Benny is as sure of his genius as he is that he currently resides in a box.
My cat knows exactly how everyone should behave. He fails to understand his clear vision isn't clear to us. Eleven years yet endlessly he chastises us for our transgressions, failing to enact his instructions, breaking his long-established norms, rules. * * * * * It's ironic we watched that show on failure of genius, then I followed by failing to understand you. It seems so clear to me, terms precisely stated, precisely used. Why do I fail constantly? Each time sound bites play repetitiously leaving me to analyze what went wrong, who failed whom, oblivious to the simpler fact: not everyone understands my rules. Chastising them works no better for me than it works for my cat. Now who thinks he's a genius? My cat's quite sure.
And they prayed to the gods who brought the cool water, the wetness which didn't burn. They defied mother's warnings to stay away from water, to stay indoors, to stay safe.
It never rains in California, or snows in Seattle, except when it does. My father rails yet from his grave against the wetness of "the coast." Everyone, everywhere loves where they live "because it has all four seasons" but disregard none would agree what those seasons should look like or if they exist(ed) at all. Kids play baseball in snow, football during extreme heat warnings. My childhood home fills with smoke every time I visit—never during my childhood. My front yard struggles to under- stand why rain drowned months of drought yet six weeks later, they thirsted again. We think ourselves smart with only vague notions of weather's history, its background, its vagaries, its fickle obstinacy toward being pinned down. Strip "climate change" of its political charge, what's left? Surety. Things have changed...but... did this wheel always spin? Did we merely boost it? Ask my grandparents during the Dust Bowl. Ask my great- grandparents during winters when my grandparents greeted our world. Ask me. This feels different. This feels "not normal." This smacks of Apocalyptic Event (movie to follow).
A blogger I follow received a three-month sabbatical and noted while he had grand plans, he found it more grand to ease into the “mundane” activities of playing and reading with his children, taking walks, traveling, visiting his parents, and such. He seemed a little surprised by this.
In non-summer months, the cats didn’t have to share the couch with me. 1984.
Teachers pant for June more, you lovely little monsters. Adult nerves handle one question every few seconds poorly—three, simultaneously uttered, become background noise to our crumbling sense of purpose.
First day: lie on the couch oriented, right hand reaching books, water, coffee. Sleep when it occurs. Open door policy for cats, who wander, wonder at this new couch denizen. Ignore phone calls. Feel the throbbing subside in feet which bore all for eight hours, one hundred eighty days.
Second day: wander house wander yard wonder why they look different. See things to do. Know their time has come. Slide back to your classroom, retrieve forgotten things. Hide if people come in.
Days three to seven: attempt to forget each day's name. Forget instead all those things from Day Two.
Ease into being, doing for its own sake. Mind ascends to philosophy, theory, to next-year-will-be-different, dwells in growing visions of daily perfection, ignores realities learned before.
August: Take joy in planning, attacking a new year. Feel like Superman putting things back together. Laugh.
Teachers pant for August more, you whining recalcitrants. Our dreams rebuilt, our minds alert, our souls recharged—we're ready to grapple once again. Ready to push summer back into its closet.
67/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid) two-thirds to being there
Whither my dither? And from whence? It comes from focus, from obsession, from lack of limits on myself. Grabbing issues, tick-like, never to let go until they're drained dry. Resembling mad scientists in old movies, eyes-a-poppin'! Discussions become arguments; paying bills sends me on trips into financial rabbit-holes where accountants fear to tread. My mind, honed razor-sharp cuts anything in its path. Too bad if it's me, too bad if it's you. Something seems near- guaranteed to blow. Comfort or habit? Can't tell, but it promises familiarity, which brings confidence (deserved or not).
66/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid) two-thirds to being there
Unretouched photo from an hour after dawn, August 8th, 2026, in northern Spokane, WA, where three wildfires burned uncontrollably.
Ninety-nine: French bread hot, water steaming for each loaf's crusty, chewy finish. Traveling inside cool comfort, knowing this cannot last forever. "Hot enough for you," quips farmers market vendor, blue eyes twinkling beneath weather-lined, browned forehead supporting white buzz cut. "Yes, but barely," my clever retort. He laughs, takes my money, knowing which one of us will soon be walking across hot, radiating blacktop back to his car.
65/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid)
Wow, got home from first choir practice of the season and forgot to post my already-written poem. At least this gives me a chance to spruce it up.
Restroom sign at Spokane Indians’ Ballpark. August 2026.
Fool me at all
Fool myself, shame on me. Listen! Listen to my Muse who infuses spirit, wrenching right from wrong, meaning out of nonsense. That still, small voice yields more than all those shouts banging around my mind. Pray, pray for each moment, each small touch to break through every moment every day.
Failure, horticultural-style. Every spray of green you see is a crape myrtle. The tallest one which grazes the top of the photo, is over five feet tall. Other than the columbine you see in the extreme lower right, and the yellow tassels of goldenrod peeking through the crape myrtle, everything you see in the foreground is a crape myrtle. We paid last October to have the one crape myrtle which grew here removed. August 2026.
In some ways that’s a pretty cheap get I’ve put up there, but here’s what’s been playing on my mind:
Recently I’ve been attempting to not over-plan my days and then just hope I make good in-roads on completing some of them, nibbling at some others, and just feeling crummy about all the important ones that didn’t see a bit of my attention. “Wow,” I’ll say to my wife, “I really need to get to [insert important item].” I’ve found I use it as subterfuge. I’ll plan 6-10 tasks, a good handful of them all-day-and-more projects, then I’ll cherry pick the ones I want to work on. That one I’ve “really got to get to” becomes the sacrifice day after day. Plus, if you condition yourself to not getting things done, you begin to feel only superficially guilty about not doing them. Instead, the past two weeks I’ve estimated the amount of time certain tasks will take, generally held to that regardless of them getting completed, and planned no more of them than there is time in my day. I try to learn where I need to get more accurate on projecting how long a task will take. And just to keep it real, I plan 90 minutes called “personal time/time sucks” to acknowledge there are just unavoidable interruptions in everyone’s day. Thus, I’ve been failing because I’ve attempted to over-succeed.
In a larger sense, it’s difficult these days to go more than a month or two without encountering “you’ve got to fail to succeed,” spouted by some motivational type of person. (Gah! I thought I would get away from cheerleaders when I got out of school!) While I can quibble a bit with the mentality—I can point to many people, many situations where they will continue to fail, never experiencing success—it’s true right down in the gut that quitting because you’ve failed once isn’t a very good strategy. Date someone and they break up with you? I guess you’re not cut out for love! Put all your money on red and it comes up black? “I guess I’ll never win at roulette.” Or how about, “I could never make myself write. I guess I’m just not a writer.” Now look at the boy. Shooting for success almost always guarantees encountering some failure.
And last week I read “These 20 Words Are Worth a Thousand Pictures” an article about a very short poem by Ezra Pound. (I hope that link gets you behind the paywall. I’ve never tried to share an article to the entire world before.) Let’s dispense with the fact Pound collaborated with the fascist regime in Italy in WWII. Ernest Hemingway seems to have been a pretty good male chauvinist, and Michael Jackson, well, where do I start? All have undeniable artistic talent. Coming back to the poem and the article, I realized poetry takes a multiplicity of forms. As a writing friend told me a month ago, “It’s a poem if you say it’s a poem.” I hope the person saying it’s a poem (me) has enough artistic integrity to adhere to his idea of poetry. I think 25-40% of my poems have not been very good in this 100-poems-in-100-days thing. Poems condense meaning. They are to literature what a fine spirit is to alcoholic beverages. They seek not the pretty good word, but the right word, the best word. One doesn’t find the jigsaw piece which closely fits and just hammer it into the puzzle. One seeks for that piece which perfectly fits the hole. I’m going to continue to attempt to write successful poems. I will fail…but maybe not all of the time.
Oregon Coast, a picture of equanimity. August 2026.
Life hits lulls where everything seems "Okay"— Not "Good" not "Bad" just beautiful balance, something which seems more normal. Those highs match lows for extreme stress on emotions, on health, on mental well-being. "Give me equanimity or give me breath!" Thank you, Patrick. Always thought you were too wound up, but now I see you're just like all of us: wanting to keep our heads down for fear of getting whacked in some cosmic Whack-a-Mole game without rhyme, reason.
all the voices in my head 