Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days


  • who else will weep

    The angel at the table glares back across the clutter. Dirty dishes, 
    candy bar wrappers and tuna tins. Self-rolled cigarette smolders 
    on a side plate, the ashes of those before spilling over. Ignored.
    Kitchen bulb, harsh and bare, casts bearded shadows across 
    the squalor. Joni Mitchell crackles from the speakers — a record 
    once played for a daughter — offering only the slightest comfort 
    needed on a day like today. A day where she 
    could use a friend as much as a fix. Depression familiar 
    to women who’ve lost a child, a fortune fit for no one. 
    A decade has passed, but not the pain. 
    The philandering husband who chose to grieve in other ways, 
    salt in a wound that never heals. 
    Self-medicating. 
    First doctor prescribed, then vintage imbibed. Now whatever 
    is there, whatever it takes, whatever she can find. She can 
    ill afford to be picky. The dollar-store diet, fortified by 
    middle-of-the-night gas station cravings, her pallid skin and 
    coarse complexion more becoming of an anorexic, 
    or crack whore. 
    Years of low-wages, welfare, and tricks turned in-between. 
    Home is now a third-floor walk-up furnished with a bed, table,
    two chairs, a suitcase, and an old stereo. Nothing much. 
    Not even a photograph. 
    Inconsequential items pawned off, lost, or left behind. 
    Addictions, afflictions, and poverty can prune away all that 
    does not matter, and all that does not belong. Stagnant air 
    seasoned by sour milk and cigarettes, and bed sheets soiled 
    by the sweat of men who visit. It should never have been. 
    The angel has watched it all unfold. 
    Of course she cries, but only to herself. 
    Who else will weep?
    A random ambulance screams into the night, flashing lights 
    animate the roomful of nothing. Street-level shouts from 
    a crowd of drunks, the white noise of her dark days. Searching 
    for a vein between the scabs and bruises, lesions that mark 
    a dead-end journey, finding space at the elbow’s crease 
    next to the ripening furuncle. She ties off and with hinky hand 
    stabs the needle into a tiny patch of waiting flesh. 
    A fervent rush consumes her entire being. Staring back at 
    the angel’s emerald eyes, her vision goes from transparent 
    to translucent, and then, not at all. 
    The angel wistfully watches, 
    a scene played out countless times before, shakes her head, 
    rises to her feet and shuts the battered door.

  • unspoken

    after all has been said
    there remains far more to know

    space
    filled with
    merely breath

    a void

    vacancy requires attention

    it can hurt
    it can heal

    there is nothing more to say

    silence
    is a battle

    it can become comfort

    a path forward
    will move in either direction

    what guides you
    what haunts you
    shimmering light or silken shadows

    do you hear the unspoken

    forgiveness

    do you care to know details
    after all has been said

  • does it matter

    Does it feel this way for everyone?
    This darkness, this temptation, to look away, 
    to step away, from a silent fire.
    I have been burned.
    I am vulnerable.
    I am afraid of speaking out.
    I hold these heavy thoughts back from others (don’t they have their own concerns).
    What do I keep away from myself?
    Does it matter?
    Couldn’t I simply amuse myself
    with lighter thoughts, or gentle distractions – wouldn’t golf become
    a more useful game – where the object, intent, and goal is so simple?
    Who am I to think my purpose or intention is more important, or
    I am simply missing the point?
    I am hurting.
    Am I ignoring the hurt?
    My eyelids are heavy;
    is it from seeing too much, or is it from trying
    to keep them shut?

  • the difference

    Midnight arrives. No moon, new moon, clouds buffer the sky, 
    shifting moods, stars align. Where did the day go? Time stands still
    without the presence of people, and a sense of substance.

    Questions now. We carry into consciousness a dog-eared confusion 
    never hoped for. The longer it goes, the less you know. You want
    little more to ignore the impendent humidity of a Van Gogh night.

    Young hearts will find a way
    old souls still remain, 
    but where would you go 
    if you knew the difference?

    Deep breath. Full stop, amidst the barren dreams, night tremors, and 
    flashbacks casting dispersions on emotions and moments of repose. 
    Unsteadied in the innocence, unmoved by a prophecy unknown.

    Reach out. All, which you see, cannot always be felt. Confronted by 
    constraints of an ever-changing sky, a complete spectrum of wonder.
    All told, there are less reasons to know than less reasons to be.

    Young heart will find its way
    old soul knows the pain,
    now would you go there 
    if you knew the difference?

  • a despicable duplicitous act

    It’s popular, and it’s alarming.
       Plagiarism has become a bigger problem than ever, and more apparent as social media further casts its spell across every platform and screen. Instagram, Facebook, and Pinterest are all full of bright shiny examples; you see it all the time. 
       It’s out there. It is trending.
       A disturbing, disrespectful act, plagiarism is stealing, passing off the ideas or words of another person as one’s own. Examples lack credit or attribution.
       I’ve called out a couple of people over the past few months for blatant misuse of quotes belonging to someone else.
       One person, a couple of times on her social media feeds, matched lovely quotes (including one by T.S. Eliot) with beautiful black and white photographs of herself. 
       The combination looked great, but nowhere was the poet credited with the original genius.
       Another influencer — in a stylized format featuring her name and image — used the words of a popular motivational speaker. An earlier post, in the same branded format, featured a paraphrased quote by Toni Morrison. 
       The Instagram post was made to look like influencer was the one offering up such compelling advice.
       It was so wrong.
       I sent a comment to the owner of the post (but not the words), informing her the quote belonged to someone else. “It’s great to be inspired, but share the credit,” I said.
       She quickly responded: “I had no clue it was him as it’s just a widely shared quote without his name.”
       See, that’s the problem; nobody does the research. Nobody takes the time to find the source of their inspiration. Nobody bothers.
       It’s sad because the same device used to create the post has the capability to trace the source of the statement. A Google search is so easy.
       Attribution is important. Behind every quotable quote is a writer, an artist or musician, politician or fortune cookie philosopher who laboured over the correct phrasing or came to them in a flash of brilliance.
       They deserve the credit for the deep thought or clever observation. But, these days, they don’t get it.
       Now, I’m not saying that the people I called out are not capable of such profound thought, but it seems they don’t even try. One of them, by simply taking a phrase that has already made its rounds on the Internet, shows how little she was trying to come up with eye-catching content. 
       It’s really too bad.
       Plagiarism is a despicable, duplicitous act. It is ethically wrong, morally reprehensible, spiritually bankrupt, and grounds for dismissal in the halls of academia. It should be a source of shame to anyone who seriously commits such a tasteless endeavor.
       Plagiarism is fraudulent, leaves little to the imagination, and corrupts the concept of free thought. No matter how brave and bold the original work was, it becomes empty of its meaning when it is bastardized.
       I’m not saying that every time you plagiarize a kitten dies, or another COVID-19 variant is released unto the world, for it is more serious than that.  Each time you claim the words of others as your own; you dilute the original message of a fellow human being. At the same time, you weaken your own content.
       Be creative. If there is a point you are trying to make, or you are attempting to inspire or provide insight, use your own words (or give credit where credit is due).
       If you chose to pass along an inspiring quote, be inspired yes, but provide attribution (and don’t just hide it deep down in your content).
       Show you know who said it.
       Show you know what you are talking about.
       Show that creativity is more than a pretty picture and a few happy words.
       Show the true worth of the words.
       You’ll feel better about it.
       Believe in yourself, and others will believe it too.
       Be authentic.
       Be you.