Flawed, too

When I wrote the poem Flawed, a reader remarked that the story seemed incomplete and wondered how it ended. I thought about it, and pondered on the complex interaction between those we view as "perfect" and the ardent fans that help create that myth of perfection. Is there a price to be paid for profiting from that perfection myth?

Although we have been told that those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, again and again, we build castles for those we consider perfect, and then we evict them when they prove to be just as human as the rest of us. There is, of course, a price to be paid, an often steep and unpleasant price for riding high on the expectations of fans and those who worship at the image of perfection. The higher one climbs the further one has to fall.

It's more than Marley's chains, for he did not understand until after he was buried by old Scrooge. The meteoric rise and sometimes cataclysmic crash and burn of so many celebrities, should teach us something about perfection: It is a marvelous motivator and a grand goal, but anyone who thinks he has achieved it is a fool; an anyone who trades on his perfection is merely polishing his fool's gold.

Mick


Flawed, too

When a perfect man, on a perfect day,
Discovered his life had a tiny flaw,
He greeted the flaw in his perfect way,
Inviting his friends to see what he saw.
He capered about in a perfect dance,
And sang a glad song in his perfect voice.
He sang: “At last, I have a perfect chance,
To make a perfectly wonderful choice!”
He placed the small flaw on his mantelpiece,
In perfect balance with his grand decor.
“And, at last I shall know the perfect peace —
With joy I have never known before!”
For, although he could talk, cry, sing and shout,
He’d had nothing at all to talk about…

His attitude changed when his friends came by,
And they saw his tiny flaw on display.
Some screamed in outrage, and others did cry:
"Oh, how can you disappoint us this way?"
"You were our idol, our role-model king;
We held you up for our daughters and sons,
And now you display this imperfect thing —
A thing from which any perfect man runs!"
Some media pundits made it a joke,
And others called it a conspiracy.
Some assumed he must be perfectly broke,
And badly needed the publicity.
He looked sad at how his flaw was received,
But secretly, was perfectly relieved.

When that perfect man, on that perfect day,
Put his flaw on display for all to see,
He knew there were legends he would betray,
And myths he'd destroy almost perfectly.
Though the myths were not his, he'd let them grow,
And profited from perfection for sale;
But now he had let his ardent fans know,
Of the tiny flaw in his perfect tale.
Rich, lonely, and tired, he had given in
To impulse, and shared the truth of his lie;
For he had discovered to his chagrin,
That perfection's price, was simply too high
To run away from, though he traveled far...
For the gravy train has a baggage car.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Flawed

No one on this planet is perfect. However some of us think we are or want to give the impression we are, and do not want to hear that we've made a mistake. Just imagine if one were perfect, flawless, peerless...what on Earth could one have a conversation about?

Ask any author about his best or most popular characters. Are they perfect in every way? Nah. They would be so boring, the readers would leave in droves. The best heroes are the flawed heroes. What challenge is there when the protagonist has all the best tools, the best breaks, and never makes a mistake? What does he or she have to overcome? How can I possibly relate to a character too perfect to be human? Even the most alien characters in science fiction or fantasy literature have human characteristics, mostly human flaws. It is what allows us to relate, to understand, and to feel for them. The same is true for parents, bosses, and leaders of all sorts.

Mick

Flawed

When a perfect man, on a perfect day,
Discovered his life had a tiny flaw,
He greeted the flaw in his perfect way,
Inviting his friends to see what he saw.
He capered about in a perfect dance,
And sang a glad song in his perfect voice.
He sang: "At last, I have a perfect chance,
To make a perfectly wonderful choice!"
He placed the small flaw on his mantelpiece,
In perfect balance with his grand decor.
"And, at last I shall know the perfect peace —
With joy I have never known before!"
For, although he could talk, cry, sing and shout,
He'd had nothing at all to talk about...

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Tools

Two native Americans were talking as they passed through a forest glade. The older fellow stopped his young companion and told him a story about two white men who met on a street in town. One white man asked. "Are you hungry?" The other white man looked at his watch.

The two native Americans laughed until they were too weak to walk.

Henry David Thoreau said: "Men have become the tools of their tools." In many ways, those were prophetic words. It seems nearly every aspect of our daily lives is regulated, timed, assisted, or controlled by one or more of a myriad collection of technological tools. I remember starting my work day by turning on an office copier and placing my document in the feeder. I pressed the "Go" button. The machine beeped an incredibly irritating beep, and on the small LCD screen the words, "Not Ready" appeared. An image sprang to mind of tiny workers, inside the photocopier, on coffee break and saying, "Not Ready!"

How often, when my alarm goes off in the dark winter morning, I have wanted to just roll over and say, "Not Ready!" I've lost count. Now, excuse me, for I have to post to Twitter and Facebook, that I've written another poem...

Mick

Tools

How many times do I eat by the clock,
Or stand by the door to wait for my mail;
Or sit with patience of weathered old rock,
And wait for release from my e-mail jail?
Obediently, I watch TV news,
Ensconced in my chair at the proper hour.
When did I give up my personal views,
And grant to the media such power?
My car tells me it needs water and oil,
And the microwave, that dinner is through.
My alarm clock wakes me, in time to toil,
And my calendar tells me what to do.
Perhaps, our technology makes us fools,
For we have become the tools of our tools.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Dark Side

Mark Twain said: "Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." Like the dust we sweep beneath our carpets, the junk food snacks we hold behind our backs, and the tales we tell ourselves when we're alone—we keep our guilty pleasures and self-indulgent treasures locked away in shadow, alongside the unfounded myths and unfriendly monsters we all must master or hide from view.

Throughout our lives, we move among others, orbiting some and capturing others in our own gravity wells. Attracted and repelled, spinning in the midst of myriad points of light, we match rotation with each orbit and show only the one face—the friendly and familiar, or fierce and stormy face we carefully cultivate and swiftly sculpt for each encounter. The shades that lurk among the penumbral confines of our hidden hemispheres dance alone in perpetual midnight, a cursed cotillion rarely shared and shamefully concealed. And yet, within that dark dance are diamonds—crystalline thoughts and clear, starlit gems which, once shared, might save a soul or enlighten a life. Light, even reflected and refracted, can dispel shadows and illuminate the darkest path.

Mick

Dark Side

Within our spheres of influence we spin,
In orbits tracing subtle paths since birth,
And hiding secret memories, within
The shadows that we cast upon the Earth.
As with our queen, afloat in starlit sky,
Rotation-matched, we show but one bright face;
And never think to ask or seek to spy,
What monsters dwell in that dark, hidden place.
Or are there treasures lurking far from sight,
Beyond the bright horizon of your orb?
Perhaps a truth too large to grasp aright,
Or far too many secrets to absorb.
I ask you grant me one unearthly boon:
To let me glimpse the dark side of your moon.

Mick McKellar
December 2009

Against the Gale

Bertrand Russell said, "In the part of this universe that we know there is great injustice, and often the good suffer, and often the wicked prosper, and one hardly knows which of those is the more annoying." Having the courage to stand up and take action against this grand annoyance is the hallmark of those who have a deep sense of self, and who treasure authenticity and integrity.

Discovery of self is a mantra — one of those "tools of power" so often at the center of self-improvement schemes. Yet, I believe we spend a large part of our lives hiding from ourselves, because we cannot or will not face the truth of the evils which live in the shadows around us. It is a perfect storm of suffering which threatens to inundate us all, a tsunami crashing upon us from the ocean of tears we, ourselves, created. Perhaps, in standing against that storm, we can discover who we are and what we are. Perhaps, by standing on the shoals near the dark shore, we can face down the terrible storm and find the beauty of the world.

Dr. Seuss saw the truth of the matter: "Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."

Mick

Against the Gale

The beauty of the world is testament,
That suffering cannot be at the core.
Yet although evil is not heaven-sent,
Mankind hides in its shadows all the more:
Seeking to deny the truth in caring,
And hiding from compassion in their souls,
Focusing on self, and never daring
To face the tear-filled ocean from its shoals;
These victims of impatience and ennui,
Will seek out those who stand and face the storm —
Who understand the challenges they see,
And seek to deviate far from the norm!
Although their feet may rest on shifting sand,
Against the gale they have courage to stand.

Mick McKellar
November 2009

Voices in the Noise

Tinnitus is the most constant of companions. Though I can ignore it when louder noises penetrate the shimmering curtain of white noise, the hissing—reminiscent of static on old amplifiers and tube radio sets—is always there to fill any void left by those moments of complete and utter silence I dreaded as child. Now they seem a treasure beyond reach, a shadowed memory of the times before noise.

My family tires of televisions and radios set to high volume, so that I can separate the dialog from the music score on movies and television shows, or pick out the lyrics on a favorite song. Mostly, I miss singing reliably, for the notes playing in my head are usually not the ones I am supposed to deliver. It can be confusing.

Sometimes, as I try to sleep, I think I can hear distant voices in the hissing veil of sound, like radio stations just out of reach. They might be there, but I am not certain. Like watching the snow on the television when the cable goes out, ghost images and spectral sounds are created in the overloaded senses by a imaginative mind. I wonder if I could dream about silence?

Mick

Voices in the Noise

The scale of the problem's beyond belief;
The hissing and ringing are far too great.
The realm of dreams is my only relief,
In the true redoubt of unconscious state.
Awake, I embrace life's deafening roar;
Grieving for quiet, so long departed
That I doubt I would know it any more—
For silence left town when this stuff started.
Though sopranos may soar, up to the sky,
With altos swift following, on the trail,
And tenors are wailing, wondering why
The basses have dropped off the bottom scale;
I can no longer join in the singing:
I have to answer—my ear is ringing!

Mick McKellar
November 2009

Some Things Never Change

Foot-sore Fox and Ribald Rabbit are back. My old friends materialized out the dust of forgotten roads and the seldom traveled pathways in my mind. I have not visited with them since 2005, perhaps because I have not needed their council and their peculiar points of view...until now.

Although careworn and ragged, the pair seemed in good spirits and came bearing the gifts of friendship, knowledge, wisdom, and most importantly, donuts. The years and the layers of dust melted away with the flavors of the dark, rich, and bitter coffee and the sweet glazed goodness of fresh donuts. It may have been the breakfast of champions, but it was the bitter-sweet reunion of old souls on their journey.

Mick

Some Things Never Change

The Foot-sore Fox had been hanging around,
And watching me work in my living room;
Just as long as he did not make a sound,
My anger would not encompass his doom.

When he and the Ribald Rabbit came back,
To haunt my house and my breakfast table,
I decided to cut them both some slack,
And help them out, as long as I'm able.

Still, at morning coffee, twas strange to see,
Midst hustle and bustle at start of day,
The small, friendly faces, grinning at me
In their down-home, frazzled, uncertain way...

They'd been on the road, their clothes still dusty;
The Rabbit's old dark sunglasses were smudged,
And the Fox's walking stick was rusty --
So, the pair had seen better days, I'd judged.

For sake of friendship and memories shared,
I welcomed the travelers to my home;
And they seemed surprised that I had still cared,
Because of dark places they'd had to roam.

This morning, they seemed energetic, spry,
Casting conspiratorial glances
At each other, making me wondered why,
And so I asked them, taking my chances.

Incredibly each one started to grin,
Laughing, giggling, and smirking brightly;
Fox reached for a bag that he had brought in,
And brought out a box, which he gave to me.

I thanked them, and said, at the very least,
To survive had taken a lot of guts.
I made coffee, and then we had a feast.
But the two of them ate the most donuts...

Mick McKellar
November 2009