rancherwriterpoet

Collectibles

What is it about birthdays that send many of us into a state of panic or denial?

Since I have reached adulthood, I have never paid much attention to each succeeding year other than to acknowledge that I get another year older. We hear conversations today, that fifty is the new “forty”. If that is the case, then middle age has passed the baton to an older generation.

My favorite source of information, Wikipedia, says that, “Middle age is the period of age beyond young adulthood but before the onset of old age.”I’m thinking, “duh”, I passed the onset of old age a number of years ago, whenever that was. How many years ago? Well, use your imagination, (while you still can.)

They say that a dog’s age is relative to a human’s age by a 7 to 1 ratio. You know, seven dog years equals one human year. I sit here watching Apollo (wasting or enjoying, depending on your point of view) his ripe old age of 42, by sleeping. That dog sleeps more than any other living creature I know. But I try to keep an open mind about the aging development; thankfully I do not count my age multiplied by seven.

I’ve heard all the clichés about birthdays and the aging process, but I prefer to focus only on those that inspire me such as, “There was a star danced, and under that I was born” – William Shakespeare. Living in the country as I do, one can look up at night and see the stars in all their brilliance. Occasionally you can see a star that seems to flicker, perhaps dancing. Kudos to you born under a dancing star.

My stepdaughter will celebrate her *&^@%$#? birthday on January 13, 2012. I will, of course, wish her a happy birthday regardless of her    *&^@%$#? age, because it is her birthday. She started last year about this time working on achieving this goal. She has worked hard all year and frankly, at her *&^@%$#? age, she still rocks. Age is just a number. Her’s is unlisted. You didn’t think I would reveal her age, did you? I may be old, but I’m not senile.

I do have this problem about remembering birthdays. Not mine, thank you, but those of all my children and grandchildren and now I have a great grandson, slightly over one year old and I have already forgotten his. I remember my stepdaughter’s birthday because her mother reminded me. Hopefully, I can be forgiven for forgetting that one; I haven’t been in the family very long. Thank goodness my birthday and my wife’s birthday are on the same day. As long as I can remember my birthday, I will remember hers.

My spouse and I frequently go antiquing and part of the fun is seeing all those things that fit into the category of collecting. Not just antiques, but things like Beanie Babies, old Coca Cola products, old glassware, and sports memorabilia. Just about anything you can imagine can be found in antique malls. It certainly takes me back. Over the years, my home has been filled with collectibles. Raggedy Anns and Andys, to trivets to cookbooks and much more have graced my home. Me, about the only things I collected was dust and birthdays. Come to think of it, birthdays are very valuable. I suggest you collect as many as you can. I’m working on my collection; so far, I have 72 of them.

I think about all those who have finished their repertoire of life, their collection of birthdays. Some reached a hundred; others barely made it past twenty-five. Giving thought about those I’ve known personally, some collected more birthdays than others did. As we approach the crests of our mountains, stop and look back at the valleys. They hold the memories and therein, the beauty of life. Think about each birthday as another one in your collection. Keep climbing the mountains, there are many more valleys to see.

Have a great day.

Reveal the Story

Somewhere in the intuitive consciousness of an artist, lie smoldering images raging to escape.These burning desires cannot be extinguished. Instead, they motivate, inspire, they consent.

Just as words from the poet must yield to pen put to paper, descriptive phrases must emanate, for the intellect of the mind forebodes any alternative. So too, must the imaginative creations of an artist, submit to that certain artistic flair.

 Art and Poetry are equally relational, a dual commitment that must be illuminated. Both yearn for display, both tell a story, the adherent must look within the words and beyond the paint to reach the story. If not, then the tenacity of existence will not serve us in the narrative of life. The canvas will not, the page will not, stimulate nor inspire.

 If, in the mere thought of adaptation, we should parlay our observations into reality, the imprint will forever be burned into our psyche. If left only to our own moods and without substance, the passion aroused in each of us; for art, for poetry, that passion will simply be figments of indifference.

Indifference will not serve the mind, at least not well. It makes neither rational nor irrational decisions. It is merely a confirmation of a blasé attitude. In fact, that preference will subjugate the mind to an impractical continuance that will challenge the mental capacity of the individual. The idealism that is inherent, I believe from birth, disintegrates rapidly when indifference becomes the norm.

Being a poet and a writer, I would hope I could rise to the occasion; that I should write each day as if that day would be my last day to write. I hope I would use all the verbs and nouns, the grammar, all the tools of a writer’s bag, to put to paper those expressions in word form that would expand the mind, even so much as to titillate the reader. I hope not to offend anyone, but to inspire, enthuse, even awaken a slumbering poet that may be only a pen away from expressing those pent-up emotions.

As for the emerging artist, rise to the occasion; paint as if today would be your last day to paint. Use all the tools of the trade; the brushes, the oils, acrylics, watercolors, use the palette to project from your mind those bits and pieces, those snippets and scraps that only you can see, that, is until they come together when placed on the canvas.

Those who view your works of art, must decide for themselves their proclivity for your talent. But you will have shared your vision and your creativeness. For who knows whom your creativity will inspire?

Reveal the story, through art or words, the choice is yours.