Sunday Mourning

Sunday Mourning

I have spent my life
striving to arrange words
into stories that revealed
small truths about
our common human
experience.

When I began,
I thought this work
was important and
noble, work with
significant consequences.

As an old man,
I'm not so sure.
I know some have
responded to my
work, but by and large
I can't say the world is
a better place for
my having written.

I don't doubt the work.
I have never doubted
my work. But I doubt
its relevance in this
consumer culture
in which I find myself.

A critic once called me
"one of Oregon's most
precious natural resources"
which sounded flattering
until I remembered how we
treat the environment.

I used to tell myself
that the worth of my work
would emerge more widely
after my death but now
this too has the sour
after-taste of delusion.

I made many sacrifices
on behalf of my work.
Were they made in vain?
I'm not the first to ask.
I won't be the last.

The Wallowa County Who-Who

The Wallowa County Who-Who

The Portland Review, 2000

By Charles Deemer

No one knows when the first spotted owls alighted in Wallowa County. Normally the endangered species preferred the milder climate of old growth forests in Oregon’s coastal range to rugged mountains more fit for a goat, where winter could last three-fourths of the year. Their arrival was not expected, and by the time the owls were discovered in Joseph, they were already there in great and public numbers.

            Mayor Divorak saw them first. He had come to City Hall shortly after five a.m. on Monday to catch up on paperwork before the morning’s emergency session of the City Council. An emergency meeting was no small matter; usually the Council hardly had reason to meet at all. But the Nez Perce had hired a fancy lawyer from Portland to challenge the city’s plans, initiated by the mayor himself, to develop the north end of Wallowa Lake into a resort and marina. Lord knows something had to be done to revitalize the Eastern Oregon economy. The trouble was, the land in question was adjacent to the grave of old Chief Joseph, on land the Nez Perce regarded as sacred. If the Council went through with its plans, the tribe’s lawyer threatened, the case would be taken all the way to the Supreme Court. This was not the way Mayor Divorak wanted to put Joseph on the map.

            Who owns the land?, was the question on the mayor’s mind that morning. 

......

read the rest at:  http://www.ibiblio.org/cdeemer/whowho.htm

A favorite early short play (1975)

The Stiff

a farce in one act

by Charles Deemer

THE CAST (4M, 2W):

President John Jones, the leader of the people

Mrs. Eunice Jones, his wife

Chi Chi, his mistress

Neck, the mortician

Charles, his assistant

Dr. Alberts, the doctor

THE TIME:

Any time

THE PLACE:

A back room in the Public Hall in a foreign country.

THE SET:

Upstage center is a table on which is a casket. A window, upstage left, looks out upon the square. Entrance into the room is stage right. Modest furnishings: this is the room in which the corpses of public figures are kept before being put on display to the people.

(AT RISE: DR. ALBERTS has his back to the audience, inspecting a body in the casket. Waiting expectantly are MRS. JONES, NECK and CHARLES. Mrs. Jones, who is in mourning, is dressed in black. She holds a black lace handkerchief over her sobs. The doctor turns and moves away from the casket.)

NECK: Well, doctor?

DR. ALBERTS: Your suspicions are correct. I find the organ to be tumescent.

(Mrs. Jones breaks into tears.)

......read the rest at.....http://www.ibiblio.org/cdeemer/stiff.htm

A favorite early story

The Thing at 34-03-15N, 118-15-23W

The Colorado Quarterly (Spring, 1969)

Charles Deemer


Falling into the generation gap, I miss Willie Mays' home run

I CAN HEAR THEM out there. They are, to ignore the language's index of elasticity, dancing. And they are dancing with each other, I am asked to believe, although the fact of the matter is that when I left the patio they were exhibiting their individual spasms of ecstasy over a separation of six to twelve feet. Now I ask you: is that dancing together? I will admit that they are — for lack of a better word — involved. Yes, they are involved. They are so involved that they neglect to admire the new patio, the excuse for this party in the first place. I finished it last Wednesday, designing and building the whole thing myself, setting it into a three-colored form of a navigator's compass, at the center of which a brass plate marks the exact location of the patio: 34 degrees, 3 minutes, 15 seconds north, 118 degrees, 15 minutes, 23 seconds west. Having been a navigator in the Navy during the war, I made that measurement precisely. Myself.
I retreated thirty minutes ago. I did not leave for the specific purpose of watching the ballgame. This I would have sacrificed in order to be an attentive host, but frankly it is impossible to be any kind of host, attentive or indifferent, unless one has guests. Whatever these kids today may be, delinquents, revolutionaries, or spoiled nouveaux riches (Jim tends toward the latter), they certainly are not guests. They rather are like some of my bloodsucking relatives, who expect everything they ask for immediately and for nothing. No, they need no host out there. Whatever they need, they need no host.

-----read the rest at http://www.ibiblio.org/cdeemer/thing.htm

Medicine

Medicine

The trouble with medicine today
is that no doctor wants death
on his watch, engaging the latest
technology to keep the dying alive,
a triumph of cure over care.

The trouble with medicine today
is that death is considered abnormal,
a failure of treatment, rather than
the last act of a life for the aged,
a celebration, a curtain call.

The trouble with medicine today
is that too many doctors are deaf
to the cry of patients who feel like
guinea pigs and seek comfort, seek
the triumph of care over cure.

Sad but true

Adjunct professors are the new working poor http://zite.to/180kZqc

I've been lucky and atypical, largely because the university came to me, not the other way around. A happy adjunct for almost 20 years. What a concept.

But by and large, adjuncts are second class teachers.

Reality 101

Reel Story: If You Want A Screenwriting Agent, You Need To Read This http://zite.to/180kLiJ

Old Age

Old Age

Old age is like walking
through a mine field
on a sunny day
under a blue sky
when the world is perfect
as long as you stay lucky
and avoid the step that
will blow up the beauty
of the day and change
the world forever. Old age
is a crap shoot without
a winning pot, a contest
to determine who loses
the least and survives
to tell the tale. Old age,
thy name is written
on a steamed mirror
and disappears quickly.
Old age is what you wish
on your enemy. On your friend,
you wish a natural death.

At Marie's Memorial

From In My Old Age ...

At Marie’s Memorial

I stand as still as a corpse and stare at photos,

Playbills, cast lists of forgotten plays

On abandoned stages. If the wages of death is love,

Then love fills this room. But in the corner,

Lurking like a naughty child, is more sadness

Than I want to feel. All the years of the past,

Dripping memories like rank fruit, rot

And fertilize the heart of this place.

So much has changed.

So much has been forgotten.

A lesson earned is not a lesson learned:
Those times were good -- and never can return.

f

A new poem

Thoughts While Listening To The Four Freshmen

Sometimes it feels as if the world
is filled with unrequited longing,
which is made invisible by the noisy
dust of everyday commerce; that the subtext
of existence is neither dusty nor noisy
but a profound longing to be lying side
by side in the dark silence with a companion
in deepest connection, where nothing needs
explanation or reason, where the line between
here and there, you and me, has vanished
in the rhythm of common breath.

Sometimes it feels as if sleep
is the gift of wisdom.

The Tourist

From In My Old Age ...

The Tourist

I feel like a tourist

without a destination

which is to say

where I am isn't home

where I'm going

isn't clear

waiting for the bus

that never comes

leaving me to do

what I do well

which is to amuse

myself in solitude

To live in the world

From Sodom, Gomorrah & Jones ...

CJ is sent to a shrink after the death of his wife.

“You can't fix what was bothering me when Helen was still alive,” CJ told Dr. Peters. “It's larger than all of us. You couldn't fix it then and you can't fix it now. You can either ignore it, or fill your life with distractions from it, or accept the fact that we live in a culture based on lies and deceit and betrayal. But how do you deal with that? You know what I think? I think the smartest among us, the most sensitive among us, can't accept it at all and that's why they're locked up in the loony bins. Insanity may be the only true response to all this shit. We lock up our best people. We punish the truly sane people in the country, the ones who see through all the shit and can't stand it.”

And later ...

 CJ cleared his throat and tried. Why was he so nervous? He continued.“Take something that hits close to home. The political assassination of President Kennedy. That's what it amounted to. A political coup.”

"You really think so?”

The doctor seemed surprised.

CJ said, “There is no doubt there were front entry wounds. Every doctor who first saw the body said so, before the body was doctored to hide them. For Christ's sake, a cop walking behind the car was splattered with brain matter! Many people saw smoke, smelled gun powder, at the grassy knoll. This isn't made up. This is what witnesses saw. Front entry wounds mean more than one shooter. Which means a conspiracy.”

CJ stopped. He realized he was shaking.

“That was a long time ago. What about all this is upsetting you today?” the doctor asked.

CJ stood up.

“Why the hell aren't you upset? Why the hell isn't everyone upset? They overthrew your government, for God's sake! How can you live your life as if nothing had happened?”

There was a long pause.

“Maybe this is a good place to stop,” said Dr. Peters. “Is the same time next week convenient to you?”

CJ took a deep breath.

“There is no next time, doc. I'm out of here.”

Old Couples

From In My Old Age ...

Old Couples

I envy old couples

who were young together

who can see through

wrinkles and flab

and find the young

firm and innocent

bodies full of wonder

full of wonder

whose aged minds

still see mysteries

whose aching limbs

embrace like young

lovers

Prayer

From In My Old Age ...

Prayer

thank you, gods

for another morning

in my old age

now for a moment

I can forget

how angry Nature is

and justly so

at human insolence

arrogance and greed

now for a moment

I can forget

impending disaster

I can scratch the dog

I can feed the birds

and enjoy the morning

and most of all

appreciate the gift

of my old age

and thank you again

that I am not

younger than I am

New book

 A Majority of One, my new book of poems, will be published Oct. 26 by Round Bend Press, my 5th book with them. To a degree, it reads like a last book. We'll see.

Rx

It never ends. There's no way to stop it. All you can do is ignore it hope for the best and try to live your life as if as if as if

Explanation

An old man's thoughts
if publicly revealed
would provide evidence for
a dark comic core
at the foundation of
human experience.

This is why old men
prefer to shut up
and instead mumble
to themselves with
private jokes that
crack them up.

This is why old men
are dangerous.

New book

  Round Bend Press will publish A Majority of One: Poems 2012-3 on October 26, which is my 74th birthday. Also alma mater v. alma mater on the grid iron, UCLA (BA) v. Oregon (MFA).

Magic Wand

If I had a magic wand I'd wave it once and all religions would disappear. No churches, no sects, no priests, no sacred texts. But there would be reverence and awe for the universe, a mystery so profound that life was driven by respect for it. If I had a magic wand I'd wave it twice and sex would change humans would reproduce with a mating cycle. Out of the cycle sexual energy would be diminished reduced to a handshake, a hug casual contact that did not inspire armies or create jealousies and revenge. If I had a magic wand I'd wave it thrice and couples would mate for life as friends infidelity a betrayal of friendship and rare because friends cannot be replaced with casual relationships friends are soul mates to be treasured as part of the mystery of existence. If I had a magic wand I'd wave it four times and progress would become a dirty word because it is linear and growth is cyclical. Change happens in a context of mystery, not something to be figured out but celebrated in song and poetry in behavior and making love in gratitude and awe. If I had a magic wand I'd wave it again and again.

A Metaphor For My Life

Each morning before sunrise
I move through the dark house
in small, careful steps
trying not to bump into anything
trying not to knock over anything
and gaining no confidence whatever
from the hundreds and hundreds of times
I've done this before

End Game Anxiety

How much more pleasant my present would be if my future were not filled with such possibility for stress and conflict and alienation. Maybe the gods will intervene and once again give me gifts I don't deserve, in this case my own Get Out Of Jail Free card a quick clean painless passing but probably not. Instead I'll get some eventually terminal disease that my doctor will combat with all the latest wonders and the prognosis will be good and bad and good again in this medical dance that has become the American way of death, which I'm expected to embrace, of course in this age of medical miracles. Stop the presses! I ain't dancing. Once the music begins, once the ending is clear, I'm leaving the party - and leaving really pissed because I'm not getting the party I deserve the party we all deserve. Death should be institutionalized as a celebration of life. Throw me a farewell wake, make me the guest of honor as we celebrate my deeds and my family and friends my joys and my blessings, celebration and gratitude so my passing gets put in proper perspective. Then let medical supervision make sure I pass just as a gift of the gods would have it. But no, if I leave the party, the American way of death, I leave alone, like some feared rodent, some killer of precious ideologies, some crazy man who must retreat into an isolated corner to take care of business as best I can without support, without good wishes, bang bang, and what should have been a celebration becomes an ugly mess that somebody has to clean up. Lew Welch was right. e. e. cummings was right. Lord Byron was right. D. H. Lawrence was right. And I'm right, too.

Morning and Night

I love the mornings and I hate the nights.

I rise before the solar light

has reached the sky, before the race

to cut a deal has turned the grace

of silence into noise, the horns,

the brakes, the angry shouts of scorn.

I rise as all my neighbors sleep.

I don't know what it is that keeps

me thinking of the past, a time

when poverty was not a crime

(since buying now defines the man

and life is an installment plan).

I know this longing has no use,

this melancholy no excuse.

Who thought the blessing of old age

would be to miss a future page

on which is written terrible news

of suffering and paying dues?

You couldn't pay me to be young.

The race is run. The songs are sung.

I love the mornings, and I hate the nights.

The Writing Life II: Tentative suspicions

The Writing Life II: Tentative suspicions:

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In my present mindset

In my present mindset I can't remember much about those distant days when I laughed so much more than I laugh today. I never paid attention to the news or events in the world my universe was very close at hand my friends the actors who performed whatever mattered. My friends are dead. The news ignored them but took their place with nothing to laugh at.

Untitled

 Thinking about death
 is running in place
 in the marathon of life

The Horrors of Self-Promotion | The Passive Voice

The Horrors of Self-Promotion | The Passive Voice | Writers, Writing, Self-Publishing, Disruptive Innovation and the Universe:

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Hard To Believe

I find it hard to believe that this world
has always been as screwed up as it is
today and it's the media alone that make
everything so visible to us now.

I find it hard to believe that the entire
history of mankind is one of ignorance,
arrogance, cruelty, greed and gullibility,
which is what the media tell us endlessly,
24/7, ad nauseam, "and now the news."

I find it hard to believe that you and I
can't sit down and have a civil conversation
despite whatever differences in politics,
religion and life-philosophy we may have.

I find it hard to believe that I am writing this
with considerable doubt and wishful thinking
but I am.

POLITICIANS

POLITICIANS I met a 90 year old woman who told me she quit voting for politicians on her 76th birthday and wishes she had done it earlier. When I asked her why, she grinned and said, "I don't want to encourage them."

Zero Sum Universe

Yes, the odds are good that a suicide bomber is making intolerance destructive across the sea somewhere, and closer to home, even more likely, a college girl is raped and her neighbor the wife beaten to a pulp by her death do us part husband and let's not forget the children in refugee camps hundreds of thousands dying of malnutrition nor forget the laughing couple whose laughter is interrupted by the attacking drone overhead and all this just scratches the surface of our worldly horrors; so please keep these in mind when I tell you that I walked out onto my deck this morning under a stunning blue sky and took a deep breath and counted my blessings and thought, What a beautiful morning! It's great to be alive! It's great to be alive!

The Writing Life II: Amazon.com: Emil's Last Adventure (Stories In Overdrive)

The Writing Life II: Amazon.com: Emil's Last Adventure (Stories In Overdrive):

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Lesson

 I'm an old man and I'm tired and I'm disgusted
 with human affairs. But Sketch our rat terrier
 doesn't disgust me and the butterflies that returned
 to our bush this summer don't disgust me, nor
 the birds at the feeders off our deck. D. H. Lawrence
 said all this more eloquently than I can in a poem
 about living with animals, and I get some comfort
 that my disgust is not a personal hallucination.
 Sartre said hell is other people, which I believe
 is true, but heaven is too. The obvious lesson
 is be careful who you hang with. Very careful.

Eden

No matter what the day brings it begins here and now at 4 a.m. in silence as comforting as breath the mind without distraction the streets empty, the dogs asleep only thought alive in reflection of good fortune, of past blessings enjoyed before the engines start the lights come on, the dogs bark and day begins here where noise and frantic action drive the hour and no one knows how to be still.

Nature's Mercy

Nature's fierce response to what cummings called our prodding prurient fingers may be a blessing in disguise, a distraction from the bleeding soul of a divided nation, an external violence that keeps us from tearing one another apart, letting us rush to extinction as united enemies, the Mother of all Ironies, final proof that God has a dark sense of humor. R.I.P. Amen.

A poem comes to mind

Nostalgia

With violent chaos in Cairo

a gigantic cyclone in Australia

monster winter storms across the U.S.

all on the news tonight

(Yes the revolution will be televised)

I think how nice it must have been

to be outside on that distant afternoon

working in the field on my farm

in the recent state of Oregon

all cares underfoot

when a wagon approaches

a neighbor visiting

and I walk to the wagon

where the neighbor says

Did you hear the news?

which I had not

so he tells me

President Lincoln was shot!

President Lincoln is dead!

and I can hardly believe it

and ask when? how?

Last month

the neighbor begins ...

Maybe the shock of the world

Mayb the shock of the world is how much good will is found in the deeds of those who refuse to embrace the inevitable decline of the planet. As if on the deck of the Titanic an old man drops his wallet and a young boy, seeing what happened, retrieves and returns it, sinking ship be damned, because this is the right thing to do. As if death is no reason to compromise life and a sinking ship is just a sinking ship.

Second Life

It really feels good, giving all these stories I created 20 years ago as screenplays a new life in a modified form as Stories In Overdrive. The experiment is one month old and going better than I expected so far. Long way to go, of course. A marathon. But I'm hopeful that I have something unique, and maybe even important, going here. We'll find out ha ha.

The Writing Life II: Perseverance

The Writing Life II: Perseverance:

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Marathon

 This Overdrive project, which I've called a marathon, also is like doing everything in slow motion, certainly when compared to the obsessive sprinting of my youth. Still adjusting.

Is Using a Free Ebook Still a Viable Strategy for Increasing Overall Sales on Amazon? | The Passive Voice |

Is Using a Free Ebook Still a Viable Strategy for Increasing Overall Sales on Amazon? | The Passive Voice | Writers, Writing, Self-Publishing, Disruptive Innovation and the Universe:

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Celebration

 The best way to celebrate the 4th
 is to treat vets with care
 the rest of the year.