A Tortured Conscience

If there’s one thing that’s hard to admit, especially for a man, it’s the wail of a guilty conscience. Mine hollered loudly today. It happened on my back door steps.

I’m sitting out there, having coffee, watching the birds have a feeding frenzy on the two feeders. There’s a reason I have these feeding stations…I have a wicked conscience.

I’d like to blame this deep sense of remorse on my daughter, who’s the reason the feeders are here in the first place. A guilty conscience is good at assigning blame. But I know better. I’m the criminal, convicted and sentenced to a life of haunting mental torture. I once murdered a bird. I was nine years old.

It was a brown thrasher. Its neck was hung up in some chicken wire in the shrubs. Being the Good Samaritan I was taught to be, I attempted to alleviate its plight. I guess I applied a little too much force and came out with a headless body, warm, quivering, with blood trickling down my fingers. Its head had that calm look of death. I buried them together.

And that’s when my conscience was punctured. So, here I am now, the appalling penitent looking for mercy, trying to balance the scales with acts of mercy. It’s not working well.

Small children have tender feelings before life calcifies them. Such devastating deeds as I committed have lingering effects on their psyche. As the child’s adult monster emerges, it takes some hard-core incidents to crack a conscience.

The larger feeder hangs on a dead limb in a skeleton of a tree. The tree has few leaves at the top and a lot of dead branches below. Being fond of metaphors, it reminds me of myself…enough of life left to breathe but not very useful for much more, except, perhaps, for feeding birds.

The big feeder has a platform that tilts when the squirrels attempt to pilfer seeds. Watching the little thieves tumble is entertaining. They soon learn and join the mice, and an occasional rat, foraging below for left-overs. Nature has its ways…nothing is wasted.

Beneath is the bird bath and drinking fountain. Overhead we’ve installed a mister, which at this rate is bound to double my water bill. The little birds soak and preen. Like children, they’re not afraid to try something new. We’re doing all we can to keep the little creatures happy. No seed is too expensive for the sake of my birds, and for the assuaging of my conscience. Money will purchase all kinds of Indulgences!

What’s interesting about the birds is how they all seem to co-exist. There is, so to speak, a ‘pecking’ order. The finches, chickadees, doves and cardinals share the perches. The jays are bullies. They swoop in like kamikazes and the feeder empties. The black birds gang up on the jays. The woodpecker is the big bubba on the block. Like a king, he dines alone, gloating while the others complain and wait their turn.

I’m the bird’s benefactor. I’m sure of it. Sort of, anyway. It helps me to mitigate the smoldering sensitivity of that tragic event with the thrasher. But somehow I don’t think the spirit of that poor thrasher feels justly compensated. His relatives continue to celebrate at his expense after the funeral by reaping the rewards of my repentance.

A strange thing happened last Fall. The birds vanished. All of them. Disappeared. Totally. I was confused. Where were they? Were the seeds bad? I washed the feeders, bought new seeds. Still no birds. Contrition gnawed my conscience like a bone. About two months later they suddenly returned, just like before, like nothing happened. Which brings me to a convenient place to conclude this current self-flagellation.

Eventually the past shows back up, often disguised as the future. It checks in to see if we’re doing what really matters, and if we’re holding up our end of the grand bargain life requires.

Today it showed up on my back steps. It found me doing a small part. But not the brown thrashers. They continue to boycott our yard. Old grievances die hard. A tender conscience is a terrible thing to waste…..

Bud Hearn
June 27, 2013

The Runaway Grocery Cart

“Often things you think are just beginning are coming to an end.” John Dos Passos

The day slid sideways for Marcel. Things ‘got away’ from him. Again. His horoscope warned, “Beware of moving objects.” The flashbacks returned. Something had happened to traumatize him.

Today he blamed the grocery list. And his wife. Blame has no boundaries with PTSD and agoraphobia. These fears feed in fertile fields…neurosis is a fact. Panic often gripped him.

Since ‘that day,’ the sight of wheels gave him the willies. Today it was a grocery cart with tiny wobbly wheels. The stalking horror of ‘the event’ was vivid in his memory. This was his first public appearance since ‘it happened.’ The past squeezed him in its vice.

His hands trembled as he maneuvered the cart down the aisles. “Idiots,” he muttered. “What boobs did the floor layout? I can’t find anything.” He cursed them while wandering aimlessly among the aisles. He was not alone.

Grocery shopping is not exactly a man’s sport. There were others, men with grim, lifeless faces. They appeared lost, disoriented like zombies. They wandered apathetically along the aisles, grabbing this, snatching that. Frenetic shoppers they were, frequently distracted by the free, left-over fragments of food---cheese, ham, melon---postponing the inevitable. Misery loves company. He felt at home.

There were also women, the wary shoppers, serious bargain seekers, decisive, focused, coupon-clippers and label readers. They had time. After all, shopping is innate in women. But not in men…get in and out, get it and go, don’t linger long.

He finished shopping and wheeled the wobbly cart to his car. He scoffed at his horoscope’s advice…but laughed too soon. “Damn, the trunk’s locked,” he said. He released the cart, reached into the car and popped it open.

He looked around, the cart had vanished. Huh? What? He gasped at what he saw…the cart was careening madly across the parking lot, gaining momentum, speeding towards some distant disaster. He sprinted, grabbed it, and jumped on the lower crossbar stabilizer, riding it, trying to stop it. No luck. His flip flops failed as brakes. It sped faster, vacillating wildly and uncontrollably across the lot. Then he saw her.

She was crossing the lot in a wheel chair, an elderly lady, in no hurry. Suddenly a flashback of ‘the traumatic event’ lit up his brain. It was that day on his inline skates, the day he felt invulnerable to the forces and physics of nature, macho, fearless, a day to push the envelope. He once read that no one had exceeded 50 mph on inline skates. He wanted to be the first.

The hill sloped twenty degrees, smooth pavement, traffic-free. He shoved off, crouched low, using the slipstream posture of racing bikers. Faster and faster he sped…20, 30, 40 read his hand-held speedometer. At 43 mph an ominous grinding emanated from the wheels. Smoke poured out. What’s this? he wondered. He soon found out.

He was functionally ignorant in physics, failing to comprehend the connection between gravity, friction, kinetic energy and the limitation of ball bearings. But now he knew…bearings fail when kinetic energy exceeds the bearing’s design capacity. The ER doctor explained this to him a few hours later.

And now here he was, captive on a runaway grocery cart. His future flashed before him…law suits, judgments, confiscation of all material benefits, possibly jail time. Or death. All because of a grocery list.

Ghosts of events past raced through his mind…the GPS-remote lawn mower experiment that ate the neighbor’s dog, the unfortunate insurance incident with the Lexus self-park gizmo. Things that got away from him, things he rode blindly into cataclysmic consequences. What was I thinking? Why does my reach always exceed my grasp? he wondered.

The cart sped furiously. Helpless spectators stood there, frozen in fear, gaping at the lunacy of the scene and anticipating the impending catastrophe.

No brakes, no steering. What could Marcel do? He screamed hysterically, “Move, Move.” Nothing moved. Not even the wheelchair. Marcel clutched the cart in hopeless resignation.

Split seconds before the disastrous conclusion, Marcel heard music…a concerto in B minor maybe, he couldn’t recall. Violin strings screeched maniacally, soaring higher, higher, suspended on the orgasmic crescendo of E8, the highest note possible, while horns announced the spectacle to the beat of kettle drums. Then abrupt silence. Cellos concluded the concert with a slow, mournful dirge.

It’s easy for things to get away from us sometimes. Which leads to an incontrovertible truth: we control little, if anything. So, buy the ticket, take the ride. Remember…grocery shopping is woman’s work!

Bud Hearn
June 17, 2013

It Is What It Is

“….It’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.…” Winston Churchill

Life for our household begins with coffee and the enigma de jour. The world, on the other hand, has already either solved its mysteries, or has just thrown up its hands, saying, “It is what it is” and moved on.

Today’s riddle for the table is, “Why do we have gray hair?” Nobody can come up with much of an answer except, “Consult Google.” We leave it at that.

Life’s riddles have stumped philosophers and ascetics for centuries. Some things remain a permanent mystery. But we can’t leave it at that. NO, we demand answers. Insanity, more than intellect, often solves slippery enigmas. Hence, the cliché, “It is what it is,” a catch-all phrase to give closure to the mystery.

Like arcane mysteries, brevity does a better job in edifying than prose. So, here for your enlightenment is the week’s solution to life’s deepest secrets by the intrepid poet dancing on the tightrope, center ring, no net, risking everything in attempting this feat:

It is what it is

It is what it is is not hard to recall
When you need a reply that answers it all.
Without any need or effort to think
You can throw it right out as quick as a wink.

And folks will then think you're a genius profound,
And to utter such wisdom you're sure to astound.
'Cause both the simple and brilliant proclaim
There’re just some things that can't be explained.

It makes little difference if you're dumb or smart
Just whisper these words and the waters will part.

Just what "it" is it is hard to say
It is what it is, there's no other way.
Is "it" maybe this, or could “it” be that?
It doesn’t really matter, one tit or one tat.

"It" means the same thing in every context
Just blurt "it" out and great minds you'll vex.
They'll think that intelligence is your life's degree
And if you're a Charlatan you can charge a big fee,

For Pretence pays big to escape the mundane
Even for carnival-like legerdemain.

The Crux of the phrase is what "is" really is,
And Clinton tried hard to explain away his.
And you may have had a good reason to try
To explain your "is" with a creative lie.

But “it is what it is” gives ample proof,
Of its value to save with hyperbolic spoof.
When all has been said it's impossible to say
‘Bout the multiple uses of this adaptable cliché.

When Life has riddles you can’t figure out,
Don’t moan and complain what it’s all about,
The answer will come, you’ll hear Someone say,
“It is what it is, and it’s better My way.”

So now try walking through life with a smile,
And go with your neighbor that extra mile.

* * *

Sir Winston was close to the perfect solution, but he didn’t go far enough…”it is what it is” completes the equation.

Yes, we did find the answer to the mystery of gray hair, but for the rest of today’s mysteries? Well, I’m just gonna kick back and enjoy the ride. After all, “it is what it is.” What more can be said? Res ipsa loquitur.

Bud Hearn
June 6, 2013