Random Discoveries? – Photo: L.Weikel
Random Discoveries
How many times have I mused about the random discoveries we make in our day to day lives that actually feel like they’re messages? How many times have I picked up trash beside the road or looked at a billboard I’ve looked at a million times before and known with absolute certainty that it was meant for me to find or see in that moment? Even seemingly random tickets in line at the DMV can feel like a Hallmark card to me. Yeah, this is a theme I come back to over and over again.
I’ve made some pretty bizarre discoveries in the decades we’ve walked and picked up trash along the way. The other day was one of the odder discoveries. But in a peculiar way (naturally), I made a connection between what I found crumpled and tossed into the thicket beside my country road and my son – whose presence I’d felt very close recently.
I’d seen his initials on license plates at least half a dozen times over the past two days. I overheard random mentions of ‘1111’ or turned my head quickly when someone called out, “Karl!” in the grocery store. (No one was with me at the time.)
These things happen occasionally and they make me smile. Sometimes I ache and wish the connection was stronger or could segue into a conversation, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ll feel the hug. I’ll send the love right back at ya, Karl.
An Odd One
But the discovery the other day was different. I noticed the papers crumpled up in the grass as I walked by. The grass is tall along the roadside at that spot and initially I only saw one wad of paper. The other was actually a few paces further along.
The first one I picked up, while balled up, was still fully intact. It was clearly a poem ripped out of a book. So was the other, but that one had been ripped with less care, the bottom corner obviously remaining with the binding.
“What’s the message, Spartacus?” I asked as he eagerly nosed the balled up waste and looked expectantly toward me for a treat. Absently, I fished for a treat in my pocket and tossed it to him, which he deftly snagged mid-air.
Tucking the leash under my arm, I used both hands to smooth the page. I felt my heart skip just a bit faster. “Huh,” I said. “Good one, Karl.”
Poetry Thicket – Photo: L. Weikel
A Poem
Here in the middle of nowhere (see the photo above), I found a poem entitled ‘the bluebird.’ Not being a poet myself, nor a student of that genre, I had a feeling I should probably know who wrote this, but of course I didn’t. My Google search once I got home immediately yielded the name of Charles Bukowski.
Its words are haunting. And I can easily imagine my son thinking some of the thoughts expressed in the piece. But beyond that, it reminds me of Karl because he played the part of Moonface Martin in the musical Anything Goes when he was in 7th grade. He had a solo: Be Like the Bluebird.
I can’t even credit the book from which the pages were torn. But the two poems (I’ll share the other one tomorrow night) feel raw and important; at least important enough for me to pay attention to them and give them another venue in which to be read and contemplated. Do they hold a message for you? For me? For any of us?
Or are they just random discoveries?
the bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whisky on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
(T-161)