Irascible

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. said, "Laughter and tears are meant to turn the wheels of the same machinery of sensibility; one is wind-power, and the other water-power."

I was reflecting upon my irascible nature and sharpening my scythe tonight, when I realized how much I need laughter to bring focus to my existence and keep my ego from making my Scottish/Irish head any bigger. Laughter truly is the seasoning for the sauce of my tears, and leaven for defense against fears. Yet, the deep recognition of the sheer absurdity of so much of my story drives me toward my role as curmudgeon.

Mick

Irascible

Laughter drives the turbines of life,
And lives as wind in the sails of our souls;
Diverting quiddity of strife -
Setting the pace for the race to our goals.
Ere this sanguine mythology
Descends around my sleek spiral newel -
Seeking dramatis personae,
And reaching for the nubilous jewel -
Tears turn the wheels that close the door,
Sealing its touch away from me,
And yet I fall upon the floor -
Remaining in certain propinquity.
Laughter reveals my role as a gudgeon,
And that's why I am such a curmudgeon!


Mick McKellar
March 2009

The Joy of Uncertainty

Only the madman is absolutely sure. -Robert Anton Wilson, novelist (1932-2007)

I had a flash-back the other day. I was listening to students in a classroom, and I became aware of their absolute certainty about their futures. They talked as if they had a road map to success and were preparing to take the expressway toward a city with golden streets. As I listened, I was distracted by echoes from my past -- resonance of hopes, dreams, and certainties in what seemed another life, another time and place far removed -- a time when I saw a wide sweep of pavement, a broad and welcoming path leading toward the expected blessings of an assured future. Nothing would be there to stop me and nothing would deflect me from my path or cause me to stumble in my journey.

Reality, of course, told (and tells) a different tale -- a tale of roadblocks, dams, rocks and rubble, oceans of uncertainty and trouble -- what counselors euphemistically call challenges. Life is uncertain. Often, it is the unwanted journey of the unwilling toward the unknown, and it is not for the faint of heart or those who simply do not wish to pay attention. For me, the solution to thriving and surviving was finding out and accepting the truth about who and what I am, and becoming hungry to find out what I will be. Once I know me, it matters not what the challenges be, for I revel in the challenges that come to me, and I can find joy in uncertainty.

Mick

The Joy of Uncertainty

I am naught but the stream seeking the sea -
There's nothing remarkable about me.
Though obstacles mount to restrict and dam,
I can be nothing more than what I am,
And I rush down the winding cataract.
I then become light that none can refract;
A captive reflection, now on the lamb,
And I'm still nothing more than what I am.
The sun warms my face as I walk the road;
The rain cools my brow as I bear my load;
The wind at my back drives me, as a cam
That steers me toward nothing more than I am.
My life is path of uncertainty,
Leading what I am to what I will be.

Mick McKellar
March 2009

I Didn't Want to be Welcome

I am not certain what I expected when I signed up to substitute teach. Oh, I knew that it is not really "teaching" by official rules — in Michigan, that requires certification and credentials that I (unfortunately) do not have. However, my general expectations were designed about a self-constructed classroom image, based on my days as a student, my time spent teaching at university, and my years as a trainer and lecturer. I generally expected NOT to be a welcome sight to the students. I expected uncertainty and something of a let-down on the part of the students.

I had not planned on my new role as "fresh meat."

I remembered wanting to learn in school...a distant memory clouded by all the angst and relationship anxiety that permeated high school life...but I was certain I wanted to learn. I admit, I was unprepared for the malicious grins on so many faces and the feral light in some eyes. I wasn't there to teach, to discipline, or to babysit — I was the day's entertainment — a new puzzle to probe and solve. For a few moments, all was quiet on the western front. When I failed to break into song and dance, the testing began — and it was me being tested. When I failed to collapse or give in to outlandish requests (One does have to let them go to the loo, right?), but pursued the absent teacher's instructions to the letter; they began to shut down. Some participated and worked together (a bit louder than normal, but, hey I was a sub after all), but many just put a head on the desk and checked out. Some talked quietly, some sneaked food and drink when I was not looking, but many just "checked out," for the hour. I didn't want to be welcome, but I also didn't want to be superfluous.

Mick

I Didn't Want to be Welcome

Their eyes cheered when they saw my face,
And I marveled at their musical grace,
As they danced, seeking borders to cross -
And battlegrounds to scout and boss.
I heard the critical rustle and hush,
As things academic turned to mush;
Leaving each muse both gagged and blind,
And recess flagged in every mind.

I whithered at their gleeful stares,
And shuddered at the baleful glares,
Of those who quickly sensed fresh meat -
Already tasting the salty and sweet.
As aye, for each here was the rub...
This day we have a brand new sub!

A neophyte, I'd thought to find,
Behind each pair of eyes, a mind
Perhaps prepared to take a test -
An intellect charged and now at rest;
But coiled to spring, when on the nonce
It perceived ideas, to ensconce
Within a frame of lightning thought -
And logic's lattice swiftly wrought.

But as they hie from assigned seat,
And drive class order toward retreat,
And seek to probe my armor's chinks,
I slowly see what each one thinks -
And distressed, I comprehend
That learning has come to an end,
And testing of our wills holds sway -
At least, on this, a subbing day.

As class disruptors crash and burn,
I feel for those who want to learn;
But culturally powerless,
They watch, as with each little mess
The unrepentant terrorists,
Slash their academic wrists,
And practice, in their childish way,
To waste another precious day.

Once they learn they cannot go,
And rules, unchanged, they must follow;
Their energy seems to deplete -
They sink into their assigned seat.
Their eager eyes grow guarded, veiled,
And thoughts once free are swiftly jailed.
Those who planned their thoughts to vent,
Are silent now, and reticent.

It's fortunate that, (at least to some)
I didn't want to be welcome.

Mick McKellar
February 2009

Come UP

It is my deepest wish that folks who look through the lens of opportunity aim that lens at Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

Born in Detroit, I have lived in the Western U.P. since 1967 — a long love story with a place that still echoes in many ways what the world was like when it was new and unspoiled. Age 59 and once again out of work due to economics, I still have hope that the secret treasures of Michigan and especially the U.P. will be discovered.

In that vein, I offer the following, which streamed from my virtual pen this morning as part of my daily exercises in keeping a positive attitude.

Mick

Come UP

You want bright blue waters to see -
Clean beaches to run safe and free?
You want a place your kids can thrive -
To celebrate that you’re alive?
You want great country, sweet and green -
With vistas like you’ve never seen?
You want vast forests, strong and tall -
With resources enough for all?
You want great people, friendly, fair -
And oceans of clean sparkling air?
Don’t say you can’t find these things, man -
Say, “Yes I can…in Michigan!”

And please, don’t stop with just the mitt -
Don’t think that’s the extent of it.
Look up to find the things I saw -
Beyond the straits of Mackinaw.
Beyond the Mighty Mac you’ll find
A treasure of the richest kind:
Untapped riches wait your sight -
Often dressed in winter white,
Or in summer’s velvet green,
With deepest blue you’ve ever seen!
The friendly folk who fill that place,
Are blessed with heart and health and grace.
Come find these things, you know you can…
Come UP to Upper Michigan!

Mick McKellar
February 2009

Secrets and Revelations

It is now after midnight. January has flown and February is howling at my window. The bitterly cold air that hisses and whistles past the pane of glass and shakes the screen sings its icy song to my heart. The heart-song of the winter wind reverberates among the empty caverns of my heart — caverns once filled with determination, with purpose, and with trust — caverns that were emptied, day by day, as hard-won trust melted slowly away — trust stolen by secrets and destroyed upon their revelation.

Secrets lie hidden in the darkest corners of our minds and our souls. They gnaw at the foundations of our facades, so that cracks appear, apparent to any and all who care to see. Information withheld cannot be seen directly, but its absence leaves a rip in the fabric of our lives.

There lurked a secret, darkly indistinct and murky behind the suddenly changed behavior of those I thought friends. None would reveal it, so my imagination filled in dark shadows and told me a tale, sang me a song that told of lost trust and doubtful integrity. It sang to me of friendship lost and silence where once banter bloomed. It sang to me of discouragement and disappointment. It sang to me a terrible story and spread a new gospel of distrust. Two months this tune played until the final chorus ended the long nightmare by reducing all to simple figures on a spreadsheet.

A fitting end, perhaps, to a sad tale of terrible secrets and abrupt revelation, seasoned only with anguish and angst.

Mick

Secrets and Revelations

I interviewed my aching heart:
A long and brutal interview that knifed through tissue soft and tender.
What horror had I said or done?
What gaff had altered all abruptly,
Flipped upside-down my life and tossed it in a blender?

When conversations ended mid-word, as I sailed past a room's threshold;
When shuttered eyes and shut-up hearts failed to return my greetings;
When luncheon plans flowed all around, yet invisible, I was forgotten;
When messages failed to reach me -- about important meetings;
I felt a sudden disconnect -- a vein pulled roughly from my arm,
Severing the umbilical which tied me to their hearts.

Bleak, my eyes sought answers, hard to bear, but harder to ignore.
None would meet the silent gaze that desperation fuels.
The soft patina of respect, which shone so warmly from my friends,
Had dimmed un-looked-for suddenly, as though it died a-borning...
The comfortable arms of trust that daily hugged me as I toiled,
Pushed me far, and farther still away each bitter morning.
Months of cold and bitter angst, furiously fueled and tended,
Wrought leaden darkling winter clouds upon each solitary day.

Until with vacant, eager eyes,
Spectres of my dark daydream snatched that future from my grasp --
And took that life away.
I did not cry for sudden loss, but for lack of simple care,
And for empty words and eyes that haunted my long nightmare.

Mick McKellar
February 2009

My Father's Son

I'm wrestling with ghosts at the moment...the voice of my Dad, actually — constantly in my head, reminding me that I have a single, overriding obligation: to support my family. That there is a sacred trust that comes with marriage and kids, and failure is NOT an option. It's a Celtic thing. I've never filed for unemployment benefits before and it feels like...failure.

My wife and I have four grown children, and like most parents I have met, I feel certain that they never listened to a single word of advice we uttered. Children seem bent on making their own mistakes and learning everything the hard way. Yet, even at 59 years and growing, I can still hear the voices of my Dad and my Mom, and I take some hope in that.

My father (the dedicated fisherman pictured here) was a strong and stern man. He was a bit scary until you got to know him. Even his closest friends told me that they were initially put off by his gruff facade. There was a reason his grandchildren called him "Grumpy" instead of Grandpa. He was the poster boy for stoicism and could best be described as a Celtic Stump. A more stubborn man never existed. (Although, my wife has put me up for candidacy.) The reflection below describes my most recent encounters with the ghost of a man I loved and respected.

Mick

My Father's Son

I always thought my thoughts were mine alone,
That none intruded, save I gave them pass;
The space inside my head was mine to own -
Lest ideas unwanted might trespass.
Yet when I journey inward, pondering
Travails and joys that populate my days,
I find there is no path, to sundering
My journey from my father's Celtic ways.

At ev'ry twist and turn I hear his voice,
Declaiming my responsibilities;
Reminding me I simply have no choice,
Except to shoulder my sacred duties.

He told me that a man is just a man,
No better than another on the Earth,
Though some try to convince you, if they can,
That they are better, by station or birth.
He said if I accept that, I am lost -
And therefore I should be prepared to fight,
To stand up for my own, at any cost -
For God alone could claim my soul, by right.

He told me that, one day I'd share my soul:
A joining that would meld two souls as one,
A nucleus from which a union whole,
A family, my own, would be begun.
Though patriarch and father I would be,
Respect and love are earned, not my birthright;
And so, it is incumbent upon me,
To stand up for my own...and win each fight.
Yet, should I lose a battle — one or two,
Through treachery or chance, I fail to win -
To not get up and find something to do —
To not find work — there is no greater sin.

Though he has passed, his strident thoughts remain,
To haunt my dreams and touch each waking hour.
My father's song is gone, yet its refrain
Seems never to decrease in strength and power;
Thus forcing me to make the only choice:
To find a way this battle can be won,
And in that battle find my own strong voice.
And so, I seems, I am my father's son.

Mick McKellar
February 2009

Servant's Web

I believe that the dream of uncounted riches and the luxury of having others serve your every whim intrudes upon the dreamscape of nearly every sleeping mind. After a long day of answering customers' calls, taking orders from a busy boss, or running errands for family members, who wouldn't dream? Yet those who have servants, and especially those who attempt to rigidly control their employees know a terrible secret. The caged servant and the controlled employee are not alone in the prison. Those who would control must never let go of the reigns of their power and soon learn that that kind of power is both expensive and limited. And then, there is the fear. We fear that others may take our things. We fear that we will lose control. We often fear loss of something (like control over others, resources, or information) that we never really had in the first place.

The free soul knows that personal power is simply the ability to get what we want from our environment. Manipulating others, as puppet master, ties master to puppet as securely as puppet to master. We also tie ourselves to things which, if those objects sink into the morass of a suffering economy or other disaster, will drag us down with them. Perhaps that is why, when a credit card or other debt is paid off, I feel light enough to fly away...and I never have to worry if the butler did it...

Mick

Servant's Web

Once, long ago, I dreamt of being rich:

Servants galore, to scratch every itch,

Bring all I could want, whether day or night,

At my merest whim, to my great delight!

I reveled in excess, hedonistic,

Becoming a material mystic.

I thought only of pleasures and of things,

Not once did I notice the web of strings -

Growing about me exponentially,

Stealthily, silently, invisibly;

Till trapped by servants, I began to choke,

And vainly gasping for air, I awoke...

May I never live in captivity -

For with no one to serve me, I am free.

Mick McKellar
October 2008