Have you ever been safety-belted way up there in the middle of the air and paused momentarily in your reading, pressed your forehead up against the Plexiglas, peered down at the patchwork diorama of rivers and men, and wondered if anybody down there just might be following the path of this Jumbo Jet crawling (like a Windows desktop cursor) across the sky and wondering your about your Nikes and your barf-bag? I have. It’s the damnest thing, the things I wonder about.
More than half of the time, though, I’m normal. And by normal I mean, you know, just minding my own business, going about the Eight Functions of Life… plus reading, working, watching Netflix, sleeping, remembering things, having meaningless conversations about the weather, etc. But then there’s this other, philosophical me. And no, I’m no philosophy snob. I took some courses in college that basically covered some of the Great Ones, and yeah, I did get hung up for a while on Existentialism like college freshmen everywhere back then. And I’ve done some classical reading over the course of my life. But honestly? At my age, Socrates and Plato don’t carry a lot of relevance for me anymore.
However, my personal investigation into The Meaning of Life is ongoing. It’s not so much that I want it to be. It’s just that I can’t help it. Get a load of this:
According to my brain, I am the center of the universe. I’m not God. I didn’t create me. Or you. But, see, my brain’s got this bright idea that there was only a vacuous void before I came along on that Sunday, Bastille Day, July 14th, 1946 (a.k.a., the Year Zero). But then, come along I did, with a vengeance, and lo, the universe didst begin to take shape. (By the way, the exact center of the universe was 97 Pleasant Street, located in a little hamlet that called itself Dover-Foxcroft (which was not only the center of the universe, but also happened to be the geographical center of the state of Maine in the U.S. of A.). But I’m sure as far as your brain is concerned, the big C of U is more than likely yourself. So it goes. And what are the odds, the two of us in this conversation both happening to be centers of the universe. I know. Of course, we’ve all grown up now and learned that academically (academically, mind you)this cannot be, and is not the case, but nonetheless…
Let’s imagine for a moment that I’m looking east out my window and spy a girl pedaling her bicycle south up South Street. I’m viewing her right profile. She doesn’t know that, of course, because (A) her brain’s not gazing over here toward me, 900 west of her position, and (B) we’ve never met anyway so as far as her brain is concerned, I don’t exist. There is no me. And you can say that about anyone she hasn’t met, or read about yet, or seen on TV. We’re all just ghostly non-entities.
Ooops, wait! Here comes a car this time, tooling down South Street Hill, heading north. Again, from the west, I’m viewing the driver’s side of her/his car. His/her brain is piloting the vehicle. My brain is piloting this HP PC. (What’s your brain piloting?) Her/his brain is the center of his/her universe. He/she knows right where she/he is going. I don’t. It’s not important of the world I’m the center of. He/she knows everything she/he has ever done, known, and learned. (I don’t, and I couldn’t care less). The knowledge is archived in her/his brain on The Complete Neural Map of His/Her World, a unique map that no one else has ever laid eyes on. Just like mine. Like yours.
OK, so where am I going with all this baby talk mumbo jumbo? (See, my brain has intuited that your brain is becoming rather annoyed. And I get it.) So, all right. Here we go.
All I’m saying is that it’s a point of view thing, isn’t it. And we’re stuck with that. It’s like we’re all centers of the big U.
So my small hometown has a population of about 3500. Think about that. Small and insignificant as it is, right now some 3500 ‘centers of the universe’ are out there futzing about at the same time like electrons. But never too preoccupied about it as we’re mostly living in Normal Mode, taking everything for granted, out of sight out of mind. Some pedaling their bicycles, some roaring through town on badass Harleys or rice rockets. Some hauling lumber through town on 22-wheeler pulp trucks. Some are dribbling basketballs, while other are peeking in other people’s windows. Some are going in, as some are going out. Some are just staring up airplanes, wondering, while some are peering down from them. More than a few are smoking weed. It’s a jungle out there. There goes a little old lady walking a beagle. (Is the beagle also a C of U? Well, it’s got a brain so…probably yes.) 3500 individual brains, the center of 3500 universes all in the same tiny town. It’s a point of view thing, sure, but it’s a little mind blowing.
And jeez, consider the bigger picture. Just stream a replay of Woodstock or the Live Aid Concert of 1985 and try to fathom the sheer power and size of those screaming, shoulder-to-shoulder, brain-to-brain, WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU audiences. If you or I were in attendance at either, sure, we’d be overwhelmed but… our individual points of view would still be in charge, wouldn’t they. And the same holds true whether you’re stuck in my little town of Dover-Foxcroft or living among the big city populations: New York, Hong Kong, Mumbai, Cape Town. Regardless of where you are, the person sitting or standing next to you is the Center of the Universe.
See what I mean? Didn’t I warn you that it’s the damnest thing, the things I wonder about? The fault lies in the fact that Poetry ambushed me at an early age. Nursery rhymes at first. Lots of doggerel. Then Bennet Cerf and Ogden Nash. Mad Magazine had something to do with it. But one day back in the early 1970s, and this day is etched in my mind, I was captured as helplessly as a fly in a Venus Fly Trap. A case of the deer in the head lights. I discovered Leonard Cohen. He was just a random page in one of my high school English anthologies. The poem that rat-trapped my brain is…
I Wonder How Many People in This City
I wonder how many people in this city live in furnished rooms. Late at night when I look out at the buildings I swear I see a face in every window looking back at me, and when I turn away I wonder how many go back to their desks and write this down.
Unlike him, I wasn’t staying at The Chelsea Hotel but… did I drift over to a window and look out? Yes. I did. There were windows out there. And I wondered a bit at the souls living behind the panes. And something began happening to my vision. Everything was becoming just a tad… refracted… like the ray of light passing through a clear glass of water. Like a prism.
To me, that kind of poetry was heavy, heady stuff. I was permanently bent.
“What goes on…in your heart?What goes on…in your mind?” –The Beatles
By first grade, I was pretty convinced that whenever I climbed into bed at night and closed my eyes, whatever I was secretly thinking would appear in a cartoon word balloon right above my forehead for my mom to “read,” just like a Beetle Bailey or Dennis the Menace comic strip. And honestly? Some of my thoughts tended to border on being a tad naughty by definition. Spooky how she seemed to always have a pretty good idea what might be going on in my head. She’d often ambush me in the act of some evil family felony, like pilfering one of Uncle Sherman’s left over cigar butts from the guest ashtray. So when she’d slip into my bedroom to say goodnight, I’d surreptitiously tighten all my muscles, ball up my little fists, and strive for only LOUD Sunday school thoughts until she’d leave. Acute Guilt Paranoia.
I went to college and became a high school English teacher, teaching English and American literature and tons of grammar and composition. However, teaching creative writing was my specialty and my passion. I’ve dabbled at becoming a writer myself and, even though my literary output is “small potatoes,” I get a lot of enjoyment out of the pastime.
In my grades 9-12 short story units, I’d get really pumped when we’d work on characterization. “Invent a character,” I’d begin, “in a single 5-sentence paragraph. But in your paragraph, no including your character’s name, height, weight, eye or hair color because… a preacher, a serial killer, and a rock star could share all of those identical attributes. The idea here is to bring out something that really distinguishes the person. So what can you include? What are some observations that reveal something that those stats don’t?” I’d might get corny and sing a line “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you…” or the chorus of the Beatles “What Goes On?” Then, for a springboard… I’d offer up myself as the artist’s model.
“OK. All of you, look at me. Check me out. Who can pin point something personal about me that reveals something, anything that goes beyond the yadda yadda mugshot stats. Don’t be afraid of offending me. I guarantee immunity.”
I’ll never forget the very first time I started with that prompt. Despite my assurances that that there would be no repercussions, it of course took a while to get a response. Then finally, after a tense silence, a mousey girl who almost never let us hear her voice during class discussions surprised me. She had raised her hand. “Tell me whatcha got. Lay it on me…” I said.
“You… have… a dog.”
Whoa! Did I ever do a double take! Totally flummoxed, it took me a few moments to gather my thoughts. before I could respond. (A) I did not own a dog, (B) I had never owned a dog, so (C) how she’d come up with that out of the blue I couldn’t imagine. But there she sat.. Waiting. Smiling brightly. Smiling hopefully. And I immediately realized something about her. She was a dog person.
“I’m guessing a white dog? Or at least partially white.”
“Uhhhmmmm…wow. I mean, well, see… that’s… that’s pretty interesting. I’m totally… surprised. Never in a million years would I have expected that. So… I really hafta ask. What made you say I have a dog?”
Continuing to beam at me, she bravely replied “All those little hairs on your shoulders. And down the front of your shirt.”
“What?”I automatically eyeballed those areas she had identified. Oh crap! Yep. There they were. Busted. How embarrassing! I could sense the class really getting interested in our dialogue. Apparently this quiet mouse of a girl was turning out to be a little Ms. Sherlock Holmes.
My face must have been showing some consternation because she worriedly asked, “What?”
Humbled, trying not to gag too noticeably on my pride, I had to say something. “Man! Man oh man. First of all… relax. You did really well here at zeroing right in on something… very specific. Perfect in fact. Exactly as I asked. Which, I guess, makes you an A+ student for today. Yeah. And I… have a confession I need to make now. No, make that two confessions. One, no, I don’t own a dog. Never have.” I could see I was confusing her. “And two, I’m a little embarrassed. Because…well, I have to own up what this i…”
“You trimmed your beard this morning!” She was right in her TV-quiz-show-contestant-mode glory.
“Bingo,” I conceded lifelessly. “Yeah. The white hairs. In my beard. So, yeah, it appears… I guess… I’m a little vain, aren’t I. Trying to ward off old age with a pair of scissors. Sheesh. But you know… you, youdid a great job here. Spotting something really telling. About me. More than I expected. Or realized. That was… wonderful really.” Yeah. (heh heh) Right.
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Sometimes, since I had no budget, I would take the kids out to the school parking lot on a “poor man’s field trip.” I’d send us all wandering around, checking out all the cars and pick-ups, both students’ and teachers’. The assignment was to take notes on the automobiles’ little give-aways, things that were revealing about the owners or drivers. Bumper stickers. Vanity license plates. Decals. Rust. The kinds of trash littering the car seats and floors, etc. Any way to tell if they were male or female, old or young, wealthy or not so much. They had a field day with my old rust bucket. But it was a fun assignment, I think. Got us out of the classroom anyway.
Back in the classroom I enjoyed creeping them out a little by having them contemplate the proposition that had intrigued me so much as a kid. “Imagine for a moment that there’s this… way to look into a people’s brains and see everything going on inside them. Everything they’re thinking, or have ever thought. Their hopes and dreams. Their fears. Their pain. Their guilt. Who they have their eye on right now (elbow-elbow, nudge-nudge). Could be a some kind of technology… or just ESP. Or…” And then I would confess to them my early childhood fear of Mom knowing my every single naughty thought or idea, and the crazy little cartoon balloons I imagined filled with give-away readable text appearing above my forehead. They’d get a big kick out of that… until I left my desk and slowly began approaching them, getting up close and personal…
“Imagine for minute if you will that each of us has one of those cartoon balloons floating over our heads right now. No wait, instead of cartoon balloons, let’s make that our own personal little Goodyear Blimps, electronically reading out everything that’s going on in those private little vaults we call our brains, OK? And we have no control over what it’s revealing. It’s spilling our guts, on everything we’re thinking. Every thought hanging right out there, front and center for everyone to see, just like clothes drying on an old clotheslines. Imagine! You can look left, you can look right, turn around and look behind you and guess what: no more secrets! Wouldn’t that be fun?”
And by then I’d be standing right in front of the front row, looking down upon all of them… with the Dreaded (oh no…) Personal (oh no!) Eye-Contact. “So, look around at your neighbors. What are we going to learn about Johnny or Roberta? Hmmm? Or… what are we going to learn about…” and here I’d let my eyes travel around the room like the little silver ball on a spinning roulette wheel “…you, Betty!?” The response would be a terrified spastic jerk, a look of shocked embarrassment, and an ‘Eeek! No way!’ “And how about we all take a look at Fred back there. What’ll we find, Freddy? What are you secretly up to these days, eh? (Fred: ‘Jesus!’) Class laughter. Nervous laughter. All fearing it might be them in the spotlight next). After a bit more of the sweaty palms fun, I would add, “Or what about… me?”
And then I’d end by restating my thesis. “People are interesting, not boring, folks. Every single one of us, every face in the crowd. We’re not cookie-cutter cardboard cut-outs here, are we. Not just height, weight, and hair color. When you create your characters, try to imagine what their Goodyear Blimps are hiding. Have fun with them.
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All right. Enough of this reminiscing bullpucky (“bullpucky” being a much-used Colonel Potter word on the TV sitcom M*A*S*H). Time to get on with my intended purpose in creating this blog (which does, by the way, actually relate to the above ramblings).
Quite a few years ago, I was invited to spend two whole days in a second grade classroom, getting to sport an officious little badge that read, “GUEST.” Having garnered a modest reputation as a local writer who had published a number of poems in different magazines, I was there to entertain the little rugrats who were ankle deep in a creative writing unit. What a challenge for a teacher who had spent 34 years dealing only with teenagers. But what fun it was, a really positive adventure for me. At the end of the second and final day, the regular class teacher assigned her students to each write me a personal note, thanking me for visiting and telling me what they had learned as a result of our time together. What a sweet thing. When I got home, I read them all. They were all nice, as you would expect. However one stood out from all the others. It read, “Dear Mister Lyford, What I learned from your visit is that old people can be interesting.” How about that!?
In my 77 years, I’ve self-published 7 books of poetry, 2 memoirs, and a few episodes of a podcast (and yes, self-published, I know. So, not bragging here.) Basically I’m a long-in-the-tooth story-teller who’s gotten tired of his own stories, all of which have been non-fiction by the way. That’s what I was doing in my podcasts too, telling anecdotal stories of my earlier past. The podcast never went anywhere and I do understand why. Primarily it was just another one of my little “adventures,” or hobbies I’ve dabbled in all my life to ward off boredom. The podcasts comprised stories of my long Charlie Brown life.
With podcast publishing, you receive daily viewership counts. Like a lot of hacks, mine were miniscule. Once again, I’d turned out to be just that same old same old, peculiar, local non-phenomenon. My last podcast episode, however, did surprisingly much better. The reason, I believe, is that I’d said to hell with the stories, and instead tried simply taking a “walk” in my own head, to capitalize on what was going on in there. My mind has forever been a behive of thoughts and conversations buzzing so loudly it’s a wonder I can sleep at night. So for that last podcast, I finally ended up with a piece titled I, Robot, an odd philosophical patchwork inspired by many of my favorite artists from Rod Serling to Cole Porter. I’m somewhat proud of that little effort. It was a lot more of a challenge because I didn’t really have a whole plan to begin with. I only knew I wanted to begin by rehashing the plot of one of my favorite old Twilight Zone episodes. After accomplishing that, I just sort of wandered off into the words looking for my path. It felt adventurous to do it that way.
In this effort right here I’m planning to capitalize on being 77, an age I’m amazed I’ve actually reached. Seems unbelievable. And just as I described in my very first blog post, “Unstuck in Time with Billy Pilgrim,” (this one is number 2) I really am being overrun by mini-flashbacks of my escapades in the time-space continuum. And I’ve been feeling a real need to share what I’m “receiving,” from this freight train overloaded with time travel memories, roaring up the tracks from yesteryear. So I want to dedicate this blog to being that guy with the revealing cartoon word balloons floating up and out of his brain like chimney smoke, that vain guy with the sprinkles of tell-tale beard whiskers down the front of his shirt. I want to tattoo “OPEN HOUSE” on my forehead. “MY BRAIN AND WELCOME TO IT.” As Bob Dylan once quipped, “I got a head full of ideas and it’s driving me insane.”Not so many “stories” with beginnings, middles, and ends this time, but…story bytes. Topics and impressions. Remembrances that reflect my brushes with music, literature, poetry, sports, and visual arts, and how they affected me emotionally and helped me grow. Foods? Personalities? Fears? Superstitions? Danger? Evil? All of the above and more. Who knows? The possibilities are endless. But it’s open house…
NEARING THE END OF THE LINE 