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
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.
Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, likely female, on Anise Hyssop. September 2026.
One of my new favorite plants is the anise hyssop. Anise hyssop grows to about four feet with long flower clusters at the end of each upward branch. These clusters each have what looks like about 100 flowers. The large one in the photo above has approximately 50 clusters. (I had to count them for a pollinator study I participated in.) The weight and height of the branches causes them to bend a bit, making them look like a flower arrangement to me. The flowers don’t bloom all at the same time, but over the past two seasons ours has peaked in late June through mid-July, after which some of the flowers begin to do whatever propagation chores the plant must do.
Same bee, different photo from July’s. Note more flower clusters in the background. July 2026.
The hyssop attracts many pollinators. I participated in the Great Southeastern Pollinator Count two weeks ago, choosing this plant because it had so many flowers. I counted mostly Eastern bumblebees and a little wasp about a half inch in length. Others included a very small bee, ants, another kind of insect I’ll just call a beetle, and the biggest dang wasp I’ve ever seen! I looked it up, and I’m sure I saw a Great Black Wasp. I’ve seen three different maximum lengths ranging from 1.4-2.0 inches. I swear it was about 2.0 inches in length. Absolutely huge.
Yesterday I saw our lone species of hummingbird here in the SE United States, a ruby-throated one, also checking out the hyssop. It seemed to prefer the similar-looking flowers of the obedient plant quite near me. And both yesterday and today the several hyssop plants in our yard have been caught the attention of Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterflies.
When I began the census count, I lamented to my wife that most of flowers have long passed their peak. I expected to find few pollinators compared to June-July. The purple coneflowers have lost all their petals; the spiky centers remains, attracting goldfinches to the seeds, not pollinators to the pollen. Similarly, the black-eyed Susans and Indian blanket flowers have mostly disappeared.
But strangely (to me), the hyssop seems to have popped out more flowers! Over the past three days bees, most of the Eastern carpenter variety, have been madly jumping on the hyssop flower clusters. From a distance they’re visible by watching the ends of the stalks bouncing up and down in a non-existent breeze. And then there’s the apparent delight some butterflies have taken in finding yet more flowers on the hyssops.
We need to keep trying, keep putting out those flowers of attraction. It makes a difference. Perhaps “carpenter bees” aren’t your thing. Perhaps you dislike benign-but-huge “wasps”. No matter. Our purpose is to flower. Let the rest take care of itself.
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.
Old folks get “procedures”…lots and lots of ’em. Is it worse to prepare for where cameras should never go, or wait for someone else’s? (Said “someone” adding two hours to the wait because the fine print for drinking liquids addressed certain drugs which said “someone” might have been taking.)
Was this grass gone to seed when I entered the building? August 2026.
Waiting [.....] Never my strong suit, worse when it's unanticipated. Need to blame someone. Hope we're at fault; hope we're not. Then again...what did you plan to do today? Nothing Much. What ARE you doing? See? If two roads lead to the same place, how can one be better? (However: could that dude perhaps lower that video's volume?)
Different voices have defined “found” poems differently. Here, I started with the opening line of a poem I drafted over a dozen years ago, then used random web pages to suggest a few words from which would spring the next line. I let whatever revealed itself in my creative half exist without immediately squashing it, merely shaping it, translating it from my interior language-without-words to a poor imitation in English. My Editor insisted on punching meaning into it, which I allowed. At the end I decided it needed to come full circle, thus lending meaning (I hope) to the final lines. In a way, this process worked similarly to something I’m getting ready to post (non-poem) when time allows.
We wear patchwork clothes, stitched by sadness not to have seen snow leopards through our blizzarding genesis. Inspired by writings we don't understand, we personalize them to make everything obtain meaning where none existed. Welcome to your mission: to drive home meaning to others while pathetically struggling to find your own, exhibiting your confidence which betrays your lack of understanding. "the mic is yours, Ken," as if he thinks I'm important. Games, games fill cracks left when motive, meaning dried up. More valuable than playing? Being. Staying within where we find nothingness imbuing everything-ness. Boldly facing it without doing, comfortable in this. Yet, in here we wear patchwork clothes, satisfied they're stitched by sadness.
Pop quiz: young man below (who hopefully will not be recognized because I doubt he will be flattered) was a real-life grad student. This photo represents what?
A. a waste of his parents’ money
B. proof “too much education” actually is a thing
C. the dangers of drinking
D. the empirical method at work, determining remaining quantity of beer
E. a complete lack of hand-eye coordination
F. pick any two above and provide a complete argument for your choices
College dormmate, Fall of 1976
Summer, nineteen seventy-six, living my self-realized dream of poverty, danger, emotional confusion combined with dead-end work. No car. Walk two miles to work, six days per, rain, shine. Three of us with Crazy Pete supervising(?), performing work long since killed by technology's steady advance. Loaned co-worker Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance precipitating his mental descent, believing himself to be Jesus. Nearly killed my roommate, here now first confessed. My defense, your honor, has to do with his pistol-waving girlfriend, sister to his wife—plus their side business, stealing pills from our state mental ward to sell them later. Thinking America's Bicentennial would prompt Jefferson Starship plus Grateful Dead to perform freely in Golden Gate Park, headed south with friend Ray, driving one-oh-one down entire coast (nearly killing us when his bald-tired Vee-Dub spun circles on twisting roads through California's redwoods). No concert transpired but our good friend entertained us from his expensive digs above Oakland, serving up ridge views with top-flight drugs. Returning, faced up to first failure as freelance writer of fiction, looked in my mirror, predicted, "If you don't get your ass back to college for some kind of degree, you never will." U-Dub to my rescue, restoring my transcripts, enabling graduation in five college quarters.
Postscript: afraid to take summer off (because I'd drop out again), attended said institution for nineteen months, grabbed its sheepskin after Christmas, proving to myself how one can be right/wrong simultaneously.
—Johnny Rotten on “No Fun (excerpts)” from Troublemakers, an anthology album
Author’s brother (left) and author Seattle Center, September 1965
This should be my second childhood. I remember childhood, or I think I do. Days shimmered, each one full of promise: unbounded time, more valuable than gold, silver. Complaints only when I heard THAT call: "time to come in"—"time for bed, young man"—"c'mon it's time for church". I still rail, still complain to The Adult, but he lives in my head now. I want to subcontract my adulthood so I can play through- out my adult childhood. This role requires timely attention to details of my life without one whit of bother to me...ah, but then I would need to hire someone to watch that first one. Where would it end? No, better to restrain my adulthood to its bare, needful minimum, let my child command ev'rything else.
