meanderings of an associational mind

mark k mccarty — Mon, 21 May 2007 14:43:22 -0500

I have been struggling lately with the role of peacemaker. Despite my personal distaste for conflict, my own difficulty in "being a jerk" -- probably the reason I had difficulty in my life as a litigator, which is a kind of warfare -- I do get outraged at what I see as injustice, whether it is my own ox being gored or someone else's. But to express that outrage in a calm, productive way that may do something to amend the injustice, or at least does nothing to add to the rancor and hostility in the world... ah, that is an ability I am only beginning to develop. But I am finding it crucial to my own physical, emotional and spiritual health, let alone that of the world.

Crowding and Conflict

mark k mccarty — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 02:53:01 -0500

I am happy to report that the move, though difficult in many respects, has made a huge difference for me in my attitude and ability to deal effectively and nonviolently with annoying people and aggravating circumstances. It just goes to show, we all, but perhaps especially writers, need, in the words of Virginia Woolf, "a room of one's own". And that room has to have a sense of feeling safe, of being able to shut out the volume and harangues of the world, to be a little retreat where one is free to follow one's thoughts to their conclusion without interruption or hurry, a meditative place where rules one finds incompatible with one's own sense of self do not apply. I wonder at how families who are crowded 7 or 8 to a room manage. They must keep alot bottled up, but that can explode suddenly and unexpectedly sometimes; and I think forcing oneself to ignore one's own thoughts and feelings in order to co-exist in such crowded conditions may lead to one ignoring the thoughts and feelings of others too, and then acting in inconsiderate ways without realizing it. When we cut off our own feelings, it is harder to empathize with those of others. read more »

For Louies Everywhere (and for everyone else too)

mark k mccarty — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 00:21:11 -0600

Expect A Miracle

mark k mccarty — Tue, 12 Dec 2006 17:26:27 -0600

My City Was Gone

mark k mccarty — Sun, 12 Nov 2006 05:48:35 -0600

I just woke up again
At 3 AM, the long dark midnight of the soul
In pain again
My elbows swollen,
Inflamed like the lining 'round my heart
From all the jostling, jarring, tugging on my cart
-- Down broken sidewalks
Past broken men and women --
That has replaced the car I used to have and drive
On prettier routes, on smoother streets
In what Her Bert was used to calling once
The Cool Grey City, Son, of Loving.

On Veteran's Day, to my dismay,
While making my way down to Markay Street
Upon the Turkish Avenue
I saw a little Ignatz Maus, confused,
Or else he would not be about in daylight,
Obviously poisoned, bleeding inside.
It was too late for him,
No eau d'vie
Imported from across the alps
On collar hairy of the dog
Nor purest water either
No words in this or any other blog
Would save him from the pain ahead.
All I could do -- And
For my trouble, people stopped and stared --
Was take him in hand,
Hold him close as I would you.
Next to my beating, beaten-up, near-broken part,
Bloody red but still as yet unbowed,
And dedicated to the ones I love and vowed
To honor and to serve for all my life
I stroked the furry wee one into peaceful rest.
At least in those few moments, as he died,
He felt some love at last
In the arms of a Stranger Angel.
Malachi, My Dear, I staggered,
And a dagger pierced her own heart too.
Is it too late for me as well,
I wondered,
To flee this hellish nightmare
Where a system beats the life and hope
Out of even fresh and optimistic dopes
Not just with nightsticks, not just by police or military arms,
But by the thousand shocks, hurts, harms
Of living every day
In this cold, callous, cruel way
As if the people ought to have no say
In how power is used.
"Not in my name"
We few, proud men shout here,
"No, this shame
We will not own. Take it back
To Texas, bury it under spreading oaks
Under the hilly country brush."
You understand, of course, that I
Am no Marine, no SeaBee, not a swab,
Neither Army, no, nor AirForce.
So now you might think that I'm just a slob,
I have no job
Other than giving all that I can be
To Love and Liberty.
But I have had, and sometimes lost,
Good friends in all those branches,
And I speak for them and those I love
Who cannot risk it
Who might thereby lose more than I
And who are taking other burdens on for me,
So I am free to sing of Joy, of Love, of Peace.

Thank you, heavenly Father,
Dear Mother, Sisters, and ironically,
Brothers in Law, in Love, though not always in Arms --
Except the longish ones that lean toward Justice
Eventually --
Your Prudence might dictate at certain times
A Reckless Rod
But in the end, we know you'll even up the scales.
I hope before we're all swallowed by whales;
It gets so awfully dark in there, one might forget the Light exists.
So long, and thanks for all the fish.

What's the "K" stand for?

mark k mccarty — Sat, 14 Oct 2006 11:27:55 -0500

People often ask "what's the 'K" stand for?"

Sometimes I say "The K stands for liberty, equality, siblinghood, beautiful music and harmony, what do you stand for?"

Sometimes I say "Why do you ask, would you like to write out a check to me?" (smiling sweetly, of course, so they'll know I'm joking.)

Sometimes I sing a bit from a Bonnie Raitt tune: "Let's give 'em something to talk about/ A little mystery to figure out/ Let's give 'em something to talk about,/ How about Love, Love, Love?"

I like Bonnie. She's a woman with spunk and spirit, and like many popular musicians, she sings about Love alot: about it sneaking up on you (but not in a bad, scary way, just... well, the way Love can overwhelm you when you least expect it), about finding it in the nick of time, about it being a powerful thing, about writing it down in letters (though not a thousand feet high, my pen's not as big as Sir's). Like me, she's an artist it's hard to categorize: some of her stuff sounds country-western (or country-pop), most of it is bluesy, but once you get to know her stuff you can tell it's her when you hear another, even in a completely different genre. She's an original blend.

The thing about crossing categories, though, it can make it even harder than it is already for artists to succeed financially: stores (music, book or whatever) don't quite know where to put your works, customers don't quite know where to look. Well, even if you look in bookstores for my stuff, you won't find it; after years of saying I wanted to be a writer, and being annoyed at people who said "writers write, why aren't you writing?", in the last year or so I've been unable to do much else but write (I dabble in some visual arts and crafts as well). Still no publisher but the internet (which is not making *me* any money, though it has for many others), no agent, but the very best inspiration anyone could want, and the things I post here are gifts I transmit to the world in the hope that they will help soothe its troubles; peace would be as rich a reward as I could ask for these efforts, and sometimes when I look at what's going on I think "the world can't wait, it needs to hear this now. I can't give *everything* away -- I'm afraid I'm not as confident in Providence as Claire of Assisi was, and though I do try to emulate Francis I am besieged sometimes by fits of ill temper -- but I do eventually hope to get together some book proposals and do the whole publishing-for-pay thing...

For Kevin Kelvin & His Many Twin Stars

mark k mccarty — Sun, 24 Sep 2006 23:53:15 -0500

My stars which are in heaven
Hallowed thy many names
Reflected here in many tongues
Great numerosity, why, there must be seven
Billions, different and at once the same.
You dartle gold in barren blue,
Red and white, and everflashing green.
You are the loveliest sight unseen yet seen
And seeing you is dwarfing to the tiny human mind
Which stumbles when it tries to comprehend
How unity can also be infinity
Or any number in betweening
It has a tendency to send
-- Some lesser minds around the bend
-- Strange gifts in boxes stranger yet
Oh blessings blessed all, they are
Our several discrete intersecting sets.
How can it be? The greatest paradox of
All is Love. Is Thee. And Me. He. She. They. Us.

So stop the fuss and fiery fighting
Candlelighting in the dark of night
To help each other chase away the fright
Is pleasing more to One who loves you all the best
Than using up the last full measure
Of the most devoted treasure
Offered to us all.
Sadly, too few choose to take the job of Being Chosen Beings.
It's a dirty one but when it isn't done
Things just get messier, entropic.
Folks who curse their fate should find another topic
Like how to best arrest and then reverse the curse
The spell they're under
Not tear the world asunder.
Turn around and Love Love Love is really all you need
For Love includes both nurturance and discipline
Her and Him and everything you should admire
Or aspire to bring within the temple of the self for ritual annointing.
Love's messages encoded in so many packets
Sometimes quiet, sometimes making rackets loud,
Sometimes perhaps they're disappointing
When you hoped for something proud
But that is only due to expectations great
Confounded by the simplest, occam-like solution: Love.
Love don't hate except to hate the hating,
Not even the haters
If they get their heads out of the cold and lonely, hateful space they're in
Hate nothing but the ultimate sin: Hate.
Look! It may be late, but coming from those dartling stars so fetching
In a rainbow bright of startling
Spectral colors simply quite surprising
Sleeping Beauty's ways of Love are rising
Yet. Again. Still. Always. Ever.
Lasting Love is worth the waitful watching.

K Markham McCarty, 2006 (originally written in May)
Please do not reproduce - refer to this webpage instead

Peace days Coming Again Soon I Hope

mark k mccarty — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 17:28:29 -0500

On Borrowed Time

mark k mccarty — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 18:28:01 -0500

To End War, Simply End It

mark k mccarty — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 18:08:32 -0500

I've never been to war, it's hell I hear
I somehow know it, in my bones I fear it,
And although I am a poet
I can find no words to paint
The pictures in my head
Of conduct far from saintly
Terrors none should ever have to see
or little children suffer in the night.
Mere might, however great, does not make right.

Why do they haunt my heart so vividly,
These visions of increasing mounds
Of senseless dead and mortal wounds?
What put them here, screening before my eyes?
What makes these ghostly images arise?
How can I witness horrors, feel
The sorrows of a warrior
When I have never been so near
To battlefields real?

Although while in the South United States
- Which warréd with each other
Once, brother killing brother -
I visited Manassas One and Two -
Ere the World's Wars I called Great To End All,
And Aye-Aye Second ending with a Cold slap in the face
A race to pile up arms and conquer space
Ere generations and I both were Lost and wandering
Before so many undeclared "small" wars
Called Interventions, Police Actions, Rescues, Storms and Shields,
Crusades again? Methinks I've seen this war before...

It must have been the news on Channel Five
When I was only six or eight
I watched a war on TV live
In Vietnam the sun was rising while it set in my hometown.
I recall eating dinner (trying to - I never cleaned my plate at all)
While watching Hatred do such hateful things so graphically
It took my breath and appetite away.
That's why imbedded units and controlled coverage
Now limit what the Yankee Networks show.
If you can't see what happened to a village
You might believe the spokes who say "we didn't pillage!
And rapes were not OK'd, our side plays nice."

But mother always knows somehow the truth
When weeping for her child's sacrifice
(No greater than her own, if truth be told
For once the child was in and part of her
Consanguinous quite literally - her heart of gold
E'en now contains a drop or more of what was shed
By offspring far too young to die). "Oh take me in his stead"
The mother's cry eternal "Why, oh why can't it be me?
What need for me to tarry here earth-bound
My work is done." But no.
No sorrow greater known
Than a parent placing flowers on a child's stone.

War, like hell
Reverses what should be
When a soldier starts to see
Innocence collaterally damaged far beyond repair
At least by humans, he or she over there
Can lose not only life or limb, but moral compasses as well.
Such monstrous inhumanities, all vanities,
Arise when callow youth are given firepower
Which corrupts
And absolute firepower can corrupt
But absolutely. Causes there have been throughout the ages
That most sages could agree were noble ones.
But that was in the time of hand-to-hand combat,
and that
Made it harder to dehumanize the enemy.
The modern distance and divisions
Propagandistic distractions
Can encourage thinking of the foe as animals, subhuman
And the irony of that is that
It tends to lead US to start sinking,
Stooping, acting, thinking inhumanely. Well,
I wonder if we can call any war
a just one anymore, or
is it all just only hell?

Dear Love, please heed the sound
Your humble helpmate's voice
And guide all those in power to make a choice
To end adventures martial, so to take
These moving photographs so horrible, unkind,
Out of my mind.

Oh pray and pray and pray some more
A thousand cranes let fly
A thousand flowers bloom
A thousand clowns should brighten up the room
Ere one more mother's child should die.

c. K. Markham McCarty 2006