I've Been Thinking

I’ve been thinking. I try to do that every now and then. This think is about clichés. I have noticed that a lot of people, including myself, talk in clichés. When I make a statement it is not uncommon to be answered with a cliché or to answer with a cliché.

One of my favorite clichés is “Opportunity doesn’t knock twice”. When I hear those words I always wonder, why not? If it came the first time, surely it could drop in the 2nd time. What happens if I’m in the shower and I don’t answer the door when opportunity knocks? It wouldn’t be fair if opportunity only knocked once. If that were really the case then no one would ever take a shower and then what a stinking world we would have.

I know it’s just a cliché and cliché’s are just a bunch of words tossed into a pot, stirred around and then extracted by a word witch or just to be fair a word warlock. But people really do believe them.

What would have happen if they stirred the pot and extracted, Opportunity doesn’t knock twice”? Would that change the meaning? What if the pot had popped out “opportunity only knocks once”? Would that change the meaning?

Or maybe they forgot to tend the pot and the words just kept popping out. Then the cliché might be “Opportunity knocks twice, three times or if you are not careful opportunity will come knocking every night like a love stricken teenage boy mooning over your giggling teenage daughter”.

You hear the knock and you scream, “Get the hell away from my daughter!” and it turns out to be that pesky old opportunity. Then the cliché could be “opportunity keeps knocking until you chase it away with a shot gun.”

No, I guess that really wouldn’t work. Clichés need to be short and to the point. Something like, “black dogs don’t talk”. You could fit that one into any conversation you want to.

Let’s say someone wants to borrow some money. All you have to say is, “They tell me that black dogs don’t talk.” You’re home free. Who in their right mind would challenge you and claim that, “black dogs do talk”? The statement is correct. Black dogs don’t talk. They might ask, “What does ‘black dogs talking’ have to do with borrowing a buck or two?” But most people won’t do that. People are afraid to challenge clichés. They do not want to admit that they don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.

I once said to a young friend of mine, “It’s tough to make ends meet”.

He thought for a minute and responded, “I guess when you do you can barbecue them.”

I thought for my minute and said, “No, I’m going to boil them.”

He changed the subject and I wasn’t sure if he was pulling my leg (there’s another one of them critters) or whether I was pulling his leg and I really didn’t want to ask because, as you know “black dogs don’t talk.”

S. Beatty/7-26-11

Funky Music

Play that funky music white boy.

Lay down the boogie and play the funky music.......until you die.

What if you don't play any funky music?

What if someone else plays the Funky Music?

Do you still die?

Death…death weighs on me this week.

"How do you mourn the loss of a brother? " He asked.

Ask Amy. No one knows better than Amy how to mourn that kind of loss. But my friend asked me, not Amy. Amy would have had the answer. But he doesn't know Amy so he asked me.

Did I have the answer?

Do I have the answer?
I cried, I told him. I cried but that didn't help. I wrote a poem I told him. I wrote a poem but that didn't help. I didn't know how to mourn the loss of a brother so that's what I told him.

How do you mourn the loss of a brother? How do you mourn the loss of a friend? My friend, his brother…both gone but I didn't hear any funky music.

Losing a parent is tough but if you are mature and they have lived a long and good life, you expect to lose your parents. It hurts and you cry or you play tough and you don't cry but you hurt.

Losing a brother? Somehow that's different…more personal…a brother...my brother…his brother…your brother…your sibling… a child… they are part of your soul and  buried deep within your heart…they are expected to be there…they have always been there…why would they leave…now?

They weren't playing any funky music.

Amy's brother played Opera...Classical...Musical

Maybe God played the funky music or someone, some angel, some devil, maybe one of them, maybe all of them just turned on the funky music and my brother…his brother…Amy's brother…my friend…maybe they are in another dimension trying to turn it off.

Losing a friend…hurts the heart…confuses the mind.

Mike died?

Was he playing funky music with my friend's brother?

Did Mike have a brother? No brother to be confused about mourning? Sure I'll mourn for Mike. That's easy for me. He was a friend…a good friend…But Mike needs a brother…a brother to have a slice of his heart cremated and buried. A slice of his heart to be cremated and buried like my heart was sliced and buried… like Amy's heart was sliced and burned...like my friend's heart is being sliced and buried.

A brother is gone.

A friend is gone.

Another piece of the heart is gone.

Please someone…turn off the funky music.

                                                                                               S. Beatty/7-19-11