20160604 (leaving)

We saw it from I-90 coming back from vacation. Two million balloons looked more like smoke

Checking the Blogger stats 

Periodically I have to wonder

Who and how many benighted

Souls in Russia are trying to 

Learn English by reading my

Blog to render their portion 

Of the world map a slightly 

Darker green than the folks

In Kazakhstan who come in

With only a pale green like

France. Of course Blogger 

Doesn’t rank them by the 

Time spent in actual reading,

Rather the fact that in their

Search for XXXX pornography

They accidentally surfed onto

My site. I’ve never given any

Hint of the lurid (except I once

Categorized an essay as “concupi-

Scence”) doesn’t really sound

Like the thing that would make 

Them come crawling back—

France would be much deeper

Green were that the case. No,

Sadly most of my fleshy desires

Generate only warm homespun

Cuddlings in some prairie house,

Rather than the “running through

Neon New York streets with torn

Pantyhose and a partly unbottoned

Blouse to finish off what began

As idle chatter and a little

Frenching in a taxi ride home

From Yonkers.” I don’t 

Have the spunk for that kind of 

Thing anymore. Suppose we

Kissed, maybe had a glass of

Wine and fell asleep while

Talking about the distinct lack

Of fin-de-siecle excitement at

The turn of the last century (was

The fuss about 2K it?—nothing

Romantic, nothing exhilarating?)

I did break my arm (I think

My right) on New Year’s Eve, 1999—

Knocking out my wife’s

Hope of attending a nice party for

A perfectly miserable time nursing

An injured husband behind emergency

Room curtains until 3 AM. I didn’t

Sense the event led to societal

Unrest, at least anywhere near as

Much as the failure of all the 

Computers to fail as predicted—

What did these wizards know

If they couldn’t even get their 

Own world right? But I got a

Very good excuse to call in

Sick and spend the next six

Weeks reading books I had

Wanted to read but never the 

Time for. And, better than

Anything else, I got to regard

Myself again as a thinker, not a

Middle-management bureaucrat.

It was refreshing and rendered 

Me virtually unfit to resume 

Work on my return. My arm

Had healed, but my soul had

Been irrevocably freed. It was

Like taking the last year off

Before retirement. I wasn’t a 

Slacker that year but I wasn’t 

Going to kill for goals like

They wanted. The day I left

There wasn’t a wet eye in

Sight.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

20160603 (shift)

Time for a new direction

Not all that long ago I

Was complaining about 

Someone who had stored

A lot of stuff in my house.

The original ninety days 

Specified in the documents

Growed somewhat like Topsy

In stretch pants or "one size

Fits all." Three and a half 

Years passed before all the 

Offending stuff was gone. 

Now I have in my attic and 

Second floor acres late 19th

Century subfloor where dust 

Bunnies roam like cat-fur-based

Tumbleweed speckled with

Bodies of dead black flies,

And reproducing daily, like

Its eponymous species. Now

I have been combing the cat

Who, to my mind, should be 

Furless after a ten-minute 

Session. But no, each raking 

Of her back yields enough 

To fill a kid’s pillow or a

Moderate size dog toy. I don’t

Feed her the high protein hair-

Building cat food. Perhaps she 

Should be grafted to a friend’s

Receding hairline, but I don’t

Think he’ll cotton to ducking 

His head every couple hours in

Cat sand. Tried mowing the tree

Lawn and discovered the Red

Baron finally ran out of oomph

On the downslope. He’s served

Me well, having been starved of

A new spark plug, air filter for

The last four years. It may be time.

Too many repairs. Bad timing. I

Need to spend those unpredictable

Waking hours hauling my stuff

To the dump. Yeah, all those

Wonderful shelves my FaceBook

Comrades had to watch me build,

Proved insufficient to the need.

Many unsorted items are still

Out in the open (for easy search)

Over the two tables in the dining

Room which I built from an old 

Ping-pong table and some 

Quickly but sturdily crafted props

Of wood that once stiffened shipping

Boxes and were to have been 

Discarded on the spot. Strange how

They ended up in my basement

Becoming frames for screens and

Storms. Hoarders will tell you

Without batting an eyelash, “I 

Was saving that for . . .” and 

They’ll name the intended project.

Just like I do. But really I was 

Going to use all these “building

Materials,” wisely and cleverly

Until I upended the notion of how

I was going to spend the waning 

Days of my (ever in need of 

Polishing) golden years. Depending 

On how quickly and cleverly I

Get this mess off my back, I may 

Miss a day or two. But, since most

Of you aren’t reading this, you

Won’t even notice.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

20160602 (effete)

Saturn, its rings, and a moon, or a graphic from early 1930s Soviet structuralism? Does it make a difference if it pleases?

“I don’t know much about art

But I know what I like” is enough

To know about aesthetic theory

For probably 90% of the people

Of any place and time despite

The recent numbers of college

Students training for careers in

Art history or criticism. It’s 

A field on which everyone

Plays even if they have no talent

For producing what they judge.

“Those who can, do; those 

Who can’t, teach.” The blind

Play music (Stevie Wonder),

The deaf make art (Chuck Baird),

Though even some deaf make

Music (Beethoven) and some

Blind paint (John Bramblitt).

But one needn’t produce or

Teach to have an opinion, which

Opinion flows from some 

Sensibility that either pleases 

Or offends the perceiver. I think

There is general agreement across

Cultures of what are pleasant sounds

Or pleasant colors, and pleasant

And unpleasant odors and tastes.

But above that some pleasantries

Depend on acculturation, most

Clearly odors and textures in 

Food. For us in this country, if

We are told, “It’s a dogburger,”

Whether it’s truly canine flesh

Or good old-fashioned beef, we

We refuse even to taste it, or

If we do, still react violently.

Similarly we may be misled

Into thinking the sounds from

Within a factory are actually a

Composition of sounds sampled

By a musician attempting

New approaches to music.

Photographs of the Hubble

Telescope of deep field galactic

Clusters or nebulae of exploding

Supernovae may strike us as

Intentional imagery of the

Highest order no matter how

Much randomness has governed

Their shapes and colorations.

In the most unlearned of us

Is this perceptual ability which

May originate in the capacities

Of our senses and become

Refined through criticism, but 

We all have it to one degree or

Another whether we are simply

Looking, or hearing, or feeling.

When by talking about it we

Discover we are sensing the 

Same reactions in the same

Degree of pleasure, we agree

We’re at the door of art: the

Thing—painting or piano piece—

Was designed to produce these

Feelings again by an author who

Felt similarly and wished to pass

It on. Not to disparage the scholars,

But we really don’t need three or

Four letters tacked behind our names

To know what we like. As for 

What scholars contribute and how

Essential it is to enjoyment of 

Art is a lot like the art itself: it

Either works or it doesn’t.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016