Influences

Wind, hot and dry,
filled the lanes with dust,
intruding through every crack,
invading every door and window.

Waves of flame,
reaching as from above,
came to stay and oppress every brow,
and we were filled with a divine madness,

Such that suddenly
all different voices were one voice,
all messages one message,
all humanity, each unique, yet one.

This is how all truly is,
verily, verily, unto ages of ages:

We are one family, sharing space and time;
we belong to one another.

How else could God make the case
but to strike us with understanding,
if only in a moment of brevity,
and then charge us with handling the rest?

Such is the mystery of Divine Influence.
Each of us is intended to intervene
to maintain the sanctity of all our lives;
everyone has a role in this heavenly task.

Be fired with your divine purpose!
Of all colors, shapes, the plethora of singsong tongues
proclaims the truth that divine fire exposes:
There is but one people, one life, one purpose.

Ye have been touched, all of ye!
Gather your whits about you,
for each day’s intent is this fire,
this purpose of divine life-giving influence.

Peace be to thee and your neighbors all!
Alleluia, Alleluia, and amen,
and blessings be to ye all
unto the ageless ages.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Decoration Day

“Oh, say,”

the song begins,
as cortege follows caisson
to the altar of the vacant chair,
“Can you see?”

The band, impeccably uniformed,
follows, slow of cadence,
to offer last rites
for the flag-draped remains
of those days of yore and gore,
of that cause that is no more.

“What so proudly we hailed,”
at the blood-soaked field of battle,
where vegetation has at last returned,
and the songs of birds redeem all
that has been forgotten of the promises
of life, of freedom and of happiness.

“If a foe from within strike,”
few remember these lines,
“down, Down with the traitor
that dares to defile,”
over cans of beer and burnt flesh,
the memory of bands of brothers
and sisters, lost to time and tide.

“By the millions unchained”
to most blessed eternal silence,
“who our birthright we have gained,”
and then lost whilst a fool bargained
arms to nations, for the waging of more wars,
and dictated malfeasance
on “the home of the brave.”

“Can you see?”
The graves lie deep
beneath their heavy stones
and, even flower-bedecked,
unseasonal rains flow over them as tears,
to mourn the dead and the destitute living,
a reminder of our ultimate failure:
War did not vanquish war.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//

In 1861, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., in reaction to civil war engagement, wrote this verse to the “Star-Spangled Banner” – which appeared in songbooks of the era:

“When our land is illumined with Liberty’s smile,
If a foe from within strike a blow at her glory,
Down, down with the traitor that dares to defile
The flag of her stars and the page of her story!
By millions unchained, who our birthright have gained,
We will keep her bright blazon forever unstained!
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
While the land of the free is the home of the brave.”

Meanderings on Motherhood

There was that time, long ago,
(but when I picture the photo in my mind,
I can recall it as if it just happened),
Your voice urged, “Go! There’s dad!”
and these feet (much smaller)
carried this body (tiny then) upright,
for the first time in recorded mystory.

Since then, to now, such a stretch
of rolling and running and walking long trails,
working on words,
how they are formed
on the lips and in the mind,
naps and daydreaming,
watching motes of dust
float through the air,
the sacred holding of ladybugs
in small hands and large,
skipping beside you,
my hand in yours,
later walking on my own.

Of the countless adventures:
The tiny kid on the painter’s ladder,
“But I can do it, mom!
I can go all the way to the top!”
I clearly remember saying,
and when I got there, I looked down,
to realize that up and down are
two wholly different skills,
and your fear-of-heights coaxing
“But it’s time for lunch,
I have your favorite, all ready,”
literally willed my safe descent
from the edge of the rooftop.

Only a superhero can do that,
I hope you know.

Cups of sweet, milky coffee,
in the time-honored tiny tea set,
with fresh from the oven cookies,
punctuated long days of discovery;
who knew that spiders, large enough
for Tiffany the standard poodle to bark at,
could emerge from under an old house,
or that summer swim lessons would
require you to wear your winter coat,
while blue and shivering kids paddled,
as you observed from the stands?

Rescues, both small and great:
the bus-missing preschool finger-paint project,
that found me walking wrong-way home;
the playground knee-roll over broken glass,
requiring a taxi ride to Emergency,
where an old man walked through the plate glass door,
as if to continue a theme of shatteredness;
your calm voice calling to me from up the block
while a stranger tried to lure me with a lie,
through his car window.

Further opening windows of consciousness,
the daily theme, from the portholes
of your piercing brown eyes to my own,
everything an exercise in expansion,
from cultivation of flowers
to the care of small creatures,
from the march against war
to the long bus ride to help
in the marina after the bay oil spill,
for we must save the sea birds.

Over time, these portholes on the world
have upgraded themselves from transoms
to casements and skylights, even bays
clear or color-stained like gems,
to picture and double-opening French windows;
Windows on the world within and without,
these aforesaid windows of consciousness,
this is extraordinary vision,
mapped as the starry heavens,
and the young must first be led
on all the well-trodden paths
before they can forge any path on their own.

The painstaking after-school reading lessons,
for this late bloomer, a first opening
to the greater world beyond our time and place,
leading to the sharing of books and music,
endless school art shows and concerts to endure;
How you and every pet in the house
stood the squawks and squeaks
of an inexperienced bow across the strings,
I’ll never know, even though
every pet in the house slept at the epicenter,
and you sat proudly through every concert,
from violin to voice. 

And I know now,
         I now know,
through my open window,
         what it was all for,
what it meant to you,
         what it means to me,
having relived it all,
         in a different time,
and with a different voice.

And I want you to know that,
         though you are far away,
the little hand of your child
         still reaches through open windows
of consciousness and vision,
         finds your warm hand,
ever-curious mind and open heart,
         and feels your mommally hug.

Love,

         Elisabeth

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//
Top photo: Mom has given me little kirigami to throw into a bowl of water, where we watched them open into flowers, circa 1962.
Bottom photo: Me with my twins when they were very young, circa 2000

The Grift is On

I took a break in the middle of my workday to do some much needed grocery shopping. Though cloudy outside, the temperature was pleasant and it was nice just to get out for some air.

I parked at my favorite grocery store and exited my vehicle. 

I was lost in thought – which I have to confess is rather typical. 

A man came up to me. He was shorter than I am, he was smiling and looked slightly bewildered.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m not asking for money, I’m just lost. Can you tell me where I am?”

“Well, you are on Broadway in the city of O-----.”

“Could you tell me what part of town this is? I am from South Africa and I don’t know the area.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what this neighborhood is called,” said I, longing to be helpful, but also trying to extract my grocery list from my pocket. “How did you get here?”

“I took a cab from San Francisco Airport. Look, here is my receipt!” The gentleman said, holding out a handwritten receipt made in the amount of $500.00.

He put his flip-phone into my hand, “Could you speak to my attorney?”

And thus began the grifters’ confidence game. I’ll briefly outline the rest of the encounter. The “attorney” spoke to me, saying that he wanted me, “the mark,” to ask his “client” a few questions because he, the “attorney” was having trouble understanding his “client’s broken English” (a problem I was not experiencing; the “client” spoke clearly and without any accent, and the phone reception was astonishingly clear for the “attorney,” who I can only assume was in a parked car, nearby). The second question is the one that clarified the entire situation for me:

“Can you ask him if he completed his assignment?” 

I posed the peculiar question and the man replied by opening the shoulder bag he carried, revealing what appeared to be a huge wad of cash.

At that point, I spoke into the phone with no particular inflection to my voice, “I am handing the phone back to your client. You can assist him from here on.”

Having handed the phone to the “client,” I made purposely for the door of the grocery store. 

(I may seem distracted, but I didn’t fall off a turnip truck.)

//

This is The Classic Grift, my friends, as depicted in “The Sting” and “Paper Moon” and any number of other films and TV Detective shows; these guys were "confidence men." It is so classic, it even has it's own name; it is called "the Pigeon Drop."

I’m taking the time to tell you about my experience because we are living in remarkably difficult times. People are pushed to desperation; we’re all distracted and extremely busy trying to keep a standard of living, if we can. The UN has reported that the United States has the most inequity of any developed nation; U.S. policies benefit the rich and exacerbate poverty. More than 40 million citizens live in poverty, in this great country of ours. Desperate people might well go along with the type of patter I was treated to today, and give up their precious money as “collateral” or “security” towards a potential for great riches.

But let me just say, the bills you see in the bag are not real; the stacks of bills are just plain paper.

And let me just say, don’t offer to drive any “lost client” anywhere, especially not to the nearest ATM.

And let me just say, don’t get into a car with any “lost client” and his “attorney” or some “cab/Uber/Lyft driver” who might show up on the scene.

And let me just say, there is the possibility of any number of really, really bad scenarios that can spin out from what seems like an innocent encounter with a lost waif in a parking lot. And all of the really, really bad things would happen only to you.

The best thing you can do is speak in an easy, friendly manner, turn and walk away casually, but purposefully, toward the nearest open door. Once inside, report what is happening and/or call the police. Don’t waste time trying to take a photo, just get yourself away.

Of course, by the time you report it, the individuals will have made their escape…

//

Addendum.

This entire silly episode of my life started in the most innocuous fashion. I thought the guy was asking for directions, until it became apparent that the man and his confederate on the flip phone were angling for something else. 

Will this experience stop me from giving directions to people who request them on crowded sidewalks and in busy parking lots because this happened? No, I will not stop doing so.

Why did I write about it? Well, I learned about such scams on a rainy Friday in Junior High School, when the social studies teacher decided to show an old black and white film that talked all about and depicted such scams, followed by a class discussion. I don't know if that film still exists (perhaps social studies teachers have a newer film to show!). 

Can you find out about scams on the internet? Yes. But most people would not take the time to look into it because most people are of the mind that "It couldn't ever happen to me," "I would never fall for that," "I'm too intelligent to be tricked." 

And that, dear friends, is precisely why I wrote about it. We all believe we are so intelligent and so on guard at all times that we could never fall for some scammer's tale. We would never be so gullible.

But even the most vigilant of us are basically trusting individuals, happy to step into the breach to help strangers with minor difficulties. Grifters capitalize on the best part of human nature to gain confidence; this is why they are called "confidence people." Once they have hooked your natural good will, they then dangle a carrot called "greed." 

It is a simple psychological game such people run, and it is unfortunate how successful the game can be. This game does not seem intrusive, not at all, unlike the continual barrage of robocalls from the non-existent "Microsoft Refund Center."

I had my early lesson in critical thinking over 40 years ago, and this incident happened only a few days ago. I'm glad I had the lesson back then, and was able to recall it when a stranger flashed what looked like (but most certainly was not) a bag full of money at me.

I walked away. 

So You Bought Yourself A Band, Redux

To recap from our last episode:

Nemesis, the cold light of truth, awaits you, in every seat, in every concert hall.

Entertain me. Make me smile.

Nemesis is waiting to see and hear what you will deliver.

//

So, time has passed. 

“Back in the Family,” you said, “where it belongs.” And that’s where you began your bait-and-switch, at venues that had been advertising other performers for nearly a year. You donned the requisite striped shirts and made your move. (We note that stills of the old lineup continue to show up in venue promotions, even today…)

But it was soon evident that cracks were forming.

The ham-fisted, litigious takeover immediately turned off longtime fans that might have continued to be your primary audience. You got into brawls on the internet with people. Lawsuits surely won’t build a new fan base, and trademark licensing doesn’t entitle the licensee to threaten tribute bands covering “your” songs… 

You discovered, to your chagrin, that the summer camp you thought came with your purchase deal was actually owned and operated by someone else. (You didn’t do your homework.) You tried to create a new camp, but no one signed up. Quelle surprise! The fans you’d turned your back on were the very ones who had the means to devote to such pastimes; who did you think you were going to attract? Being that you can’t sing or play all that well means it is extremely doubtful you could teach, so what were you planning to offer? It couldn’t have ever been more than a schmooze-and-booze punctuated by posing and boasting, nothing more than a one-night stand.

Swiftly must have come the realization that one set wasn’t enough for a whole show. You discovered you couldn’t sing some songs in the keys they’d been performed in. Three-part harmonies flat-lined into unison. Instrument tuning was, shall we say, problematical. Lame is the patter, and y’all ain’t got rhythm. Adding songs that had never been part of the repertoire, one can only wonder about that. But not taking requests and leaving out some signature tunes audiences have come to expect actually does have an impact in terms of branding, marketing and sales, or so it has been just generally opined in the pages of both the Wall Street Journal and the Hollywood Reporter.

Nemesis has seen the videos, and she has heard the whispering on the wind. 

Interestingly, somewhere along the line the DNA baby got thrown out with the bath water; lo and behold, the thing isn’t really in the family anymore. At this point, the only legacy member is actually the sideman, a non-member.

Then, a fight broke out over the website. For a while, no one who might have wanted to see shows could find out anything about them. The old URL points to some other group; and while there is a new URL for The Group, no one can find it. The investors must be a bit concerned; if they aren’t, they should be.

Spies have informed Nemesis that phone calls had been made to former members, trying to sound out availability to “fill in” or “replace” well before the apparent coup d'état. Most of these parties politely demurred, as involvement could be construed as legitimizing something or someone. People who did step in struggled to perform with you, as the arrangements had been dumbed-down or put into different keys, and signature licks had been ditched. Ultimately, poaching someone from another group can only make it sound better, so that’s one plus for you... 

Email alerts come in from the four corners; there is abundant ticket availability! People who work the venues report arrogance and mistreatment back stage. Believe me, presenters will think twice, if they haven't already done so. Investors must be a bit concerned; if they aren’t, they should be. When any tribute band can play and sing circles around you, who will pay top dollar to hear less than the very best that can be done, to hear you “learn on the job”? 

And this has entertained Nemesis the most: There has been absolutely no need for her to intervene!

Your reputation precedes you. While you can fool some of the people some of the time, you cannot fool them all. What you can do is fool yourselves, as long as ever you want – at a price.

It is said that revenge is a meal best served cold. The sideboard is laid. The wine is chilled and the glasses are filled. It is all just a matter of time. 

Let us raise the parting glass!

Raspberries, strawberries, let us toast with fine wine:
Here's to the songs that we used to love, dying on your vine.

The End

© 2019

https://songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com/2017_08_10_archive.html

Addendum: The show at Yoshi's in Oakland CA on 5/15/19 was less than 1/3 sold...

Rise Up And Ride

~ to celebrate Lawrence Ferlinghetti on his 100^thbirthday

We gather
We gather around
and while around We gather
We reflect in the moment
Our reflections remotely interior
reflections that ripple on our surfaces
with experience and emotion
expectation going unspoken
passing traumas unconfessed
tattooed on every cell of blood
that roams the living heart
teased by inner drums
to dance

We gather
We gather around
and while We gather
Our reflections speak
riffing off Our rippling shores
through Our interior drumbeats
and Our drumming fills the space
with that intricate ostinato called
Our Shared Humanity

The Prophet
softly approaches
reading the crowd
feeling the bed of drums
and the spaces between each beat
the World of hurt and of love
the crashing of the seas
the winds of time
motes of the dust of an hundred years
—and more, perhaps—
bounce in the City Lights,
and out of the depths
of these waiting primordial rhythms
he speaks

Friends, Poets, Countryfolk,
quothe he,
There is nothing I can say
that you are not breathing right now
into the outermost continuities of space
—Our collected vibrations are heavy
their mass carries weight yet gives light
unto those of us who are trapped in the night
the collective sighs of We gathered Here
join with those of a Nation and a World
clamoring to settle into any groove
that will kick the beat forward

I say to You
“Kick it forward”
and I’m not talking about any can
but can-do
though any can will do
and be suffered to be cycled
and can be recycled
if you will
into the latest new case for Now

Because Pandora opened the can
all that spilled out is a reckoning
that can only be assuaged
in the timeless Era of Jazz
in the balm of the Beat
in the work of weaving

among hearts heaving
in the joy of healing
in the heat of the night

I say it again
“Kick it forward”
and that means You
You’ve got to swing into the groove
of that bed laid in long ago,
now is the time for listening
to hear rags and blues glistening
in singing and dancing
with canons and fugues
that RISE UP

Round while We gather
be here and hear, Dears,
hear the beating of All Your Drums
gather your precious song of Humanity
Kick it all forward into your swing
and into it find your groove;
join the ostinato traffic lane
and enter the wave dancing
RISE UP
and once arisen
RIDE!

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Garden of Delight

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

All beauty, all abundance,
lying in waste
and left to chance;
a garden of delight,
left in your keeping,
fallen into sad plight,
pushed to contortions
of distortions.

The owl’s head pivots,
but, alas, the indignities
lie arrayed in all directions,
and there is no place
where she may lay her head.

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

Who shall stand
when Authority comes,
calling all to account?

“No harm; no foul,”
cry thee unto the hills;
I hear ye, I hear the laughter
as rolling gales of hubris.

“Hang the prophets;
Hang the law,”
they taunt,
“We will do what we want.”

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

Who shall stand
when Authority comes,
calling all to account?

As surely as the sun rises
on the watchers and the holy ones,
Freedom is a sword;
all dance on a razor’s edge.

When the holy Storm comes
with it’s crucible of fire,
know that the angels,
terrible in their beauty,
follow closely after
to wipe away all trace
of offense, all corruption,
and then restore the garden to Grace.

© 2019 by Elisabeth Eliassen

//

I am become as an owl of the waste places.

― Psalm 102:6

But who can endure the day of His coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like a fuller’s soap.

― Malachi 3:2

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.

― James Baldwin, from “The Fire Next Time”