to publish anything with its regard,
The American Dissident was founded in 1998 in Concord. That
corruption essentially killed my career as professor, while unintentionally
awakened another one as dissident. “Most who enter on any profession are
doomed men,” wrote Thoreau. “The world might as well sing a dirge over them
forthwith.” Thus, the dissident of Walden became an inspiration.
Indeed, I became fascinated by the often egregious discordance existing between
Concord’s brandishing of Thoreau as a native son and its seeming blatant
disregard for what he really stood for. Thoreau, the tourist attraction, was of
course far more valuable to the “machine” (e.g., Chamber of Commerce) than
Thoreau, the dissident. In fact, the perversion of Thoreau as an icon reaches,
at times, amazing extremes in Concord, as noted in the photo below. In times of
Orwellian doublespeak, anything is possible. “A man
will have to add a clause to his will, ‘No statue to be made for me,’”
stated Thoreau. “It is very offensive to me to see the dying stiffen into
statues at this rate.” Why the bronze statue at Walden?
The American
Dissident seeks to publish writing that questions and challenges, as well as
breaches the wall of convenient self-censorship. We, the people, need to get out
there and sense democracy or rather the lack of it, and muster the courage to
perform experiments in free speech. On cold days, we must not only test the
waters of Walden Pond, but also those of democracy. “The dull and blundering
behavior of clowns will as surely polish the writer at last as the criticism of
men of thought,” wrote Thoreau. Over the years, how those “clowns” have
polished me! On
9/1/1999, for example,
I was arrested and
incarcerated for a day in
Concord by Officer
Crosby for criticizing the State in a non-violent dispute with a Walden Pond
park ranger. Despite the State prosecutor’s fervent desire to prosecute, Judge
Sanders gave me the choice of dismissal or a jury trial, discouraging the latter
however with an arrogant
“Given the police report, I
don’t think you stand a chance. It would be a crapshoot.” Yet that report only
contained subjective fluff, noting witnesses, none of whom showed up. And the
judge failed to evoke Commonwealth v. Jarrett (1977): “mere making of statements
or expression of views or opinions, no matter how unpopular, or views with which
persons present do not agree is not punishable as disturbance of the peace.” It
still angers me today that
Crosby had my car impounded as punishment
ex jura. On
9/8/2000, a state trooper on horseback literally pushed
me off park grounds with his horse because I’d asked the park ranger of the
previous incident why he detested the First Amendment. The next day I returned
with a simple sign: “NO FREE SPEECH AT WALDEN POND!” Silently, I stood by a
tree near the park entrance. Soon, several state and town police cars arrived to
tell me to move or be arrested. Dismayed, I left.
Major Daniel E. Jamroz responded six months later to my
official complaint: “As the Commanding Officer of Tactical Operations, the
Mounted Section falls under my command. I have been provided with the copy of
the investigation that was conducted by Captain Robert C. Laprel of my staff. I
have found that this complaint that you made against officers assigned to the
Mounted Sections for incidents that occurred on Sept. 8 and 9, 2000 at
Walden Pond Park are Not
Sustained.” Surprise? Not until this October did I return to
Walden, though I still persisted as a “counterfriction
to stop the machine.” To my surprise, Thoreau Society permitted me to stock
The American Dissident at its Shop at
Walden Pond,
despite past refusal. But park authorities still refuse to allow me to place
this broadside in the park’s brochure box. Other doors remain firmly closed. The
Concord Chamber of Commerce refuses to permit the journal in its Visitor’s
Center, the Concord Poetry Center refuses to invite me to speak on protest and
poetry, and the Concord Cultural Council refuses to accord me a grant. “America
is said to be the arena on which the battle of freedom is to be fought; but
surely it cannot be freedom in a merely political sense that is meant,” wrote
Thoreau. “Even if we grant that the American has freed himself from a
political tyrant, he is still the slave of an economical and moral tyrant.”
Guided Pall
Where
the writing of wisdom in this house,
where
Emerson once dwelled?
The
furniture of old remains, though
the
descendants now possess the deed.
Might this
be the final door upon the tomb,
shutting
over and again with each new tour
and
monotone elucidation?
And this
his study, and that the photo
by the
famous photographer, and this
the
painting of the famous admirer,
and that
the dollhouse of the daughter
and this
the wooden horse called Diamond.
In fame,
the name was all ye needed know,
citizen
tourist,
so hark
the genealogical soliloquy, gaze
upon the
old mahogany bed, touch
the wilted
original wallpaper, smell the odor
of
yesteryear, and admire—yes, admire—
the
shelved books no longer read.
This the
shroud smothering the wisdom of
“Self
Reliance”—not a word of it uttered
with each
new admission ticket purchased.
March 8, 2000
Where is your mind, soul man? Can’t quite find it this morning walking the
walk, sun heating my pate. It is a warm day, well, 50s, birds tweeting, and I
looking for thoughts that I don’t have. I cross the street to avoid the
aggression of a pedestrian’s dog. Is that not the aggression by proxy of the
pedestrian? I find myself covering my mouth with my sweatshirt sleeve when the
passage of large trucks for such passage seems to suck the very atmosphere out
of my surroundings, out of my being already diminished from virus or tumor.
It is man’s need to
frolic alone in thicket swamps in and around the cattails to feel human and
alive and in tune. Life abounds today but not from the humans. We are part of
the wallpaper, always present, summer winter or fall. Today other creatures
take prominence and even the hoot of a lone owl. It is I suppose a glorious
morning. We even fear the woods today for the ticks, lime disease and hopes of
immortality. The lineage is there. The lineage of cheat, the lineage of child
molesters, the lineage of butcher leaders, and gratefully the lineage of
solitary souls, chroniclers of it all.
To prod the gray matter.
J’ai mal aux
méninges. M’en fous de ta propriété de marde… et ton parfum puant.. ton
mariage… ton épouse et toute ta connerie. M’en fous. Les âmes de maison
sortent leurs âmes et corps itou. L’agrafeuse d’un travailleur perce mon
oreille… ou du moins le son.
Okay, English mode.
Prod in that mode. I get lost in my French thoughts.
Can’t use those
thoughts…not here. Je prendrai plutôt la beauté de vos jardins. Plutôt ça que
vos hanches engourdies. Une chaleur tout à fait agréable.
Bienvenu au printemps ! Time to change coats. Mother and
father, you went as far as you could. And now I go as far as I can.
On Harrington Avenue, the
neighbor woman at the tiny house with the roof high cactus is raking. She
has a nice garden already. Hers is the smallest house upon the avenue.
“Boy that’s a nice garden you have there,” I said. “The best in the
neighborhood.” She stopped to talk, which was not what I had in mind, so I
had to stop. “I can’t really do much,” she said. “I had a liver
transplant four years ago.” “Wow,” I say, “that’s the toughest of all the
transplants.” “I planted over 400 bulbs, tulips and crocuses. I see
you go by all the time.” “Yeah I have a heart thing,” I said. “Oh
you’re one of those,” she said, and I moved on. The Doc had
told me to eat beans, and I felt down today. Got to shed weight, shed the
pounds. Walking 45 minutes isn’t enough, he said. No chocolates. Test after
test.
Open Letter to Henry David
Thoreau #10
The
Concord Museum, Shop at Walden & What Would You Do?
 Dear
Henry: The Concord Museum, which houses some of your old "stuff," contains a
shop. Several months ago I'd left a note there, requesting its manager, David
Hessel, stock several copies of The American Dissident, a
Concord-based literary journal created as, in your words, "a counterfriction to
stop the machine." Well, I've already mentioned the journal to you. Anyhow,
the manager never responded, so I drove back down to the shop the other day.
"I'm just doing a survey of
what you carry here," I said to the clerk behind the cash register eyeballing
me. "Oh, we try to keep it on a higher plain," she responded. "That's evidently
a subjective remark," I said. "I guess maybe it is," she agreed, chuckling.
Well, she didn't want me to quote her, but what she said was true. "Higher
plain" equaled "good taste" and "good taste," Henry, seemed to be the rule of
the day. Anything else was generally rejected, omitted, censored, or simply
scorned. As you might have guessed, The American Dissident was
not what the holders of "good taste" considered to constitute "good taste." Upon
inspection, I concluded pertinence to Concord was oddly not a requisite:
Wooden Boat, The Parting Glass: A Toast to the Traditional Pubs of
Ireland, Interior
Photography, and
Antiques Magazine were on the shelf. The American Dissident is a
small journal, Henry, and would take up only 1/4th the space accorded
to Real Vermont Maple Syrup, 1/8th accorded to the Men's Minuteman
Dress Ties, 178th accorded to the Dragonfly Craft earrings and pins
rack, and only 1/25th accorded to those tee-shirts with your photo on
them.
Later, I drove over
to Walden Pond, now known as Walden Pond State Reservation which, by the way, is
not run by American Indians, but rather by park rangers who, oddly, dislike
dissidents. It was the day after Labor Day, so I figured I'd be able to park for
free, as in previous years. Unfortunately, it now costs $5 even during off
season. Being unemployed, I decided to skip the five bucks, as well as the swim
I'd intended taking. Instead, I parked next to Shop at Walden, right next to the
Massachusetts State Police Mounted Unit. Several years ago, as you might recall,
I told you how a mounted cop pushed me out of the park with his horse's snout
because I was protesting park ranger intolerance to free speech. Anyhow, I
wanted to see what the boutique was selling, besides the books about you and
Emerson. By the way, the shop is leased and the boutique managed by the
Thoreau Society. Henry, you've spawned a cottage industry of tee shirts,
sweatshirts, ties, coffee mugs, pencils, pens, greeting cards, walking sticks,
bumper stickers, hoola hoops, book markers, books, scholars, and all kinds of
transcendental trinkets, including tie clips and earrings. The favored trinket
of the Thoreau Society is the ecologically colored blue-green "Simplify,
Simplify" rubber wristband costing only $2. Some "good taste," eh, Henry?
Interestingly, on one of the tee-shirts is the question: "What Would Thoreau
Do?" Oddly, the Thoreau Society doesn't seem to know what the hell you'd do.
But I know. The first thing you'd do is burn down Shop at Walden Pond, tar and
feather members of that society, knock down your bronze statue, blow up the
Thoreau Institute, free the corralled cop horses, and, well, spend another night
or two in jail. Good "talking" to you, Henry.
March 9, 2000
So here I am at Walden to get
rid of the pounds. I’ve got to get a job! I need health insurance! It’s sunny
today, 60s. Walden is noise once again, kids hollering at the beach, fishermen
yakking with stentorian voices. The year gone, already down the drain. “It’s
34 in the water,” said an old guy. “Painful.” 125 over 80, so my blood
pressure’s good. The EKG was excellent, said the doctor. But my cholesterol
has skyrocketed to 280. “Eat beans.” $500 later. “Eat beans,” he said.
“Flageolets, isn’t that what the French call them?” Navy beans, soy beans,
chickpeas, limas, lentils. The sun is out. The top of my head is aflame.
Fiber. “There’s a special fiber in beans,” he said. Wants me to see an
optician, then a neurologist. Fuck that. And of course he wants me back
again.
A youth, cellphone glued,
yakking loudmouth upon the path. Walden needs SILENCE signs instead of all the
STAY ON THE PATH signs. “YEAH, THAT’S PERFECT!” some broad hollers through my
ears to another one. Slight dizziness, something slightly out of whack, out of
kilter in the body/mind, also a slight re-hankering to get the hell out of the
state. Kayaking?
The southern edge of this pond
is still frozen… liquidity, slushy topping. What if I just walked all day? All
day long around this pond, round and round and round? Why not? We are all so
strange to each other in our differences. The Doctor and I… two completely
different minds, his in trumping up business and Sunday church services; mine,
well, mine is just elsewhere.
Fishermen with heavy
Boston
accents in their 30s, unemployed, I suppose. There’s a tall gawky female
semi-naked doing Buddha stretches on the beach. “IF YOU WANT TO GET CHEAP
TICKETS YOU BETTER BE ON LINE BY 8,” says a 20-year old woman with a flop hat
walking past me. “HOWEVER, IT MAY HAVE INFLUENCED THE CREDIBILITY OF THOSE
PERCEPTIONS,” bellows another one. “SPEAK HUMAN, NOT MACHINE!” I holler. These
people just don’t give a damn that their bellowing conversations might interrupt
the thoughts of lone promenaders.
Pilgrim of Walden
We were
many in the summer, but very, very few in the winter.
In fact, I
was quite alone last Friday during that tempest, huffing and puffing
in five
inches of snow and sleet, old feet making the first and last prints of the day.
The
heavens had become one low cloud mass covering the pond, that frozen slab
misting in
fixed yawn and thick lips of ice.
The trees
drooped from the heaviness of new crystalline sleeves, but that tempest
had given
way to balmy breezes today, and alas, a few more souls.
“Can you
still walk the path?” asked a lone woman snapping photos.
“Friday,”
I replied, “was rough, but I did it.”
She asked
again, “but do the people still walk the paths in the winter?”
“Hell, I’m
people,” I said, quickly marching away into the slush, melt and crackle,
the sky
dark gray, though quite blue in the horizon afar.
What a
fine solid sheet of blankness before me: the pond.
The
ominous approach of evening and crisp clarity of winter brings the joy of
solitude,
until a
fellow crunch, crunching toward me stops, points to his wrist,
seems like
he wants to chat and asks, “can I trouble you for the time, please?”
But I keep
moving—nothing can stop my momentum—, turn around while still advancing
and reply,
“must be about 4:30. I don’t carry watches anymore.”
The
darkening sky releases drizzle–oh, I don’t care–shoeshine still upon my boots.
Then
slowing down, I cast a glance behind me; you can never be sure of safety.
Further
down the path, a man about my age stops to discuss the state of the way,
both of us
promptly concluding icy times beyond.
He says,
“it was a nice day. I just had to get out and do something.”
How many
of us, I wonder, might be lying on sofas in sheer reverie, day after day?
I pass one
of the newer landmarks, a tree out in the pond standing tall
though
with two two-by-fours wired to it,
leaving me
perplexed always, pondering the state of the State of Massachusetts.
On the
north side, the ice becomes thicker and slicker, the fence on either side of the
path,
at least
now serving a purpose.
I grab
hold with each hand and slide my feet like skis when suddenly,
I am lying
flat upon my belly slowly gliding into the pond on a sheet of awfully slick ice.
After
trying in vain to stop my flow, I manage to punch fingers into the edge
where
still a little snow
and pull
myself to the top of the embankment.
Feeling
ridiculously proud, I gaze out like a Viking at the last rays of sun
glistening...
ALL MATERIAL ON THIS SITE IS COPYRIGHT ©G. Tod
Slone, 2010, The American Dissident
www.theamericandissident.org,
a 501c3 nonprofit.
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