P is for Principle, Principal, Politics

“It’s the principle of the matter that matters,” Marcus grumbled, as he sat, head bowed slightly, in a chair facing the principal’s desk.

“What was that you said, Marcus?” The stern voice of Principal Williams reverberated in the massive office.

Marcus hesitated. To remain silent only reinforced the loss of principle, but to speak meant being lashed with suspension for defiance. He couldn’t afford that, not this close to finals and graduation. His parents were worn out with his insistence that principle is more important than the principal, worn out with being called from their jobs to meetings at the school, worn out with pleading for his continued attendance. “He’ll graduate soon and be out of your hair,” they’d said, again and again.

“I’m sorry, Principal Williams.” Marcus spoke clearly this time, even managed to look eye-to-eye with the man seated across the vast, gleaming wood desk. Marcus wondered again at the extravagance the principal invested in the material items of his office. There was the maple desk with cherry inlay, the paintings on the wall – all originals, he’d learned – the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the park-like campus quad and a forest of well-kept trees beyond that.

“Your parents really cannot come in today.” He leaned forward, pointed his fleshy finger at Marcus. “But they are displeased. There will be repercussions at home, young man!” He leaned back. “I’m going to let you go back to your classes now. I hope our next one-on-one encounter is when I hand you your diploma.”

With that dismissal spoken, Principal Williams swiveled his chair away from Marcus and began typing on his computer. Marcus caught a glimpse as he stood to leave. Looked like Facebook to him.

Just like the rest of this school, Marcus thought, hypocritical, their code of conduct flies in the face of what should be their goals.

He shuffled along the hall now filled with students switching classes. They seemed oblivious to the repression of their right to free speech, to express personal opinions about topics discussed in class, about answers in opposition to the ones forced down their throats by tenured, obsolete teachers.

Three more weeks and he’d be on his own, headed for a summer of trekking around Europe, then on to a year with the Kindred Klan. He hadn’t thought much beyond that, hoping he’d figure out how best to fight for his beliefs while exploring the world away from the crooked attitudes of everyone in this town.

“Hey, Marcus – saw your little speech out on the quad this morning! That was good. Do you think anyone else will boycott eating meat in the cafeteria this week? I’m with you, man!”

“Thanks, Terry.” Marcus could always count on Terry’s support, at least in words.

Marcus had been reading about life in the Twentieth Century and honed in on the communal farms, organic gardening. Some of the techniques were just beginning and didn’t blossom until the early part of the next century, but people had a choice.

He wished he could time-travel back to that time. He knew, in principle, that food could no longer be trusted to the elements. Global Warming had severely affected farming, animal husbandry, and the supply of nutrients. Scientists responded by creating alternatives that contained what the human body needed but were artificial.

However, a few years ago, alternative communities began to spring up, growing their own vegetables, raising livestock and chickens from a small colony found in some remote part of Canada. Someone had snuck out old seed stock from a guarded cache and this infuriated the government. “Their defiance is unprincipled!” the media, all government stooges, had proclaimed.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Marcus said, as he walked with Terry down the hall. “Citizens should be allowed the right to choose what they will eat and to demand real food. The government is wrong to call communities like Kindred Klan traitors of the world.”

“Is that still going to be your topic for your final presentation in Social Studies?”

Marcus grinned. Yes, one more round of defiance. After all, it’s the principle of the matter that matters.

***
Today's Poetry:

principles

values

begin early

instilled by parents’ dreams,

children behave, grow prosperous

principled

***

Principles Skewed

hunting season strikes

fear throughout forest families

unnatural deaths

O is for ODE

An Ode to My Muse

In times of shadowed screens you rise

from hidden spaces where you reside

bring poems, tales, some in disguise

dance as my fingers do abide.

Words pour forth, daring scenes unfold

conflict, humor, perhaps a killing,

enhanced by characters mellow to bold

woven into stories sensual, light and thrilling.

This path of words I owe to you

I breathe delight, my joy exude

into the night, we type anew

scene after scene with you accrued.

N is for NOTES

Notes –

as in taking them, in a class, or while listening to your doctor’s spiel on your medical situation, or perhaps composing them as information for the babysitter, housesitter or cleaning crew, and, my favorite, notes made in preparation for your next best-selling novel.

So may ways to use notes, as reminders and triggers and maybe, as I do, in your internet presence. My twitter account is @notablywrite, my email and blog use judybnotes and the title of my blog, of course, Judy’s NW notes.

Music incorporates notes as guides, along with rests, key signatures, rhythm markers, and so much more, but without the notes, would there be ANY music?

However there are numerous other usages for the word ‘note.’ Here are just a few:

-       A promissory Note

-       A security Note

-       A banknote

-       As relates to the scent/fragrance from perfume or wine

Hope you were taking notes today!

**** **** ****

Notes

I waited hours,

or so it seemed,

for a turn with him,

my very busy physician.

Pressed for time, he spoke

like a speeded up recording,

until I pulled out my notepad.

“Wait!” I cried. “Was that surgery

with an ‘e’ or a ‘u’?”

That got his attention, forced

a pause, confusion creasing his brows.

“I need notes,” my explanation resolved.

“Your wisdom speaks volumes to me.

Please, may we review what you said?”

Charmed, he rolled a stool

from its corner spot,

settled down,

looked into my eyes.

“Where shall I begin?” he crooned.

I took very good notes that day.

M is for Music and Motivation

M is for Music and Motivation

Thunderous applause followed Brian’s performance that night. His eyes blinked back tears of joy. With a sweep of his left arm, he took in the band around him; the audience roared its approval. This was a night Brian would remember for the rest of his life.

“Brian! Wake-up. You’re sleeping through your first class again.”

Brian’s dreams dissolved and the pale yellow walls of his rented room floated in as truly awful replacements. “Aw, man. You just killed the best dream.”

“Yeah? Well, there won’t be no dream except of a warm place to live if you get kicked out this term. C’mon. I promised you I’d kick your butt if you fell behind and you are doing that big time.”

Brian ducked his head under his pillow. Without pause, Sanjay ripped the covers and pillow off the bed, then tossed a pitcher of water on Brian’s body.

“Hey! You’re gonna ruin the mattress and I do not have the money to get a new one!”

“Exactly my point. And, believe it or not, I only got you and barely any on the mattress. Just saved you the need to for a shower.” Sanjay tossed a towel at Brian. “Now dry off and get to class. There’s a bag with breakfast and thermos of coffee on the table by the door.”

Brian grumbled, but he’d agreed to all of this in December, when his grades put him on probation. Too much time spent playing music at gigs around town and not enough keeping up with his classwork had landed him in trouble with the college and his dad.

“What’s my first class today, Sanjay?”

“Music theory.”

Now Brian was awake. Today must be Wednesday and that meant seeing Megan. If he hurried, he could maybe share some coffee with her before class or at least convince her to meet with him for coffee later. Or maybe lunch, a study break, tutoring, a jam session. Except he had nowhere to play music anymore, not since his folks locked him out until his grades improved.

Still, spring was coming and they could play their guitars outside or in the subway. He already knew he loved Megan, wanted her to join his band, a band that only existed in his dreams.

“I’m on it, man.”

He was dressed and out the door in a flash, guitar over one shoulder, backpack over the other. Just like in his dream, running out onto the stage, crowds cheering and his face filled with a huge smile.

*** ***

Today's Poem, a cinquain

his dream

music

dances within,

returns enhanced, rhythms

draw crowds, young musician beams, heart

drums joy

L is for Lucky Days and Languish

Leroy’s lucky day landed on Friday, the thirteenth of April. First call of the morning brought good news. His application for admittance to the new factory located between Earth and Mars was accepted. The only hitch: he was the replacement for a worker scheduled to take the next shuttle out who was unexpectedly dismissed for causes they preferred to not discuss. The shuttle’s departure was Sunday and he needed to arrive that afternoon for training.

“This afternoon? We leave Sunday?”

“Is this going to be a problem, Leroy? Because, if it is, we have a long list of applicants ready to jump on that shuttle.”

“No, no,” Leroy quickly added. “I just thought I’d need a bit more preparation before flying. You know, getting used to the change in atmosphere and all.”

“The application states that you’ve been working with WASP. Was that a mistake?”

WASP, Workers’ Aero-Space Program, trained young men and women for long-term employment in industries whose products were made faster and cheaper in the low gravity of space. Several space cities had sprung up over the past few years and WASP prepared most of their employees and citizens.

“No, sir.” Leroy began to sweat. He needed this job, his rent was due tomorrow and he had nothing left in his bank account to cover it. “I just thought there would be some additional training before a departure. I’m ready to go right now, sir.”

“Good, good. Drive to Gate “L” and the guard will provide further instructions. Be here by eleven. We have a lunch training session at noon.”

After hanging up the phone, Leroy pulled out his training notebook. This notebook contained all the instructions regarding the distribution, disposal or storage of his belongings, any financial accounts he might currently have and, of course, his body, should that become an issue in the future. As part of his training with WASP, he’d been required to obtain notarized agreements with friends and others willing to handle these issues with little warning. Today was the day to put the wheels in motion. He called his brother, Jack.

“Jack, it’s time. My application was accepted and I leave in an hour.”

His brother didn’t say much. “Safe journey. I’ve got you covered down here. Skype us when you arrive.”

And that was that. Leroy sighed, surprised he felt a tinge of sadness at the departure. After all, this was his dream, wasn’t it?

Will Leroy Languish far from home? .... To Be Continued

L – languish

One hard, black plastic

ramp, angled, at rest

in casual conversation

with the back fence.

In close proximity,

unobtrusively eavesdropping,

an old wooden planter,

wearing a green-moss jacket,

head sprouting tendrils

of wicked weeds.

Too distant to catch

all the words whispered

by the ramp,

waits a yellow wheelbarrow,

sides somewhat rusted

in spots where age

cannot hide its presence,

the cost of plastic surgery

beyond her bank balance.

All hope the homeowner

won’t notice them

as spring’s warmth

entices her outside,

they scan the back door

with a wary eye, attempt

camouflage. It worked

last year, spared them

transport and transformation

from casual backyard residents

to junkyard dogs.

K-day / Kalla's story, a preview

The darkness continued long past sun’s rising. Kalla knew she must not hesitate. Each day, the sun remained shadowed into the late morning hours. Soon it would not appear at all. Unless she completed her mission. She must kill Jarmin Lucas.

The lands of Serena Dubar were lush, vibrant until Jarmin arrived four years ago. Before his arrival, the people wanted for nothing. All the food, security, comforts of life surrounded them and the people respected their environment.

Jarmin was different. His family ruled Modar, a harsh land kept productive through evil means. The people were repressed unless part of the ruling class. Until five years ago, a vast canyon and ocean separated the two lands and each remained distinct. Jarmin was second in line for the rule of his lands and jealous of his brother’s future. His own grew more uncertain when it became known that his own birth was unnatural, that he was a half-breed. The family kept him to protect the secret. When his mother died, all of that changed and he became nothing better than a servant to his father’s demands.

Determined to prove himself, he fled the country, risked his life to cross the barriers to Serena Dubar, a mythical land of vast resources that most believed was purely fiction. To his great delight and the ruination of Serena Dubar, he found her (for that was how everyone referred the their land, in Serena Dubar. “She” was their guardian and benefactor.)

At first, the people welcomed Jarmin Lucas, taught him their ways. But when he trained in the magic of the healers, his dark heart took charge. In the power of the healer’s magic, he determined he would develop the power for revenge upon his homeland. Instead, something went wrong and his dark powers were unleashed upon the lands and skies of Serena Dubar.
--- ---

Night seeks his slumber

sun rises in gold raiment

birds sing harmony

shadows linger long

sun’s raiment torn asunder

wolves howl in dismay
***

J-day / Jaunty

The letter ‘J’ could be an easy letter to blog about, but words are not rolling off my fingers today as I improvise my blog entry. The shape of the letter reminds me of a hook, such as one needs at the beginning, to entice a reader to continue on through the blither and blather of thoughts, tales, or poetic musings that will follow. And here I am, sitting at the beginning with no hook in sight – unless you count that bait-less little curve on the “J” up there at the top of the page.

The word Jaunty came to mind as I typed through a few J-words on wordwebonline. Here’s a word we don’t read too often now, its essence more a part of past cultures than our present references for dapper, dashing, natty, raffish, rakish, spiffy, spruce, and pert – all related words for dressing in an up-dated, stylish manner (per wordwebonline).

Today, those with fashion sense – well, they just know how to be connected to a world of clothing and textiles that tends to baffle me. I’m not a fashion diva, have always been at least a few years behind, sometimes managing to have the fashion cycles catch back up with me! Those years are nice, because without changing my wardrobe, I’m “in style” though it never lasts, and I don’t tend to change, so it’s back to being “me” and not “in style.”

Jaunty also references a sense of lively spirit and that I CAN relate to. This is a sense of being animated, fully alive to all the nuances of each day, seeing the sun behind the clouds and the positives in a rainy day. I think the word summarizes the kind of confidence in self and life that enables a person to pursue their passions, not find failure when glitches arise, but rather find stepping stones to the next page, the next idea, the next pursuit. As a writer, I would use “jaunty” to describe some of my more engaging characters even if it is a word that has a few readers scratching their heads, wondering, “Jaunty?”  Try it on for size. You might just find the essence fits you to a “T” whether “in style” or not.

 Jaunty Fashions

Tanned bodies

no longer in high regard,

today’s fashion experiment

flows on bodies

in black or colored inks.

From top of the head,

along necks, arms,

backs, abdomens

and legs, life stories

blossom in bold detail.

Pierced parts punctuate

like phrase outlines,

dance in gleaming silver,

diamond studs, or large,

hooped or dangling designs.

Clothing accentuates

accessorized bodies

and not the other way around,

flowing vests

over silk shirts,

arms visible, backs open,

material minimized

whenever possible.

Pity the over fifty crowd,

in search of jaunty attire,

the styles of youth

an outlandish statement

on most mature physiques.