[Dialogue] The Grand Design

[LAURELCG at aol.com]

Love it, Jim. Thanks.
Jann
 
 
In a message dated 5/21/2012 11:10:50 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time,  
jfwiegel at yahoo.com writes:

Found  this poem in the waiting area at the Episcopal Diocese office here 
in  Arizona.  Somehow it relates to this topic. 

To My  Medial Prefrontal Cortex 
Isabel Galbraith 
People who have positive illusions are less likely to be  depressed. . . . 
There are risks, however, in maintaining illusions that  are too out of 
whack.  –  Timothy D, Wilson 
When  I first heard of you, my scout, 
Spinning, glossing, scrubbing out 
Harsh  facts about myself—the grout 
And plaque of melancholy— 
I  welcomed you, my little sprout  
Of  green and glossy holly. 
Within your songs, you troubadour,  
I'm  Mark Twain, not James Fennimore, 
Kristin Wig, not Drew Barrymore, 
Marley, not Cheech or Chong; 
I’m  touchable waves, not pompadour,  
Bikini, not sarong. 
But  now I know you’re there I’m scared. 
What  buried thoughts have not been bared? 
What  temporary awarenesses aired 
Then were shut up in their towers? 
I  don’t want to be unprepared 
For life’s cold thundershowers. 
So  don’t puff me up to astronaut,  
Or  Guinevere of Camelot,  
Or  world’s best boss, Sir Michael Scott— 
The let-down’s suicidal 
As  Dangle and his banjo not 
Making American Idol. 
And  so, tonight, I try to view 
Myself as all outsiders do. 
I  shut you off; now I’m see-through 
As a window in the dark, 
And  in the mirror I’m 32 
And what is soft is stark: 
Dumb  jokes my friends indulge me in,  
New  wrinkles in my oily skin,  
The  joie de vivre that I trade  in 
For grouchiness at home, 
Lost  time that I could have spent 
Working on a poem,  
Dumb  poems about the slightest things, 
A pen  that’s lost and long-lost flings – 
They  hurt, but what really stings 
Is when I add it up: 
No  roommates and no wedding ring, 
No money, book, or cup. . . .  
I’m  definitely glad you’re there,  
Protecting me from this despair, 
The  bruises my ego would otherwise wear, 
Believing it deserved them. 
You  help me function, help me dare,  
Steel nerves when life unnerves them. 
The  trouble is, we must – like flowers – 
Receive the right amount of showers 
And  sun to pull new blooms from bowers. 
To help us be us 
The  inner eye’s more sweet than sour:    
Ourselves as loved ones see  us
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