On a Bench at Epworth

Today I’m sitting on a bench at Epworth. What am I doing? Nothing.

**********

It’s not easy doing nothing. It doesn’t come natural. You have to work at it. First of all, you have to decide to do nothing. Try it, and you’ll find a civil war raging in your mind between ‘doing’ and ‘being.’

The brain must make a choice. It’s a hard threshold to cross. It’s easier for the body to say, “Let’s eat,” than the brain to say, “Do nothing.” Flesh often trumps (oops) cognitive thought, if you know what I mean.

The rub comes when you decide to ‘be’ while details of life scream ‘do.’ It’s the eternal conundrum, “…to be or not to be, that is the question.” Doing something subjects you to making the wrong decision. Consequences ensue.

Remember first grade? It’s when you learned to keep your head down, your mouth shut and to sit on your hands in the back row. Invisibility is your friend. So today I ‘be’ doing nothing on this bench at Epworth.

I do admit it took some doing to overcome the guilt of being non-productive. Benches are good for this purpose. Nobody expects you to be doing much as you sit there looking confused and lost in the haze of nothingness. Especially if you have white hair and a host of wrinkles.

Being a do-nothing slacker used to go against our grain. The old Puritan work ethic, you know. No more, gone with the wind. It reminds me of the ham sandwich I ordered at Hot Dawg Emporium the other day…a lot of filler and essence of ham. Culture is changing.

Have you encountered any Puritans lately? They faded out in Salem, Massachusetts after the spate of hangings which followed the witch sightings. This state has since become the Mecca for the do-nothing progressive minions. Clown sightings are the next new thing there.

For slackers, doing nothing is an art form. It finds its apotheosis in many places, not the least of which is in decisions made in the secret of voting booths. It’s disguised as amusement, or entertainment, a sub-category of entitlement.

Even if you’re successful in sitting on a bench doing nothing, your brain is doing something. It thinks, which is a rarity in modern culture. Today I observe the volume of traffic crossing yonder bridge. You can see it, but not hear it. I conclude that traffic is not necessarily a bad thing. It distracts people from thinking. Thinking by the masses is far more dangerous.

Being bored with traffic, I sit motionless and think about Epworth. It’s a Methodist Church retreat, a religious version of ‘penal reform’ school for children. Its purpose is to indoctrinate them to the ravages of sin while they co-exist among roaches that ransack their backpacks by night.

Epworth was named for the boyhood home of the Wesley brothers, John and Charles. A couple hundred years ago Gen. Jimmy Oglethorpe, aka Big Jim, set up the fledging Georgia Colony at Savannah. The Wesley boys followed him to proselytize and convert the Indians to Christianity. A worthy calling, but doomed to failure.

They succeeded in casting out a few evil spirits from the Indians, notably the Revenge Demon. It had enslaved the tribes with inordinate passions, like Drunkenness. Not having a herd of pigs, this demon was exorcized and cast into the next best thing—sand gnats, aka no-see-ums, which have since propagated exponentially along the coast and constantly remind inhabitants of the wages of this sin.

After an hour here I’m near to achieving Nirvana, known as a ‘bench high.’ It’s akin to the ecstasy experienced by runners after they have passed ‘the wall.’ Then a fellow in a green suit walks by.

“How ya doing?” he asks.

“I’m not, I’m being. What’s with you and the green suit?” I reply.

“I’m being invisible, blending in with the hibiscus. It’s a lesson I learned in first grade,” he says as he slowly vanishes into the shrubs.

**********

So much for benches and doing nothing. I’m exhausted. Like I said, it’s hard work.

I pack up and head to the beach for a nap. Judging by the scenery, it proves to be the best decision of the day.


Bud Hearn
September 30, 2016

Two Over Medium

The other day I woke up hungry. Here’s the short version of what happened.

**********

early mornings occur everywhere.
people do a lot of the same things.
like cook eggs.
the world’s frying pans
bubble with hot butter.

two eggs on standby,
today’s sacrifices,
waiting
to be offered
in the fires of affliction,
to the gods of hunger.

the cook chooses two, cracks the shells.
their protection fractures.
they tumble
down.
splat,
their essence spreads.

they have no choice.
they hit the heat,
first one, then the other,
then,
a strange thing happens.

they hook-up at the edges,
cling together,
like married couples,
companions in the fire,
infused in the sizzling skillet.

for a while they simmer together.
the chef cuts the heat,
studies the slight dilemma
of flipping them,
one at a time.

they must part paths,
go it on their own.
the cook’s spatula
performs the simple surgery.
once together, now their own egg,
for better or worse.
they took no vows.
they had no say.

time is short
for the life of eggs.
little time to waste
for creating memories.

like life itself.
ever joining,
ever separating.

in the
Final
Analysis,
like it or not,
we all
sleep
alone.



Bud Hearn
September 23, 2016

dead wood

the hurricane blew through last Friday,
shook things up.
more hype than harm
unless
it was your house
the oak tree chose.

Hermine, male or female?
unisex?
its identity
compliant
with vain egalitarian edicts.

yesterday’s debris, once projectiles,
now harmless
fodder for compost,
saturday’s chore:
rake it
now.

stems, sticks, straw, once significant,
lie lifeless in irrelevance,
litter the lawn, layer the Zoysia.
dead wood,
life’s last statement.

the Rake,
methodical and impersonal
like time,
slowly sweeps clean,
performs last rites,
no tears.

the Past, Yesterday’s life,
lies strewn about in random stacks,
still and silent.
i lean on the rake, wipe off the sweat,
and look up.

from lofty heights above,
the oaks and pines
observe with indifference
the wake below,
being burdened less
by extra weight.

the wind, wild and wanton,
blew through, will blow again,
not if, but when.
something will be lost
something will remain.

everything…
tenuous
like
Life.


Bud Hearn
September 9, 2016

Too Many Lovers

Daddy warned me about love: “Son, don’t let your eyes take you on a trip your body can’t handle.” I should have listened. Instead, I fell in love with all five of them, even took ‘em home with me. Life has not been the same since.

**********

Ah, love, yes. But too many lovers? Short-term euphoria, long-term endurance. No liberal, understanding spouse would approve of such folly. Besides, my five companions are wound tight, high strung clingers. Music is addictive.

My first fling with music was in 1954. With a piano. I was 12. It was sort of an ‘arranged marriage’ you might say. My mother and devious great aunt Kate hooked me up with the Chickering kid, a tall, upright beauty with a mahogany tan. Not a top-of-the line pedigree, but hey, all lovers start somewhere. Beginners can’t be picky.

It was not love at first sight. We eyed each other suspiciously. But electricity flowed through my body when my fingers tickled her ivories. Imagining the possibilities sent hot blood through my veins. Plus, Lady Chickering had class. She chilled all affection I had with my cute cousin, which made the family breathe a sigh of relief.

I always thought of myself as a lover, though I at the time had little experience in the intimacy of relationships. I had gleaned some pointers on love by occasionally sleeping with my dog. I was certain that being a lover often meant getting fleas. I hoped the piano affair would change this perception.

Our affair began slowly. Only fools test the waters with both feet, so I moved in cautiously. But a serious affair began, and we became passionate lovers.

Over the years recitals were made to multitudes of cheering fans, mostly stressed-out, sleep-deprived parents of other piano students. They were forced to endure the butchery of Rachmaninov’s Concerto in C# Minor and a fugue or two from Bach.

But we moved on from those small beginnings to the big leagues…the college band, The Shades. We rocked out in dark dens reeking of stale beer and cigarette carcinogens. Our one TV stint, Stars of Tomorrow, was brief, but we twinkled out.

Discipline comes in spurts, vices are habitual. I searched for more lovers. I had a brief romance with a trumpet when in ROTC. It was not a serious affair. I used the poor lover simply to get out of having to stand at parade rest for hours with a rifle. I didn’t even kiss it goodbye.

Lust gravitates to money. A guitar, the gold-brick road to fame and riches. The ultimate in self-expression, the scapegoat for lurid tattoos, long hair and all-night debauchery. What’s not to love? The Gibson and I joined Lady Chickering and the stringed harem began to grow.

Alas, eyes wander with age. The violin captured my heart. Illusions of importance pictured me in the first chair, strings of my violin melting the hearts of audiences to rapturous applause and encores. We fell in love immediately.

But heaven frowns on quickie, one-night delusions. The violin is a jealous and unforgiving lover, demanding perfection. Miss a note and reap the maestro’s whirlwind. A violin is like a beautiful woman: fun to play, impossible to master. Mine morphed into a fiddle. Bluegrass is not pretentious.

One day in the music store a banjo winked at me. I asked it, “Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” We hit it off immediately and so began a tortuous but torrid affair. Five strings can entice a man down dark back alleys and destroy all inhibitions. I followed it everywhere, until I met the dobro.

How many times can a man fall in love? Head over heels this time, surely the be all, end all of affairs. The steel slide in my hand makes mournful, erogenous sounds in the darkness of my bedroom-converted conservatory. Heaven is close by.

Lovers are insanely jealous. Each craves my attention, all the time. Me, me, me I hear, day and night. It’s a hellish torture. Who tonight? I can’t decide. A curse. Lovers are easy to marry, difficult to divorce. Too late I learn this.

**********

Today I’m praying for deliverance even while contemplating amour with a trombone. Music lovers are incorrigible.

Plato stressed: “Moderatio in omnibres,” Dad, please repeat your advice!


Bud Hearn
September 2, 2016