Conversations

Trains

I started this thread describing my experiences on a flight. I recently had the fortune of taking the train again after many years.

There is something different in the atmosphere. Towards the front of the car there is a groups of four women laughing. I can not see them but they are in their 40s to 50s. They are not in their 30s 0r 60s. I am not sure how I know this but I do. After intently listening for a few minutes I realize that they are friends, playing cards and a little tipsy. There is a couple sitting behind me. She is an attorney and loud, but in a kind gentle way. Their house was damaged in Hurricane Sandy. Another couple sitting in the seat across the aisle chime in and soon they are engrossed in conversation. As I sit there watching the fields go by, my mind at peace, my eyes fixed on one tree at a time as they slide by the window, a cup of coffee and a bagel on the fold down tray, it occurs to me that I would very much like for my journey to be longer.

I am startled from my trance by a whoosh of air as a man older than myself, in a shirt and tie with the top button undone slumps down into the seat beside me. He smiles and introduces himself. We spend the rest of the journey learning about each others stories. We both smile and laugh and share.

There is something different about a train car. Perhaps it is this peace and community that keeps model train stores in business. Maybe its the type of people that ride a train car, maybe its the ambiance, maybe one creates the other. I like train cars. They fit me and I fit into them.

As we evolve we get faster, more efficient. Efficiency is the new ideal that we strive for. The faster the better. Yet, maybe our souls were not meant to be efficient. The friction of speed eats away at our soul. Slowing down is a precious necessity.

As the next city is announced on the speaker I realize that I feel strange, as if I have inadvertently forgotten something. I hesitate as I get up and reach for my bag. It occurs to me that my jaw is unclenched and that invisible vice grip on my Trapezius is nowhere to be be found. I walk off slowly. I will be back.

Walking

I sit on a bench. Its a hard wooden bench yet its comfortable. The wood worn over the years. The sun makes an alternating pattern of light and dark on the floor. Earlier as I walked in I played a game of stepping on every fourth bar of light.

A woman strides by in heels. The rhythm of her gait fluid and smooth. A predictable pattern of heel strike ball strike arm swing over and over. I can't help but open my eyes and take in the sway of her hips but I close my eyes again. A symmetrical beauty to the sound of her stride. A child runs past her. The rhythm faster quicker, shorter stride, more exuberant and on the verge of loosing control. Almost a controlled fall with gravity pulling the little girl forward and her feet doing all they can to keep up. Her pitter patter of rubber soled shoes fill in the gaps in the woman's stride. A beautifully predictable symphony of notes. An older man follows the pair. His steps slower. More purposeful. Each note of his foot step hangs in the air. A slow drawn out tone rather than a strike. A hint of shuffle. He catches my attention. I open my eyes and watch him walk. There is a subtle loss of rhythm. He does not know it yet, I give him a warm smile as he walks by. Nodding my head in that perpetual greeting that men give each other. A show of respect without words.

Sometimes I walk to forget. Sometimes I walk with purpose. Sometimes I walk with dread. Sometimes I walk for pleasure. Sometimes I walk to think. Sometimes I walk because there is no choice but to put one heel after another.

Then there are times when I walk to remember. The path familiar. The sounds stamped on my brain. The scents bring back vivid memories. I grew up along these paths. I became a man walking these paths. I learned life lessons walking these paths. I made the fondest of memories that still make me smile and others that I wish I could erase, but they are as much a part of me as the good. Sometimes they bring a tear to my eye. I made mistakes along these paths, some that still haunt me. I did many things right along these paths. The shadows all so familiar. The trees I know by heart. Some sadly are no longer with us, others have grown up to replace them. The sound of water. Stopping under the shade of an old friend. Closing my eyes and remembering. Taking in the scent. Lingering. The warmth of the sun against my arms. Reluctantly walking away. Putting one foot in front of the other because I have to. Its okay. I look back at my old friend and go back. I touch his bark. Running my fingers along his imperfections. I will see you soon my dear friend. I hope we are both here.

I will always come back to these Paths. Maybe one day I will bring my children here to walk with me. They may not understand why I stop along the way and close my eyes. In time they will discover their own paths and then they will understand the beauty of walking.

You are an artist with words, a poet of the senses.

Talking is almost a lost art because everybody is on their cellphone posting to facebook or texting a short message. When was the last time anybody talked to a stranger? Never happens anymore because everybody immediately buries their nose in their phone the first chance they get.

My parents used to say I never met a stranger because I had no problem starting a conversation whether I knew the other person or not. Most people are receptive and will at least be polite. I lived north of Chicago for a while. Apparently it's a little strange to talk to strangers when you live up there. I always got a chuckle from the looks I received. Some ignored me. Some politely replied and then wandered away. Some looked at me as if I had a third eyeball and fled. In the south it's almost normal to talk to each other, or used to be. I hate the idea of being alone in a crowded room.

I agree with you that our society has become too caught up in the race. The quest to gather and share information electronically dominates our lives. I worry that our generation may be the last to really grasp the art of conversation. Our children are using technology almost right out of the womb - literally. (Have you seen the protective covers that allow babies to use tablets?)

We should never miss the opportunity for spontaneous banter with a stranger. A smile exchanged lifts the spirits of all. I think I put off an approachable vibe because people come up and talk to me frequently. Lost children seem to find me to ask for help. People ask me technical questions and creative opinions.

People of Lit, how did it go the last time you had a conversation with a stranger? Was it pleasant? Uncomfortable? Did you at least exchange a smile?

The art of conversation is well named.
Its good to be able to connect on different levels with different people.

Was riding the subway recently. A woman sits down next to me immediately pulls out her phone, never looking to the left or right. Two younger women get on at the next stop. They appear to be friends, talking when they first get on but both pull out their phones and never say another word. I look around the car and not one person is speaking, all are on the phones. Though people have become more connected it is a colder world.

StarGazer58 said:

Was riding the subway recently. A woman sits down next to me immediately pulls out her phone, never looking to the left or right. Two younger women get on at the next stop. They appear to be friends, talking when they first get on but both pull out their phones and never say another word. I look around the car and not one person is speaking, all are on the phones. Though people have become more connected it is a colder world.

Click to expand...

Was at an outdoor outlet mall a year back. Virtually everyone there was either talking, texting or otherwise using a mobile.

Thank You

To all the men and women who have served or are currently serving. I don't know what you experience. I do know, that I would not have the privilege of living in a free society with hope and dignity without you. You volunteer to do what few of us will. I can not offer much in return for what you sacrifice. All I can offer is a sincere thank you.

My eternal Gratitude.

I hope everybody has a wonderful Memorial Day.

Would the face of nature be so serene and beautiful if man's destiny were not equally so?
Thoreau

Have you ever had a conversation where you spoke the words, carried the thought, and made the effort but you knew deep down that either you or the other person had long since checked out? I have noticed lately that there are more and more conversations where the speech fills the space but there is really no meaningful content.

I miss conversations with a connection that fill the soul as well as the space.

Soil

I am alone with my thoughts. A rare moment of solitude in our time of smart phones, text messages and voice mail. Today, the phone is hidden away in a dark corner of a deep cave, a place where the sun rarely makes its appearance, it is in the recesses of my nightstand drawer. The sun is strong. I can feel it warming my back. The tickle of a drop of sweat beading up on my forehead and rolling down my nose. A smile forces up the corners of my lips. I remember reading somewhere that a true smile uses a different set of muscles in the face than a faked one. How often do I fake a smile, a social smile. Today it is the real thing. My hands are covered in black dirt. I wipe that bead of sweat as it is about to drop off the cliff of my nose, to become part of the soil I sit on. The smile widens as it occurs to me that I have rescued my drop of sweat. My face is now smeared with dirt. A moment, a joy of being alive. I am fortunate to be here. To be able to push my hands into the dirt and feel the wet warm soil against my skin. There is a spade sitting next to me. I eye it but let it be. All spades need a day off. I prefer to use my hands. The soil gets under my finger nails. The texture between my fingers. A scent to it. The opposite of the mechanical and sterile scent of disinfectant. A sweet odor to it that I find hard to describe, yet find comfort in. A stark contrast, to the sharp metallic odor of blood. The smile turns into a grin. My teeth unclench. My shoulders deflate. Peace. No decisions today. An ant crawls up my arm. The hair follicles like mountains in its path. I let it be. I close my eyes, and for the first time, in a very long time, I remember my Grandfather. He was a poor man. He had none of what I have today. He never drove a car. He died a poor mans death. I was not at his funeral. I should have been, I could have been, but I chose a different path. He had the arms of an old man, the atrophy that comes with a loss of testosterone. Yet at the ends of those arms were hands of character. Hands used for physical labor. Arthritic and gnarled like the curling bark of an old oak tree. More often than not they would be covered in dirt. My fondest memory of him, is him in an undershirt working in his garden. His undershirt drenched in sweat. I now know why. I don't know the demons that he was hiding from, but I know that they were there.

Pavement

A landscape of pavements. I stand next to the parking lot of a theater. It is early in the morning and the lot is empty. The oil stains litter the neatly drawn parking spaces. Each one true and straight. None of the irregular and curved lines of nature will be found here. It is perfectly pitched to let the water run off with its burden of hydrocarbons. No place for the water to go as the rain picks up and the thunder booms, except down the street in a fast moving stream. Yet, its different from most streams. It is perfectly straight. It will serve its purpose and cars will occupy it for a mere fraction of its existence. It will spend most of its life empty and barren.

Sitting in another hotel room, staring out at the bustle of the city - the lights, the cars, the people.
Surrounded by people, but still alone. Sometimes it's nice to get away from it all and just be alone with my thoughts. Reflection and Relaxation are important.

A long time ago, someone introduced me to the beauty of the sun rising over the city. Ever since, I love to wake early and watch it rise over whatever city I am in. It would be nice to have a conversation with someone, wrapped in his arms, watching the sun rise.

Alas, no luck. The sun and I shall rise together. My forever friend and I.

Kindness

We are hard wired to sense it. We know it at a visceral level. Its not something that is taught. We know it from the day we are born. As we age and mature we have to learn to suppress it. Often we learn to suppress it because of the hatred that we may experience. In many ways its counterpart is a learned behavior yet kindness we are born with. Perhaps its an evolutionary gene passed on from one generation to another for survival of the species. Babies depend on it. Adults need and crave it. Somewhere between infancy and adulthood it gets away from us. It transcends culture, language, religion, race. We are born with mirror neurons. Their sole purpose is to allow us to experience another beings movements and feelings. It even transcends species. Animals and humans are both capable of experiencing it. We pray for grace yet its woven into our beings. There are millions of acts of kindness that occur between individuals everyday. Sometimes its a fleeting genuine smile. Maybe a warm handshake. It often does not require extraordinary effort. Usually the barrier to entry is our own self consciousness or pride.

On screen a simple almost self fulfilling idea.

Yet the world continues to burn.

Touch

We touch to experience the world around us. Our largest organ is exquisitely designed for it. To receive and give. Thousands of receptors just waiting to be activated. Some parts covered in rich and varied density of different kinds, to experience the many types of touch, and others with a sparse few.

Touch connects the physical to the emotional. It bridges the the concrete world we occupy with the abstract world of our minds and emotions. It can evoke fear, anger, loathing, disgust, love, passion, lust, comfort, peace.

The touch of a mothers caring fingers on a babies cheek. The warmth and tender caress saying more than any number of words could.

Caressing a lovers forehead.

Holding an ill grandfather's hand. Running my thumbs over the swollen joints of his fingers. Tracing the wrinkles.

Running the back of my hand against a lovers erect nipple. Letting the wrinkles in my knuckles tease the tip of her nipple.

Walking along a trail strands of grass tickling my calves. Closing my eyes and a smile spreads across my lips.

He is many miles away and yet he can touch my very soul. How is that possible? His fingers so gentle across the keyboard. I can almost feel them caressing me with words. It's magic. My mind can not tell the difference. Beautiful images filter in and out. So many ideas just waiting to be explored. Each thought a delightful sensation bringing goosebumps to my skin. Anticipating the next encounter in this dance of conversation. I whisper to myself, "is this really happening?"

Thoughts

A Seed
Floats into existence for moments in time
Sparks in dark corners of minds
Rarely lasts always leaves a mark
Foot prints holding along edge of waves
Flooding neurotransmitters followed....
Membrane potentials
Depolarizations
Then all quiet
Impressions created
Some find the right milieu
Natural
Ease
Fertile
Web of life
Web of words
Words sustain souls
Web of roots

A thought
Grows into a tree
Full canopy of thoughts
Strong and resilient
Supported by web of delicate feeder roots
Little moments
Tiny thoughts
Whole

Planted Thought
Invasive
Non-Native
Creeps and crawls
Strangulates
Still a thought
Still grows
Yet chokes out others

Choices
Nurturing
Extinguishing
Choices

Freedom

Feedback

The previous post was an experiment. A departure from the usual narrative style I tend to use. Any feedback would be much appreciated.

Connection

There is a lot of space between your words. Requiring one to read between the lines. For some, not an easy task. For others almost impossible. Fortunately, only one is required to make it all seem worthwhile.

A single connection to validate the voyage outside your norm. We'll done explorer. Courage is a lost art as well. Without it we will never grow. But you know this already. There is little I can say that you have not already thought. So what might require entire paragraphs can instead be communicated in a single word. I see that smile. A single gesture. It also speaks volumes to those who can listen.

Paths vs Roads

Paths usually are curved while roads are straight. Roads are built they are efficient they are paved and uniform they are artificial

Paths are curved they follow the contours of the land and respect the boundaries of their friends. They fit into their environment rather than sit on top of it.

Paths nourish the soul, roads are soulless.

Passing of a Season

I can feel her presence. She is not far now. She likes to tease.

Oh how I have waited for her. Patiently all these months. Missing her. Longing for her. Finally, finally she is so close. I close my eyes and I can almost feel her. Her softness oh so familiar. I can hear her laughter in the distance and my chest goes warm, and my belly does a nervous flip. I need her warm embrace, its been oh so long. Her scent intoxicating. If I close my eyes, there it is, yes that is it, that familiar intoxicating scent. I need to taste her. Run my fingers against her soft embrace. The laden expectations. Adventures yet to be discovered.

The joys of Summer. The Squeals of joy as the children play. Screeching hawks combining with the twittering of birds. The warmth of the high and proud sun soaking through my skin. Dampness building on my back as it soaks through my shirt. Burgers and dogs sizzling on hot coals. A beer bottle clinks against its friends. Laughter and Joy.

Today is different.

Hints of color in the canopy. Light filters through leaves. Sun is lower and not as proud today. Its warmth reaching out for me but falling just a little short. Shadows shimmering on grass. Shadows are smaller now. A breeze rustles the canopy and a shiver runs down my back. The shadows become one. The highlights combining with the lows, all combining into a whole. At once shadow and light. The cacophony is softer today. They know. They sense it too.

She is leaving. These are her last few smiles. She is older now, a dear old friend. She is older as am I. Yet her words always bring a smile to my lips and a warmth to my chest. She is predictable. She will comeback, she always does. She is never the same, yet she is always the same. She does not repeat herself, she is much to smart for that, but she is familiar.

She will soon leave the scene and make room for her friend.

Fall is waiting just out of sight, but I can smell her perfume.

Wow, really liked this one...leaving me a bit wordless. Beautifully written.

Enlightened transformation

When she transformed into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. They wanted her to change back into what she had always been.

But she had wings -Dean Jackson

Come fly with me she whispered...but let's talk about it first.

An Ode to Small

Small can be so incredibly powerful.

Poetry. Power from Brevity. Smallest and most free form of expression. Transcending culture and religion. Making us weep and laugh. Yet so small.

Power of words is immense. Language allows us to rule the planet. Language even has the power to shape biology, our brains evolve to accommodate words and language.

The most dreaded of outcomes from a stroke is the loss of language, aphasia.

The Gettysburg Address only 272 words.

Small yet feared. Deceptively simple. Unseen. Undiscovered for most of human existence. Many remain to be discovered. Masters of evolution. They can decimate societies, provoke fear and loathing. Take away the most comforting of human actions, Cause us to fear the ill. Make us turn our backs on children seeking safe haven.

Yet they protect us. They provide the nutrients in our food. We need them to survive. They predate us and will likely out live us.

They shape our world and our planet.

Bacteria and Viruses so small and yet so Feared. Perhaps, Respect would be a better emotion.

Ideas. A twitch of the mind. The smallest of changes in a milieu of neurotransmitters. Yet Dictators fear them. Politicians loathe them. Statuesque hates them.

The greatest of changes from the smallest of actions. A mere shift, a small recalibration.

A mental twitch changes the world, changes a life changes a soul.