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4.11.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I have a friend who has very bad email manners and I’m just not sure what to say to him. We live in the same town, but don’t see each other often. Sometimes he will email me a funny link or remark on something, but if I don’t reply right away he’ll send another email berating me for not responding. And the thing is sometimes when I do reply, it must go to his spam box, because he doesn’t see it.

He recently wrote “—— must be dead for I refuse to believe she has her head stuck so far up her arse as to be indifferent to such common courtesies as are habitually practiced by educated White folks with or without artistic sensibilities.”

What would Ms. Metaphor say to something
like that?
—Shaken But Not Stirred

Dear Not Stirred,
Ms. Metaphor wouldn’t say a thing.

Media exchanges, be it emails or Facebook postings or Twittered remarks are merely facsimiles of personal interaction. You cannot hear an inflection, or read a wink (with the exception of silly emoticons ;^) in 12 point type. Perhaps your friend is joking or maybe he doesn’t realize how ham-handed his remarks are. Do you really to want find out?

Usually, I’d encourage a friendly inquiry, hoping for peace, love and understanding. But in this case I recommend a no-fly zone over your email address until the silence fills the space with nothing but the infinite blue beyond.

“We all arrive by different streets,
by unequal languages, at Silence.”

—Pablo Neruda,
from “Still Another Day: XVII/Men”
❊

3.29.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I guess my question concerns manners and love and everything else. My son and his fiancé are getting married in May. She’s a lovely girl, and they make a terrific couple. They are both in their early 20s and, like most of their generation, very much plugged into technology.

They want to have a “traditional” outdoor wedding with a Unitarian minister and wedding cupcakes instead of a big cake and a DJ, which is all well and good. I do think it’s wonderful for young people to write their own vows and be creative. They are making most of the arrangements themselves, with their friends helping out with the food and decorations. It really is delightful and lots of fun. We’ve given them some money towards expenses as part of our gift.

Here is my problem: they have decided to send out email wedding invitations only. I am askance! I suppose the days of engraved invitations on cream stock with stamped return envelopes harkens back to a by-gone era, but honestly, an emailed wedding invitation seems to me so cheap and vulgar.

Should I say something? Or am I just being an old fuddy-duddy?
—Mother of the Groom

Dear Mother of the Groom,
I’m afraid the gentile practice of leaving one’s calling card is also a thing of the past. However, Ms. Metaphor shares your regret at the lost opportunity to document the occasion with a tangible memento, such as an engraved invitation. Yet, as you yourself have observed, the young lovers are very much plugged into technology. Sounds like a classic-laid bond won’t match their temperament, or their décor. Maybe the future bride and groom are thinking green, and want to trim expenses, or a printed invitation is not important to them.

Should you say something? Sure, why not contribute to the conversation, if everyone is friendly? However leave your “askance” point of view at home and never utter the words “cheap and vulgar.” If you want to be a generous supporter of love and lost ephemeral arts, you could offer to pay for a printed invitation designed to their liking.

If, indeed they really do not want a printed invitation, let it go. Modern modus vivendi is preferable to a fugacious fuddy-duddy.

“Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel.
All that we know, that we're
made of, is motion.”

—Amy Clampitt,
from “Nothing Stays Put”
❊

3.23.11
My Question to Ms. Metaphor:
I have been writing poetry for the last two years for about two hours a day. I have poems stacked to the ceiling. My poetry has consumed me. It has taken time from my work, my family and pretty much all social activities. I truly feel that I have found my calling. (Too bad my passion isn't a big money maker.)

My writing of poetry has become a deep passion that has no off switch. I’m constantly in creative mode and it’s hard to find a balance. When inspiration comes, it comes—and I have to be there to catch it. What do you suggest I do?
—Consumed Poet

Dear Poet,
“You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way.
So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back
and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what?
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.”

—Charles Baudelaire, from “Be Drunk”
translated by Louis Simpson

Continue, dear poet, as you must. Write more poems and fill more rooms with your creative calling and arms full of jonquils! There is no cure, and if there were, you wouldn’t want the antidote.

Still, I hear a whisper of discontent in your letter. You speak of money and balance and social activities with your family as though you must make a choice between the quotidian life and the life informed by the Muse. Why not have both? Become the designated poet at social functions and write poems for the occasion. Make friends with the Muse and invite her to the party. It’s time for your début.

As for those stacks of poems—send them out into the world. Check out Poets & Writers online and enter contests, send poems to literary magazines, like Askew or to suitable small presses. Get published. Write a book. Sell your book. Give your book away. Show up at local Open Mics. Perfect your delivery. Get asked to be the featured reader. Mentor younger poets. Honor poet masters and friends. And so forth.

Congratulations—you have found your calling. Return the call promptly and let’s see what happens next.
❊

3.18.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I have a dinner dilemma. I don’t like meat. I really can’t call myself a vegetarian because I do eat fish and fowl (and vegetables). I don’t have any moral or religious reason for not eating meat. It just doesn’t appeal to me. Never has.

Here’s my problem, which came up again over St. Patrick’s Day. New friends invited my husband and me to dinner—which was corned beef and cabbage—something I can’t stand. My husband told the cook ahead of time that I don’t eat meat, and she graciously made a side dish of fish for me. Still, I did not like watching the other people at the party eat their corned beef and cabbage, and the smell was particularly awful.

I don’t want to come off a food snob, but I
really don’t enjoy eating with carnivores. What
should I do?
—Not in the Mood for Meat

Dear Not in the Mood,
First, one must consider hunger. Do you hunger more for the company of good friends, or good food? Certainly it would be most congenial to entertain both at the same table, but your strong feelings about what’s for supper do limit your options.

If you are truly nauseated by the sight and smell of meat, then perhaps you could join the dinner party later for dessert and just skip the whole bloody main course. Or you play host and design a meatless menu that would also appeal to your meat-head friends. Either way, try not to get into a lacto-intolerant, gluten-adverse, raw foods vegan-only reductive state of mind. Remember you are just one guest at the party. Other people may adore what you abhor. Don’t be a bore chore.

Even if you don’t enjoy monkey brains in situ, you can still appreciate the culture and customs that offer it. The greatest culinary and social delights often arrive unannounced. Un-wrinkle your nose and take a whiff.

“What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked
down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking
at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon
fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at
night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!
—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?”

—Allen Ginsberg,
from “A Supermarket in California”
❊

2.15.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
This may sound really stupid as I am really old enough that I shouldn’t care (I won’t say how old), but I am very upset my boyfriend did not give me a valentine. We’ve been “dating” for 7 years, so I guess you could say we’re comfortable with each other. But I miss the court and spark we had at the beginning of our relationship. I miss surprises.

He did take me out to dinner at our usual restaurant, but there too he was more interested in his pork chops than any meaningful conversation. He actually hummed to himself as he ate. It was like I wasn’t even there.

Is this what is referred to metaphorically as “the seven year itch”? Please don’t tell me to play sexy with lingerie and all that. I don’t want to fake it.
—Wants a Boyfriend Make-Over

Dear Make-Over,
How dreary: “Happy Valentine’s Day from your Loving Pork Chop.” Sounds like you need to mix things up a bit. Forget the lingerie. Forget wishing and hoping he’ll read your mind and give you a valentine. It’s time to get your mojo working. Move the furniture around in your living room. Dye your bedroom curtains pink. Cultivate zebra-striped gazanias in your garden. Buy some new sling-back kitten heels and go dancing with a posse of gal pals. Give the world a wink and release your inner flirt.

“This was once a love poem,
before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,
before it found itself sitting,
perplexed and a little embarrassed,
on the fender of a parked car,
while many people passed by without turning their heads. . .”

—Jane Hirschfield, from
“This Was Once a Love Poem”

It’s not “really stupid” to desire a love token from your best beloved on Valentine’s Day. But it also doesn’t mean it’s the end the romance because he forgot. It does sound like you are a bit bored, maybe even a little “itchy.” Maybe your boyfriend is, too. This doesn’t mean the end of the story. Start a new chapter. Begin with “This is a love story . . .” then ask him to suggest the next line. Pack lightly, and go wherever the story tells
you to go.
❊

2.14.11
Dear Readers,
On Valentine’s Day our thoughts turn to the metaphor employed to explain our connection to the ineffable—Love. Love is so versatile: we love dark chocolate and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and our wise cat Sage. We love our family and friends and the view of the ocean from the mountains. Our best-beloved whispers, “I love you,” and a rush of feeling seeks its center. Love is a simple word that cannot be translated or satisfactorily explained. Love is the metaphor for all of this.

“. . .What do we leave, living like a nest
of surly birds, alive, among the thickets
or static, perched on the frigid cliffs?
So then, if living was nothing more than      anticipating
the earth, this soil and its harshness,
deliver me, my love, from not doing my duty,      and help me
return to my place beneath the hungry earth. . .”

—Pablo Neruda, from “Love for this Book”
❊

2.11.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I have what I believe is a common pet peeve—it has to do with one’s perception of time.

Why is it people who are on time must suffer and be punished by being made to wait at meetings and such by those who are always late? I mean why should we wait for those people who don’t have the common courtesy or, perhaps the wherewithal to manage their schedule so they arrive at the meeting (or class or luncheon, whatever) at the appointed hour?

And since I’m venting, along those lines I’d like to add my gripe about making appointments. I am in business for myself and must schedule appointments for my clients. (I’d rather not say what business exactly, for fear of offending some.) Very often a client will call to say he might be in at noon, maybe a little before, or it maybe as late as 1 o’clock. I can’t keep a two-hour window open for maybes! This is exasperating!
What would Ms. Metaphor do?
—Mr. Punctual

Dear Mr. Punct,
Oh those unpunctual pupfish who infect our civilized streams of congenial confabs! If only they had our comprehension of time and pace, the world’s business could be put to rights in a day. Of course, friends, colleagues and clients ought to honor appointments at the appointed hour, that’s just good manners and good business. Yet, if
they don’t . . .

“If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting. . .”

—Rudyard Kipling from “If —”

If you can, as Kipling counsels, “keep your head about you” then you’ll have scant opportunity to “be tired by waiting.” Try to see the waiting as an opportunity for mediation or at the very least, a pause. Look out the window. Give way to daydreams and perhaps scrawl a dreamy line or two of a poem—to be continued at another interlude.

As for the tardy tarts, begin your class or meeting on time out of respect for the assembled, and let the laggards catch up when they can. Give your clients who dither with your day specific instructions: Say, “I can see you at 1 p.m.” Then follow through and be ready and on time.
❊

2.10.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I recently met a really lovely lady. We met at a New Year’s Eve dance party. We get along great and enjoy each other’s company. I’m pretty sure she wants to see this relationship proceed.

I am a deeply spiritual person, however I was brought up in a Christian Pentecostal church, a belief system that I no longer believe in. My new “friend” is a Christian, and is quite involved in her church’s youth ministry. She invited me to watch the Superbowl at her church and I actually enjoyed myself. However, I am concerned that she might be, well, “evangelizing” me. I really can’t see myself in a regular Christian church.

How should I proceed?
—Mr. Spiritual

Dear Mr. Spiritual,
Proceed with caution full-speed ahead. By that I mean, speak up! Initiate a conversation about your mutual religious and spiritual beliefs. At the very least, you may enjoy a lively exchange.

Why not invite her to attend services at your spiritual center? She might find your group engaging. Likewise, should she invite you to visit her church, go with an open heart and mind. You might even find some common notes that you can hum along with. If not, by talking about the ineffable in an affable, even genial manner, you may set a precedent for peace on Earth and goodwill to all—and still remain friends.

If her belief system is too odious to comprehend, then it’s best back away slowly, before you find yourself estranged in bifurcated marriage sitting on separate pews across town.

“I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.”

—Wallace Stevens “V” from
“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”
❊

2.9.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My 19 year-old adopted daughter has dropped out of high school and is now pregnant by her 22 year-old boyfriend. She plans to move-in with him (no word about marriage) and his family in a rough part of L.A.

Apart from my shock and chagrin, I have a few serious questions I’d like to ask them. Namely, how do they intend to support themselves and a baby? And will she at least get her GED before the baby is born? And, too, I’m wondering if the father intends to stick around.

How do I approach this? What should I say?
—Not Ready To Be A Granny

Dear NRTBA Granny,
Say, “I love you and I know you will be a good mother.” (Even if you have your doubts.)
Your daughter is legally an adult; she and the father of her child must decide what’s best for themselves. Inquire about their plans, and you will appear to be meddling and critical, even if you have only the best, loving intentions.

Of course, a high school diploma is useful, but it isn’t a guarantee, nor is it a map to success or happiness. Certain skills, like CPR and cooking are also good. But all this will become obvious and necessary when the young parents realize it on their own.

“ . . .Our daughters stroll together in the garden,
Chatting of news we've chosen to ignore,
Pausing to toss us morsels of their history,
Not questions to which only we know answers.

Eyes closed to news we've chosen to ignore,
We'd rather excavate old memories,
Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors.
Why do they never listen to our stories? . . .”

—Carolyn Kizer, from “Parent’s Pantoum”

As difficult as it may be to refrain from sharing your experienced view of the way things ought to be done, you will be most helpful if your daughter feels supported by your confidence in her. Later, she will remember you as most wise, serene, and bright without clouds.
❊

1.22.11
Ms. Metaphor,

You's is wrong.

People who lend or borrow books, and the reasons for doing so, are far more complicated than either the previous query or your answer acknowledge. It is not entirely a contest between the content and the object. Books represent more than their contents; they represent the owner.

Sometimes, people borrow books with the idea it becomes a keepsake of the individual who lent it, more or less willingly. Sometimes the lender is insistent and rather shoves it into the recipient's hands, so that he has a constant reminder of another. The spreading of the author's thoughts or beauty of the writing can often be the last thing to appeal to either end of the exchange.

People who are quick reads, like myself, are less understanding of those who borrow and keep the book for weeks, where they might lend it to a third party or—worse!—lose it altogether. This is performance art for relationship junkies—idiots—and a supposed shared loss and reason to continue correspondence. If they don't have time to read it quick, they can wait till they do to borrow it.
—Dark Cloud

Dear Dark Cloud,
Thank you for your astute comments. You bring up several interesting points. The intrusion of an ecstatic reader: “You must read this!” can put the intended convert on the defensive. (Must I?) If one is moved to proselytize about a work, then one ought to buy extra copies of the book just to give it away.

Your curious observation about “relationship junkies” and “idiots” who hold on to borrowed books as though it were a keepsake of some imagined intimacy, is an entirely different matter. Please do not lend your treasured books to “idiots,” (unless it’s The Complete Idiot’s Guide.)

I return to my original advice, which is to set guidelines for your book-borrowing pals. It might be as simple as saying, “Please return it in the same condition you received it.” And you might add, “Will a week be enough time for you to enjoy it?” or “When the full moon beckons, return to
my door.”

“ . . .Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!”

by Sir Walter Scott, from “Coronach”
❊

1.12.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
The letter from Miss Quoted (1.11.11) inspired me to write. My situation is similar, but without the boyfriend. I am an English teacher, and naturally, I love to read. I have a rather good, though not terribly large library. Friends often ask to borrow a book, which I am most happy to do. However, about half the time a borrower will return my book much worse for the wear. Sometimes the book isn’t even returned. Lost. Or fogotten. Once, a book (a paperback) was handed to me wet.

My books aren’t rare first editions, and they aren’t particularly valuable, but I like them, and want to keep them around. The problem is, I also really love to turn-on my friends to books I love. Therein lies the dilemma. I want to lend my books freely, but also want my books returned without peanut butter-and-jellied end sheets. What should I do? Shut down the library? Or turn away friends?
—Lender or Borrower Be

Dear L.B.B.,
If you lend your books, you must let them go and hope for the best. You never know how someone is going to treat your book until you give it to them. Then you’ll know; it’s the surest indicator of moral character. Still, it’s perfectly reasonable to say, “Please return it in the same condition you received it.”

Perhaps you could design a brochure with your Lending Library Rules spelled out, and a tiny envelope with a lined card inside to note the due date. You could rubber stamp your own library cards, and then you’d be in business, Miss Marian-the-Librarian. Your bookish, yet clueless, friends might appreciate instructions.

“The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.”

—Elizabeth Bishop, from “One Art”

The former owner of Bart’s Books in Ojai, CA, Dave Ray (who now runs the Beat Pharm in Pueblo, CO) observed two kinds of book lovers: Those who loved the Object, and those who loved the Content. Sounds like you want to lend the Content, but keep the Object. Perhaps you could have a Currently-In-Wide Release shelf with books you are willing to let go. Keep your Special Reserve for an appreciative audience. But please, do continue to lend books, even to the loutish. Lending books is the surest way to spread
the word.
❊

1.11.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I seem to have a problem that’s really not my problem. It concerns a gal pal of mine, and my boyfriend. He lent her some DVDs that he says she never returned. She claims she did return them. Now in dispute is the number of DVDs
and titles.

They both want me to verify who said what and when, but I really cannot recall. Both parties were moving to new apartments during this exchange. Now, everyone seems to have a different story in this saga, which came to a rather heated exchange on Facebook. The problem is neither my boyfriend nor my gal pal want to have anything to do with the other now. What should I do?
—Miss Quoted

Dear Miss Quoted,
It appears you are a sweet pickle wedged into a dill pickle jar. While it is tempting to want to make nice, this is not your quarrel. Unless something gives, or someone forgives, nothing you do or say will really change the outcome of the story.

“Now I know you remember so and so
meaning somebody who rode through town once, ten years ago or who lived and died before your birth. They expect you to remember, to know, just like your mind is their mind and if you don't, they might take it personal. Get so mad at you, they can't get on with the story. . . .”

—Doris Davenport,
from “Now I know you remember so and so”

You, Miss Quoted, must remain their Switzerland. If humans lived in a state of best intentions, then friends would forgive misdeeds, real or imagined, and all would be forgotten or, at best, remembered as a funny story. Till then, apply for a visa to a neutral state, and wait out the war
over there.
❊

1.5.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
When is enough “enough”?
Sincerely Querulous

Dear Querulous,
“A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!”

—Arthur Rimbaud, from “A Season in Hell”

That’s one definition of “enough”, which curiously means either “as much as needed” or “a much as can be tolerated.” Which enough is enough for you? Perhaps a new perspective will refresh your view. Climb the highest nearby mountain, or dig into the deepest cave; review and renew—then you will know.
❊

1.3.11
Bonjour Ms. Metaphor,
I am living a difficult situation because of a nasty older sister who never accepted my birth, harasses me and keeps lying about me, trying to make me sick. 2 days ago she came with her notary to take out all the furniture from my parents' flat, my home where I live, and the lights. Some months ago she cut the phone and Internet. The flat, for sale, is nearly empty now and I have no other place to go for the moment, so I am doing camping.

I discovered when I turned 40 that my dad was not my biological father. Since then my life has been miserable. I left my good job at the OECD in Paris to find my inner peace in Bali. I could not understand why my parents kept lying to me about my birth. I have forgiven them but still I miss something in my life.

I would appreciate if you would kindly advise me how to keep going. I feel often lost. For me Truth is very important. I have been looking for the truth all my life. I would love to dream again. When I was young, I had wonderful dreams. I apologize for my mistakes in English. Thank you for your response and being here for me.
—Béatrice

Dear Béatrice,
First, my dear, you must sort out this business with your older sister. It sounds like she wants you out of your parent’s flat. What does your sister want? Have you asked her? If she wants you out of the house, maybe she would be willing to see you have relocation funds or a settlement from the estate of your deceased parents. If you cannot speak reasonably with your sister, perhaps a mediator could help. Find out your rights. Enlist the aid of a public lawyer or social services. Build a team to help you.

However, you need to be clear what you are fighting for. I’m glad to hear you have “forgiven” your parents. Have you forgiven yourself? A seeker who’s looking for “inner peace” and “truth” will always be on a journey. And why not? What better way to pass the time?

“Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist      earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with      the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not      exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain      forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his      shoulders.”

—Federico Garcia Lorca
from “City That Does Not Sleep”

You ask me to advise you “how to keep going.” One step at a time. One foot, then the other. Then, after you’ve gone on a bit, look up at the sky and be glad.
❊

1.2.11
Dear Ms. Metaphor
I am jealous and conflicted that my ex, who is crude, lacking discipline morals, ethics, and good hygiene, and who surrounds himself with low life, yet he still has it all—he travels and has a number of women, all at his disposal.

Meanwhile, I work my tail off and believe in strong morals, a good work ethic, discipline, and have passion for my art and job.

What does Ms. Metaphor have to say about that?
Aching Inside

Dear Aching,
How unfair that the great brute “has it all” while you must work to have just a portion.
But, let us pause a moment to compare your lists. He: crude, without morals or discipline (and poor hygiene). What do you have? You: strong morals, discipline, and passion for your work. (Plus, you brush your teeth!)

Seems to me you have the better deal. Although he may have the wherewithal to flit from port to port entertaining his no-good friends, you have the satisfaction of an engaging life.
And yet, there is something that draws you
to Mr. Ex. What is it, really?

“Why did he write to her,
‘I can’t live with you’?
And why did she write to him
‘I can’t live without you’?
For he went west, she went east,
And they both lived.”

—Carl Sandburg, “One Parting”

Perhaps the comparison of your contrasting lifestyles brings a certain righteous satisfaction to your soul. Go ahead and enjoy your stew. Just don’t choke on the bones.
Without the jealousy, the conflict will have no place to root.
❊

1.1.11
Dear Ms. Meta IV,
I just read that E.E. Cummings is the poet most quoted in American tattoos. What do you suppose he would say about that? And what line do you think would look good on a body? And where?
David

Dear David,
You are quite right, old Edward Estlin’s hybridized grammar is having a revival across chests spanning the nation. According to my lazy Google search, this is the most popular line:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)

—E.E. Cummings, from “i carry your heart”

Since Cummings’ radical syntax and capricious punctuation created a new idiosyncratic form, it is appropriate that others have appropriated his work into their art to make it their own. If pressed to comment, I imagine he would say:

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

—E.E. Cummings,
from “anyone lived in a pretty how town”

You ask what line Ms. Metaphor thinks would look good on a body. Actually, M.M. likes a blank canvas, and prefers to read between
the lines.
❊

12.31.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I am thinking of going to Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity. Is that sane?
Crazy 4 Jon

Dear Crazy,
Although this letter was timely a couple of months ago Ms. Metaphor would still like to respond your query, “Is this sane?” By now you must know the answer.

The word “rally” can be both a noun and a verb—so you can go to the rally and rally your neighbors along the way. Remember the slogan “Practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty”? It is attributed to peace activist Anne Herbert who first wrote it on a paper placemat in a Sausalito restaurant in 1982. In 1995 the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation, a non-profit charitable organization was established. Which just goes to show, you never know what seeds you may plant on the way home from the rally.

“Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.”

—Elizabeth Alexander,
“Praise Song for the Day”
❊

9.30.10
Ms. Metaphor,
My question concerns my inner world. I like poetry but absolutely detest poets. When I consider a poem I can't bear to think of the poet. It is even worse if I know the poet. Usually they don't bathe enough and they don't study themselves. They act like beat up animals. Not all poets, but I mean the poets that I've met. I don't want to share my inner world with them.

I have a garden of delights to walk through, full of cherry and mulberry trees. Children play nearby. That gives me solace. So does my Hybrid.

I've known many poets. I want them to be quiet. I want them to stop writing words, words, words all over everything. They aren't Emily Dickinson, even though they think they are. I feel bad even talking about this. It raises my sensitivity. I feel like Sylvia Plath meets Mishima.

Maybe you can tell me how to handle this. Please don't recommend an immersion.
Mr. Black

Dear Mr. Black,
Perhaps you, like the poet Mark Strand, need to vary your diet:

“Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry. . .”

Your innards and “inner world” are apparently quite sensitive to gastric poetic-distress. It is simple enough to avoid the Many Poets, along with the ensuing heartburn—just don’t go there, wherever they are. However, Ms. Metaphor wouldn’t want to see you develop metrophobia. It’s best to take a homeopathic dose of a Bad Poet now and again—just so you don’t break into a rash if you run into a barefoot bard at the park. But don’t get gloomy and lose your appetite over dead poets. Handle it with a lighter touch:

“We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, "A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been
naught. . ."

W.B.Yeats, from “Adam’s Curse”
❊

9.28.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
The older I get, the more disappointed I am with my life. It is not at all what I imagined it would be. I mean, I wake up, go to work. Dodge bullets and put out fires till quitting time. Stop at Joe’s Bar for a shot, then go home to my Cape Cod in the burbs and have dinner with my wife. I read the evening paper with TV playing in the background. Off to bed, screw my wife once a week, then drift into a fragmented sleep…rarely dreaming. The next day it’s the same thing—oh, except for the screwing part.

My wife seems happy and content. She keeps a nice home, greets me with a smile and a meal each evening, and enjoys spending her evenings on the Internet (sometimes into the early morning hours).

Part of me struggles with How do I break out of this routine? and part of me asks Why bother? What say you, Ms. Metaphor? What say the poets?
Stuck in the Burbs

Dear Stuck,
Sounds like you could do with a different hemisphere. If you’ve stopped dreaming, that’s a bad sign. It might be time for a Fire Sale. First, clear the decks, and sell off all your worldly goods. Pare down to the bare essentials, then dedicate yourself to the Wild Spirit and listen for the next instructions.

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

—Percy Bysshe Shelley,
from “Ode to the West Wind”

Or, make smaller changes: learn to sky dive, adopt a puppy, or sign-up for a tartaric massage weekend at Esalen with your wife. Mix-up the routine and get interested again.

Pay attention to the part of you that asks how do I break out; don’t give in the part that doesn’t want to bother. This is an Aikido move—direct the force of your West Wind and turn your ennui into a self-sustaining turbine.
❊

9.20.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I have a friend who never responds to my emails. I don't remember when she asked me out last. However, I do know she spends time with mutual friends and goes out on girly dates.

Do you think I should get over her and move on to other more interested girlfriends?
Or should I move on to a boyfriend?
Ignored Lenora

Dear Lenora,
If your friend does not respond to emails, you might try a different form of communication. Some folks are more tuned into Facebook than email, and are more apt to respond to a poke or wall post. Others prefer Twitter and text messages. Have you phoned or talked to her in person? Ask her. Maybe she doesn’t respond to your email because she doesn’t actually read it.

What with cute puppy pics from Auntie Eve, rude political jokes from Uncle Ozzie, and a plethora of pleas from that Nigerian prince for your bank account (so he can deposit 6 million dollars), digging through email can be a chore. If you blithely cc all your pals with your personal daily musings, it may come across as bulk mail. You might think you are sending a personal note, but the recipient receives it as community newsletter, not as a personal note or invitation.

“Which I wish to say is this
There is no beginning to an end
But there is a beginning and an end
To beginning.
Why yes of course.
Any one can learn that north of course
Is not only north but north as north
Why were they worried.
What I wish to say is this.
Yes of course”

—Gertrude Stein,
from “Meditation,” Part V, Stanza XXXVIII

You ask if you should “move on” to more interested girlfriends. Or get a boyfriend. Sure, a friend isn’t like one-size-fits-all pantyhose. Most of us need an assortment of playmates (and lingerie). But don’t let a little misunderstanding cancel your friendship subscription. Give your gal pal a chance to connect with you in real time, and you might be delighted to find you both still have a real good time together.
❊

9.13.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I hate the start of football season. Is this considered un-American?
No Pigskin Lover

Dear Mr. No,
While Ms. Metaphor does not apprehend the full measure of metaphor in this game, she does appreciate obsession. America’s #1 favorite sport is football. Imagine a football stadium full of poets. Instead of the Giants versus the Broncos, it would be the Romantics verses the Moderns. The sportscaster announces the Objectivists gain a point on a technicality, the Futurists ask for timeout, and the Imagists are handed a penalty. Of course, the Beats win the game.

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
     by madness, starving
          hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro
     streets at dawn looking for an angry
          fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient      heavenly connection to the
          starry dynamo in the machinery of                night . . .”

—Allen Ginsberg, from “Howl, Part I”

Americans find pleasure in pursuit. (Happiness is another matter.) America loves Reality TV, political conspiracies, and BBQ. Not loving football is not un-American, but hate-not football, my friend. Explore the allegory, if only for the metaphor.
❊

9.9.10
Dear Ms. Sorta Simile,
Which is better:
1. Knowing who you are,
2. Knowing where you're at?
Sent from iPad

Dear iPad,
I’m so glad you asked. Poets have wrestled with this question even before the muddy inchoate desire to name the unknowable formed into language.

“I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too? . . .”

—Emily Dickinson, from “ I'm Nobody! Who
are you?”

After naming the Self, we define ourselves
by the Other.

“. . . If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you. . .”

—Pablo Neruda, from “If You Forget Me”

Then, by our environment—

“We real cool. We
Left school. . . ”

—Gwendolyn Brooks, from “We Real Cool”

Knowing who you are, and where you are
equally good.
Knowing what you want is also helpful.

“. . .I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone. . .”

—Rainer Maria Rilke,
translated by Annemarie S. Kidder,
from “I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet
Not Alone”
❊

9.8.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My question about vitality: When we feel pain, we can locate it in a specific spot in the body, but when we feel fatigue, where is that felt? If it's in the brain, and we can influence our brain, could we not then control fatigue?
Controller

Dear Controller,
The simple answer is yes, we can “influence” as you say, both the brain and the body to not feel pain or fatigue. Additionally, modern medicine provides all sorts of drugs that can override the body’s cues. Any adept student of yoga can tune-in to the subtle body, and make adjustments, which may be useful in a pinch. However, the bigger question is, Why do you want to do this?

“There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
but a tiny core of stillness in the heart
like the eye of a violet.”

—D.H. Lawrence, “Nothing to Save”

What are you feeling? If your body sends you a message to rest, answer the call.
❊

9.6.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
If a dog poops in the woods and no one else sees him do it, do I still have to clean it up?
And why does it always happen when I don't have a plastic bag?
Doodyful Dog-Person

Dear Doodyful,
If “a bear poops in the woods” and you happen upon it, it is revelation, a rune, a story to tell
back home.

“In late winter
I sometimes glimpse bits of steam
coming up from
some fault in the old snow
and bend close and see it is lung-colored
and put down my nose
and know
the chilly, enduring odor of bear. . . ”

—Galway Kinnell, from “The Bear”

But, if while hiking that same path you came upon dog droppings, you’d probably just want to step aside. Unless those woods are your personal estate, common courtesy requires you to pick-up your pet’s leavings on public property. Although a dog cannot pick-up after himself, he can carry his own Baggie. A fanny-pack collar makes light work out of this chore, Like a good scout, always be prepared!
❊

9.4.10
Ms. Metaphor,
I'm 58 years old and I'm still searching for the meaning of Wife.
Can you help me answer that precarious question?
Precarious Hubby

Dear Precarious Hubby,
Perhaps you find yourself in a precarious state of affairs because you are unclear of your position. The meaning of “Wife” is to be formally married to a man. A “Hubby,” however, is an informal Husband. Are you on the same page, same team? Or, is your partner dancing to a different tune? Is she locked into a foxtrot while you’re ready to rumba? If so, it’s time to change the tune. Mix things up a bit: slip into something slinky, (see Bewildered Bride 8.14.10) part your hair on the other side, and set-up the Jello-shots.

“Sometimes I'll look in the refrigerator
And decide that the mustard is vaguely familiar,
And that the jar of Spanish olives is new
to me. . . .”

—Gary Soto, from “Afternoon Memory”

Even a Hubby at 58 still has tread left on his tires. If you are searching for meaning, that means you are still interested. It’s never too late to lose love, so stay alert and kind. Continue to pursue those precarious questions.
❊

8.31.10
Hello Ms. Metaphor,
Why do people water, and then mow their lawns to get rid of the grass instead of growing edible plants?
A Question From Mars

Dear Mars,
I suspect those Kentucky blue grass dreamers are nostalgic for a prairie childhood. Or maybe they are channeling visions of their mother’s English rose garden. Certainly a more meaningful metaphor for beauty and sustainability is the Slow Food Nation Victory Garden in San Francisco. The raised beds around San Francisco’s City Hall were tended by organic gardeners who grew produce for local food banks and meal programs in 2008. That was a good idea that really took root. Why not plant the seeds for something similar in your own neighborhood?

Such a project will require some planning, so enlist the help of local energetic experts to offer hands-on workshops in soil preparation, water-wise gardening, starting seeds, and the like.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

—William Cullen Bryant, “The Gladness of Nature”

If you really want a grow-your-own revolution, begin now. Your own garden and enthusiasm for the community effort could be the start of something big and beautiful.
❊

8.30.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
On a hill above my apartment, is a home where several times a week numerous people gather to laugh. Loudly. Apparently it is class in laughter therapy. In theory I have no objection, and if it makes those who are ill feel better for a while, I'm okay with it.

The problem is, it isn't real laughter, it sounds exactly like a theater troupe party scene, with people laughing in the manner of their perceived character, which is to say awful. It sounds like a dinner table of old people simultaneously choking on chicken bones. It drives me bat guano insane, as if they were telling knock-knock jokes or singing And Bingo Was His Name-o for two hours. In me, it has the exact opposite effect hoped for: I want to kill.

I understand laughter is considered the best medicine, but what about false laughter? Wouldn't poetic souls shun false laughter as they should shun false sentiment? Do people really have to be taught how to laugh?
Signed Argyle

Dear Argyle,
Most urban neighborhoods have noise ordinances. According to the LAPD Noise Enforcement Guidelines: “Excessive, unnecessary, and/or annoying noise is subject to regulation.” So, if you are truly going bats, call the cops and have them zip it for you. That’s that. But then you get the reputation as Crankiest Old Man on the Block.

Or, you could visit your neighbors at Happy Hour and see what’s so darn funny. Aren’t you curious? Maybe chicken bones in the throat sound more genuine close-up. Laughter is a social construct, so yes, in a way we are taught to laugh by those we’re laughing with. The body does not discern between forced or spontaneous laughter—the mind makes that distinction. Laughter is also contagious, which is the idea behind the therapy you find so annoying.

“. . . Our lives are spinning out
from world to world;
the shapes of things
are shifting in the wind.
What do we know
beyond the rapture and the dread? . . .”

—Stanley Kunitz, from “The Abduction”

Ms. Metaphor consults with the poets for practical poetic advice and cannot speak for poetic souls, and whether they ought to shun false sentiment or false laughter. Some poets are actually pretty corny. Some are genuinely funny. That’s just it—if you could see the humor in this situation you’d have enough material for a book.

P.S. Can pretending to laugh make you happy?
(See for yourself.)
❊

8.20.10
Okay. Here's a question for Ms. Metaphor:
Why do some people call it love when the moon hits their eye like a big pizza pie, and others call it love when the stars make them drool just like pasta fazool? What's with all the references to Italian food? And what the hell IS pasta fazool anyway?
A Texas Barbeque Guy

Dear T.B. Guy,
Pasta fazool is a rustic Italian tomato stew made with short pasta and borlotti beans. Italians, and those who love Italian food, know that love and food are twined like spaghetti around a fork.

However, my dear T.B. Guy, Ms. Metaphor is unclear what advice you seek. If you are looking for definitions you ought to visit my sister-in-law down the hall, Mrs. Metaphor. She’s the librarian.

“. . . .The first white wall of the village
Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking?
So the meaning escapes.

The first white wall of the village . . .
The fruit-trees . . . ”

—Wallace Stevens from “Metaphors of a Magnifico”
❊

8.18.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My boyfriend and I have been dating for over three years. We both have our own places, and have lived alone for nearly a decade—obviously we are independent people. We live an hour apart, but now we are thinking about renting a place together.

Sometimes this feels right, other times I am still glad to get away to my own place. Weekends I usually drive down to his house, since he's allergic to my cat. The drive is getting tiring, but I do love spending time with him. Plus, I feel there is a depth to a relationship that one cannot reach when living apart.

What do you think? Is it a good idea for two independent people to live together? Is there much to gain?
Contemplating the Next Move

Dear Contemplator,
Is convenience at the top of your cohabiter list? Then it would be sensible to share expenses as well as companionship and move in together. If you have similar tastes in food and decor, even better—playing house would be fun. But, what about your cat friend? Doesn’t sound like kitty is invited. Are you willing to walk away from that relationship? Curious. Do you love your cat? Love your boyfriend more?

Love and convenience don’t always make great bedmates. (See Yours Truly Sleepless, 8.16.10). A roommate is someone you can live with; a bedmate is someone you can’t live without. Which one would you circle in the want ads?

Heed the poet Christina Rossetti:

“. . . I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be—
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not 'mine' or 'thine';
With separate 'I' and 'thou' free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love . . .”

Now, if you were Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered you’d be humming Ella Fitzgerald. Who do you suppose she would choose?
❊

8.17.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I am wondering how to beat summer heat without leaving town? Please help.
Hot as Hell

Dear Hot,
Ah, the big weather question. Whether to weather the hot season, or to while away far away from the maddening shroud. How soon we forget the cool spring rains and dark winter nights of seasons past. If only we could remember how we longed for hot summer nights in the dead of winter. How we wished for a sunny day when it was raining. None of that seems to matter when it’s 110 in
the shade.

Try to mix-up your routine so that you rest during the afternoon heat and save your energy for the night. If you must be about during the day, you might find a sweet spot in town—it could be by the fountain in the park or in the shade of a mother oak, to take your ease. If the heat is really unbearable, a short day trip to enjoy a foggy morning by the sea or breezy afternoon in the mountains will restore your spirits.

“In summer's heat, and mid-time of the day,
To rest my limbs, upon a bed I lay;
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood . . .”

—Ovid, “In Summer’s Heat”
❊

8.16.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I require eight hours of sleep a night and not a minute less; however, in the midnight hour, my lover cries More! which is causing me to lose sleep and my ability to think things through in the process. I do not think I can keep this up much longer!
Yours Truly Sleepless

Dear Sleepless,
The Lover and The Sleeper do not belong in the same room. The solution to sleepless nights with your partner is simply to sleep alone. Even the great lovers Simone de Beauvoir and Jean Paul Sartre quite sensibly lived in separate houses down the street from one another. (They had
date night.)

“Sleep is supposed to be
By souls of sanity
The shutting of the eye.

Sleep is the station grand
Down which, on either hand
The hosts of witness stand!”

—Emily Dickinson, “Sleep is supposed to be”

Now, if your lover cries More! And you want less, that sounds like your circadian rhythms are off. You might want to synchronize your watches.
Or rewind.
❊

8.14.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I'm recently married and have discovered my spouse is a nudist. I'm very unused to large expanses of flesh in daily settings, I mean mundane daily settings. Please advise me as to how I should respond?
Baffled Bride

Dear Baffled Bride,
It appears you have married a man who is content to air his withers and other sun-deprived tenders come what may. How charming your husband trusts you and wants to share himself with you so completely.

And yet . . .

“O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!”

—Wm. Shakespeare, “Hamlet”

Now please don’t get caught up in righteous indignation over domestic nudity. You don’t want to make a big deal about such a . . . little thing.

If the mystery revealed impinges on your sense of decorum, perhaps you could give him a change of at-home-leisure-wear. A tunic from Tunisia might be airy enough to accommodate your spouse’s need to feel unencumbered. Or kurta pajamas could fit the bill. How about a hippie dashiki to camp out in? If you present options in a loving, playful manner, your partner will want to play along.
❊

8.12.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Did I take the wrong bus in my youth? Should I have lingered in Spain that summer? Majored in anthropology instead of the violin?
Bewildered

Dear Bewildered,
If ever there were a question that begged for a stanza of Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” this would be it:

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same . . .”

You see that last line of the second stanza? “Though as for that the passing there/
Had worn them really about the same . . .” Whichever path one takes leads to another and yet another. The path becomes a weaving of our fancies and flights that somehow suits our soul’s temperament at journey’s end. Bewildered or bedazzled, besotted or bespeckled, so we must be. Be happy, wherever you are.
❊

8.11.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
When someone says, “Oh, grow up!” are we supposed to listen?
Boy-o

Dear Boy-o,
When one is admonished to “Oh, grow up” it is usually an indication of bad company or bad timing. Ah, the carefree days of youth,
as Dylan Thomas recalled in “Fernhill”:

“Now as I was young and easy under the apple      boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass      was green,
          The night above the dingle starry,
               Time let me hail and climb
          Golden in the heydays of his eyes . . .”

However, we must remember that Dylan Thomas did grow up and drank himself to death before he was 50, something Ms. Metaphor does not recommend. Perhaps that certain someone who chides, “Oh grow up,” hopes to remind you that nostalgia is a thing of the past. Grown-ups often live in the future. If you hope for a happy present-tense, attend to your grown-up work as you must, yet retain your childish sense of adventure. Then you’ve completed all the requirements—now you can go out and play.
❊

8.10.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
How can I tell if she really loves me, or is just using me for her temporary amusement
and pleasure?
Man Overboard

Dear Man Overboard,
You don’t say how long you’ve been in this relationship, but your question reveals doubt about its longevity. Are you both having fun sharing amusement and pleasure? Perhaps you are insecure about the future of this fine romance.

“. . . In the Chekhov story,
the lovers live in a cloud, above the sheer witness of a valley.

They call it circumstance. They look up at the open wing
of the sky, or they look down into the future.”

—Stanley Plumly, from “In Passing”

Lovers, newly smitten, confess they are “head over heels in love.” Enjoy the tumble. However, if you get stuck in a summersault, it’s not that comfortable. First you fall in love, but then you get up, and face the laundry and other ordinary tasks. If this new love is to be your true love, you’ll know it when things get ordinary.
❊

8.9.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
We live in the grooviest secret little artist’s town in California, but we’re from Florida and all our family and romance roots are here, and we love it here. Must we choose one happy-forever-after home?
West or East

Dear West or East,
Why must you choose?

“Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought
of here?
Where should we be today?”

—Elizabeth Bishop from “Questions of Travel”

Why not be bi-coastal and have the best of both bodies of water? If two households are too much to manage, why not create your own time-share and arrange a house exchange with another couple with similar interests and property? Try it out for a limited time, say one month. If everything is mutually agreeable, work out a long-range plan. The “Bon Voyage!” and “Welcome Home!” parties alone will assure you will be both missed and welcomed from coast to coast.
❊

8.6.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
What is the measure of a life well-lived?
Need-to-Know

Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Why do the young die? Why does anyone die? If poetry cannot answer that, what can it answer?
World-Weary

Dear Need-to-Know & World-Weary,
I am answering your questions together because they emanate from the same source. These are excellent questions that we all must ponder every now and again, particularly when faced with the death of friends and loved ones.

“There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. . . ”

—Pablo Neruda translated by Robert Bly, from “Nothing But Death”

We measure our lives as we go—marking progress by our accomplishments, noting the milestones with ceremonies of firsts as we matriculate, graduate, confabulate, tabulate, expostulate, capitulate, and expire. Sometimes poetry drives right up next to meaning, sometimes music carries the world-weary to the other side. However, that is not the measure of a life well-lived. The measure is simply how well we have loved.
❊

8.5.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Can you please tell me why love is so darn difficult? I seem to always fall into a relationship with someone who really isn’t good for me. How does one find companionship and true compatibility?
Sad Darn Heart

Dear Sad,
Love is easy. Relationships are difficult. The principal difficulty arises with our expectations, which may depart from the same station, but end up in totally different states. I suppose on the first date one could insist on a compatibility test, or consult with the stars, or make a list of Always and Nevers, then compare notes with the intended lover. However, relationships are rarely planned in advance. Love resists logic—it’s just not scientific.

“She pressed her lips to mind.
—a typo
How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air. . .”

—Stephen Dunn, from “The Kiss”

If you find yourself in a spiral of relationship abuse, neglect, or ennui: Stop it! Consider a love-fast—could be time to detox. Go to the mountains or the sea, somewhere where humans are not in charge, and commune with the ineffable. Then, keep quiet about it.

As for companionship and true compatibility, a dog is most reliable.
❊

8.3.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
How do you give a kitten medication without getting scratched?
Sarah

Dear Sarah,
Judy Nelson (OjaiCatConsultant@gmail.com), recommends swaddling the little critter in a towel and administering the medication according to your vet’s instructions. Ms. Nelson cautions, “If your kitty is freaked out, wait until she is calmer before you attempt to medicate.”

Try to calm yourself as well. Clear your mind of anxious thoughts or possible negative scenarios. Use a sweet, reassuring tone as you speak to your cat. Tell her you are her friend and you want to help her. If you can picture a calm, successful transmission before you attempt ministrations, you’ll have a better chance of success.

“. . . When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.”

—T.S. Eliot, “The Naming of Cats”
❊

8.2.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
When a gal feels like she can't afford to and can't afford not to, how can she determine the actual costs?
Gotta Go Gal

Dear Go Gal,
This question is not readily determined by merely adding up the columns to see whether it’s red or black. Actual costs go beyond numbers. First, you must determine the extent of your commitment to this enterprise. Try this: toss a coin. Heads yes, tails no. While the coin is still suspended in air, you will know your most ardent desire. The outcome you wish for will be revealed before the coin lands.

Once you are clear what you want to do—regardless of the cost—then the next step, how to get there from here, will be revealed. Remember relay races at camp? Ready. Set. Go. What you really want is your Ready. What you need to do is your Set. Actually doing it is your Go.

“. . .The pain was never replaced, nor was it quite erased.
It's memory now—so you know just how lucky you are.

You didn't always. Were you then? And where's the fear?
Inside your words, like an engine? The car
you are?!

Face it, friend, you most exist when you're driven
away, or on—by forms and forces greater than you are.”

—Peter Cole, from “The Ghazal of What Hurt”
❊

7.30.10
Okay Ms. Metaphor,
I have a dear old friend who fell in love with a dastardly guy, which she doesn't know, except that he cheated on his wife with her before they got together—but that doesn't seem to bother her. He's a college professor and treats his students like dirt, using his position to get sexual favors and even humiliating other students because of their disabilities. Do I tell this friend, or what? I can't stand to be around her partner—even though he's always been the height of civility around me.
H.M.

Dear H.M.,
Good friends, like good poker players, know when to play and know when to fold. If you were to point out the obvious—Mr. Dastardly Guy is a cad and a rude fellow, it would illuminate no great truth in your friend’s eyes.

As Shakespeare observed,
“Love is blind and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit.”

Rather than give your friend a piece of your mind, cultivate peace of mind and arrange to visit when Mr. D is not around. Since the two of you are dear old friends, she will appreciate your loyalty and support. However, you must know that you cannot save your friend from her troubles, you can only save yourself the trouble of getting into the thick of it all.
❊

7.29.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
The other day in China I saw two people using rain clouds for umbrellas.
How is this possible?
J.D.

Dear J.D.,
As a child I was told all you had to do was dig deep enough and eventually you would reach China, but everything would be upside down. Truly, when you see the other side of the world you are completely turned around.

Perhaps E.E.Cummings had a similar childhood experience when he wrote,

“ . . . here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the    bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which    grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars    apart
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)”
❊

7.28.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Why is it easier to gain credibility with work nationally and internationally than at home?
Wanting Credibility

Dear Ms. Cred,
Even Jesus was just the carpenter’s son in Nazareth.
“For Jesus himself testified, that a prophet hath no honor in his own country.”
—King James Bible

When we are in another country or even in another state of mind, we display best behavior—we dress smarter, are more polite, listen keenly with interest to strangers, we’re just more attentive to the moment. Once home again, we settle into our old holey dungarees and familiar patterns of burps and mumbles and assumptions. Credibility is another word for respect, which lives on a two-way street.

“Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.”
—Elizabeth Alexander

How to get the extra credit you deserve at home? Polish your presence. Be present.
Give presents. Do this without expecting anything in return and your credibility will be undeniable.
❊

7.27.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My day has been filled with observing and abiding the arrog... um, insistence of my acquaintances upon behavior that seems to make their experiences of life significantly more complicated.

Have you a metaphor to help me understand this aspect of our human nature?
L.G.

Dear L.G.,
Let me tease out your particular question. Is your difficulty truly with “acquaintances”? Do you find yourself exasperated by the clumsy way ordinary people go about their appointed tasks? Are the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker all getting on your nerves? Are they merely inept? Or are you impatient—expecting something in particular?

“I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” —Walt Whitman

Since we are all operating under our own assumptions, it’s nigh on to impossible to get to someone else to understand exactly what we want, even if it’s perfectly reasonable and we write it down. Everyone has their own way of doing what they do. Either you can accept that the worker bee will find his way back to the hive, or you make your own honey. By yourself.
❊

7.26.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Is there a way to use poetry to get house guests who have overstayed their welcome to leave? If not poetry, what sort of weaponry might be legally used?
Over-Loaded

Dear Over-Loaded,
Ms. Metaphor would never suggest weapons against guests or other intruders. There is no metaphor in death, since that would mean the end of the story. “When you’re dead, you’re dead,” observed the young poet Allen Ginsberg.

You could pack your guests a sack lunch and give them a copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac. Offer to take them to the train station. Ask if they would they prefer the 7 or 10 o’clock Special?

No need to apologize or go on about what your plans are—if your house guests are not reading the signs and don’t notice they’ve overstayed their welcome they aren’t going to respond to a subtle hint. Be up front and direct. Solitude is reason enough.

“None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!”
—Lord Byron
❊

7.24.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
No sooner met but we looked; no sooner looked but we loved; no sooner loved but we sighed; no sooner sighed but we asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but we sought the remedy from you, Ms. Metaphor.
—Mr. N. Love So Soon

Dear Mr. Soon,
This is either love at first sight or longing at first sigh. Since you asked for a “remedy” I suggest a trip to Venice and the Bridge of Sighs.

Ophelia once described the sigh of her lover, Hamlet:

“He raised a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being: that done, he lets me go.”

A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh but a sigh, yet such things matter, as nuance in music matters, or breath in poetry. Delve deeper into this matter. The remedy you seek resides in your longing.
❊

7.22.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
How are you at poetic prophecy and solutions? I have two questions:
Finances: How do I get off the money merry-go-round, while the economy sucks?
Romance: Will I partner with this nice smart, interesting, and financially stable man?
Ms. Wondering

Dear Ms. Wondering,
These two questions appear to be connected in your mind, so we shall endeavor to answer in tandem as well. “Money can’t buy happiness,” remarked Clare Booth Luce, “but it certainly lets you choose your own form of misery.”

If you want to get off the money merry-go-round, you’ll need to find another way to do business. Since money is merely a metaphor for energy, then barter, trade, and services-for-services are all alternatives for keeping up appearances without actual money-for-stuff. However, if you really want to get off the go-round, you’ll have to invent a whole new vocabulary—and economy.

As for the potential partner, Ms. Metaphor is better at practical poetic advice than divination. My guess is that since you asked about Finance before Romance that is your priority. But, since you asked, we consulted the Magic 8-Ball and the answer came up: Outlook not so good. Ms. Metaphor doesn’t feel that definite. It might be maybe.

“Maybe he believes me, maybe not.
Maybe I can marry him, maybe not.

Maybe the wind on the prairie,
The wind on the sea, maybe,
Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tell.

I will lay my head on his shoulder
And when he asks me I will say yes,
Maybe.”—Carl Sandburg
❊

7.21.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
How can I cultivate creativity?
W.

Dear W.,
What do you love to do? What lights your fire? What makes your heart sing? What gives you grins? Take cues from what pleases you most and begin by cultivating a space for that very thing. For instance, say you’d like to paint in watercolors. You have paints, but they’re in a box in the garage, and the paper is in a drawer somewhere and there’s no room on your desk.

Eliminate clutter—trade or give away stuff you don’t need. Gather your materials and create a place to play. A spare table will do. Leave your play-space set up so you can visit often. No need for an appointment, just drop in anytime. Ten minutes here and there can add up to a whole lot of fun. You may just find that those little visits please you so much you’ll want to spend the whole day with your creative self.

“ . . . since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world”
—e.e. cummings

Go ahead, ask yourself out on an art date. Go to a museum by yourself for inspiration, make notes and sketches in a journal; notice what good ideas you have. Take yourself by the hand and take advantage of yourself. Begin.
❊

7.20.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
According to a recent New York Times article, experts now concede the old metaphor about bad seeds is apparently true—there really are awful children.

But this raises a question: What other metaphors might we be overlooking in our high-tech 21st century? Any examples come to mind?
K.S.

Dear K.S.,
As a metaphor for our age, I think The Medium is the Massage—Marshall McLuhan (1967) sums it up. ‘Tho You Are What You Eat—Victor Lindlahr (1942) covers a lot of territory. Metaphorical truths sound kind of highfalutin, like they live in that Mansion on the Hill. Whereas little ol' clichés are like biscuits in the half-off box at the bakery: cheap, and rather stale. At first glance pre-packaged language looks like a bargain—until you take too big a bite and can’t swallow it.

That bad seed is often followed by the apple never falls far from the tree, which eventually leads to an observation that one bad apple won’t spoil the whole bunch. The interesting thing is that it’s all so true. Well, mostly true. Sometimes. Or not.

Perhaps it’s just familiar. We’re so primed for the punch line in this set-up, it’s disappointing when the players don’t follow the script and that bad seed turns out to be the apple of his mother’s eye. Ms. Metaphor cannot cotton to bad seed theories, tested or not. Metaphorical truths hold to a higher ground. But I digress.

Poetry, wrote Marianne Moore,
“I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.”
❊

7.19.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
I’m at the SeaTac Airport wondering how to start-up a conversation with a suitable gentleman. “Have you read any good books lately?” seems overused. What should I say to get the conversation going?
Sincerely Wistful

Dear Wisty,
Here’s a couple of conversation starters:
Weather: How about this weather! I’ve never seen it so hot (or cold/rainy/balmy)!
National news: Isn’t it terrible that (fill-in-the-blank) happened to (fill-in-the-blank)?
If that seems too prosaic, you could quote Rainer Maria Rilke:

“It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it.”

Or

“Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.”

However, you will run the risk of frightening the poor fellow. Truly, the best conversation is served fresh daily. Be spontaneous. Let your own sweet courageous self spark the tête-à-tête. Then listen, and allow the heart-to-heart to ignite from its own combustion.
❊

7.17.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My SWAT guy, who’s now in Iraq with Special Army Forces, and I have been talking for sooo long on AOL—four years—it’s intense. Meanwhile, I have my own life, which I am remodeling, refinancing and rebuilding. My entire Empire—just like he is. Should I wait for him? What should I do about this long distance relationship?
Chicago

Dear Chicago,
You don’t sound like the type who likes to wait if you’re already occupied with the three Rs and building your own Empire. Likewise, a person employed in Special Forces is probably someone who lives in the moment. The two of you share similar temperaments.

“To wait, or not to wait,” that is the question, to paraphrase the Old Bard. Let me ask: What are you waiting for? A career change? A marriage proposal? That mansion on the hill? Have you discussed future tense with your Special Force these past four years on AOL? Do you share the Vision Thing? If the answer is no, but you have strong feelings, you could still maintain this relationship, such as it is, with the understanding your respective careers come first.

Successful relationships, whether in love or business share a unity of purpose. What’s yours?

“You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine. . .”
—Jacques Crickillon
❊

7.16.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
What rhymes with “orange”?
Sincerely Stuck

Dear Stuck,
Ah, the orange question. I was expecting this.

The word orange has no perfect rhyme in the English language. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the only word that comes close is sporange, which is an alternative form of sporangium (a botanical term for part of a fern). However, even sporange is not a true rhyme for orange—the stress is off.

Civil War poet Arthur Guiterman did manage a proper noun rhyme in his poetic tribute to Captain Gorringe in his poem “Local Note”:

“In Sparkill buried lies that man of mark
Who brought the Obelisk to Central Park.
Redoubtable Commander H. H. Gorringe,
Whose name supplies the long-sought rhyme for 'orange.'”
❊

7.14.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Recently, I took my son and his girlfriend out to dinner at an upscale restaurant. I noticed the girlfriend spent a lot of time texting on her iPhone, but shrugged it off as the habit of this new generation. Later, to my horror, I discovered the girl took a very unflattering photo of me, wine glass in hand and posted it on Facebook with the caption: “This is my future father-in-law acting like an alcoholic and looking like a letch!”

I have a lot friends on Facebook, many of whom are business associates. What can I do about this embarrassing post? What should I say to my son and his girlfriend?
Shocked, Not Awed

Dear Shocked,
Triage first: remove the offending photo from your Facebook profile with the Untag Photo button. Others will still be able see the unflattering post at the originator’s site, however. To have the photo removed completely, click on Report This Photo and select a reason under the Terms of Use bar. Valid reasons for removal are: nudity or porn; drug use; excessive gore or violent content; and personal attacks on an individual or group—which this sounds like. Mirror FB language in your succinct report. Report only big offences, or FB will give you a timeout for excessive belly-aching.

Then, take a deep breath and try to see how silly this is. Remember, even if you have 2,000 friends, most likely only a few saw the post since updates are happening all the time. Check to make sure your sense of humor is still in your back pocket.

“I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.”—Dorothy Parker

Although you may wish to Unfriend your “future daughter-in-law” I vote to keep her in the family loop for now. Next time the three of you are all together, remind them both that you use FB for professional contacts as well as family fun. Be direct and specific: “Don’t do that again.”

That said, you sir, need to review your own supper-side manner. Could it be with two bottles of cabernet you get carried away? Check the dosage. And, next time you all go out to dinner, ask your guests to leave cell phones in the car—tell them you want more real face time, less Facebook crime.
❊

7.13.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
My youngest daughter insists on accompanying me to meet the love of my life (whom I haven’t seen in 30 years)— And she wants to bring her boyfriend.
OMG Help Me!

Dear OMG,
Ms. Metaphor is puzzled by The Love of My Life declaration, which as a metaphor is often misused. Perhaps what you mean is Friend of My Youth.

“Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.”—Anne Sexton

Meeting up with Friend of My Youth may engender a false sense of security and trust. After all one thinks, I’ve known my sweet desire since I was 20. True, but 30 years have passed and are unaccounted for. Even though he or she is your familiar, you really don’t know each other now. Go ahead and visit, but try to arrive with as little luggage and expectations as you can manage. As for bringing your insistent daughter and boyfriend on the trip, why not? Sounds like fun for the whole family.
❊

7.12.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Why am I so tired?
N. Somniac

Dear Somni,
If you are signing letters “N. Somniac,” then you already know why you are so tired. You need more rest. If you are achy-breaky bone-tired, you might have a vitamin deficiency, which a simple blood test could confirm, but if by “so tired” you mean the Weary Blues, I’m sorry to say the cure is not so simple.

“I got the weary blues and I can’t be satisfied,” —Langston Hughes

However, if by “so tired” you mean the Summertime Blues, well son, there ain’t no cure for the Summertime Blues.
❊

7.10.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Can you give me advice concerning furniture? All my furniture is still in Boston, but I’m moving in a couple of weeks to Sierra Madre, California. I do not wish to buy something I do not care for once ensconced — a fear indeed — and neither do I wish to pay exorbitant prices for something I might not like later. What would Ms. Metaphor do?
Ms. Dilemma

My Dear Ms. Dilemma,
Since your future furniture possibilities are endless, you must narrow your gaze to just in front of your nose. Sit with your spine straight in a comfortable position on a cushion on the floor inside your new home or outside on a grassy mound within view of your new place. Close your eyes. Breathe in and out. Relax. Allow the pictures to come to your mind’s eye. How do you see yourself relaxing? Are you prone or supine? Propped up with cushy pillows or supported by an overstuffed armchair? Take note of the pictures you receive.

Elizabeth Bishop noticed,
“Extraordinary geraniums
crowded the windows,
the floors glittered with
assorted linoleums . . .”

Select one extraordinary yet absolutely practical piece for your new home. This first purchase need not be brand new; you might find it at a yard sale or thrift store. It might be an IKEA find or World Market Import bargain. Start with the one thing that you will use most, that is aesthetically pleasing and useful. Once you have your comfort zone selected, the rest of your furniture needs will be illuminated as naturally as a full moon on a new-mowed meadow.
❊

7.9.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Pray tell, Ms. Faux,
How does one go
To “remove a stain (which ever you chose)”
From my silk brassiere
Drenched with booze?
Your Loyal Reader Ms. Doody

Dear Ms. Doody,
While Lady Macbeth tried in vain to scrub away her misdeed—“Out, damned spot! out, I say!” (Act V; Scene I. MacBeth), delicate fabric stains are best left to soak, rather than scrubbed, since the fibers can be flattened or broken with over vigorous washing. What you soak it in depends on what you got soaked with. Champagne? No worries, unless it was Perrier Jouet and that $50 glass of Champagne never touched your lips. (That is the taste of regret.) If possible, remove the garment immediately and rinse with cool water. If you are drinking Champagne in su nido with your sweet Baboo, then this would be the natural progression of events anyway. Always best to attend to a stain as soon as possible, but kisses come first.

Red wine is a brassiere of a different color. If you are at a party or out to dinner, calmly blot the red stain (don’t rub!) then douse the spot with your date’s white wine to neutralize it. Club soda or vinegar will also do the job. Once home, combine one part hydrogen peroxide with two parts mild liquid detergent and apply to the offending spot. In the morning, rinse and repeat.

If the red wine stain persists, you can always dye that pink silk brassiere a brighter shade of ale. And remember: a stain, like a scar is testimony to a life in progress.

“I lie here thinking of you/ the stain of love is upon the world!”
—William Carlos Williams
❊

7.5.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
What should I do when I walk in a dream and I know I'm not dreaming?
Semi-conscious in San Francisco

Dear Semi,
It is clear you are a poet. When the dreamer knows the dream is real and reality but a dream, then the dreamer is living a poem. Write it down.

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!
Live the life you’ve imagined.”
—Henry David Thoreau
❊

7.5.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Why is Mercury always in retrograde at the most inconvenient times?
Star-Stuck

Dear Star-Stuck,
Mercury retrograde is one of astrology’s finest metaphors and greatest jokes. The root of the word “retro” means to return or revolve contrary to the norm. Therefore, when Mercury goes retrograde it is a time to reconstruct, realign and review, which may just feel as out of place as Fred Flintstone at a Star Trek convention in Vegas.

Actually, Mercury goes retrograde at regular intervals during the year, so it really is right on schedule. The inconvenience you experience is likely more annoyance at your own lack of preparation.

Robert Frost wrote:
“And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.”

Since you do have the gift of sight, look ahead, plan accordingly and you’ll be sailing on the silks of serenity, untroubled by Mercury’s scheduled downtime.
❊

7.5.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
Is there any substitute for garlic in Italian cooking? The woman in my life hates it (in her mouth or in mine) and Italian food seems bland to me without it. Please help!
Giuglielmo

Dear Giuglielmo,
No. There is no substitute for garlic.

Marianne Moore longed for “imaginary gardens with real toads in them . . ,” But you cannot have imaginary garlic in your real marinara sauce. Perhaps you and your girlfriend may find mutual enjoyment exploring a different cuisine. I suggest a trip to the Spice Islands to collect recipes and marinate in another culture.
❊

7.5.10
Dear Ms. Metaphor,
How does one remove a stain in one's tie while at a dinner party?
Tied-up

Dear Tied-Up,
Wear a Jerry Garcia designed tie. The wild colors and random patterns look even better with the addition of a little bouillabaisse. Please don’t fuss with a stain at the table.

However, if you are wearing a solid color tie, excuse yourself, then once in the men’s room, remove the tie and with a damp handkerchief try to lift the spot. (If you get it too wet, it will dry with a noticeable blob.)

If that attempt is unsatisfactory, simply roll up the tie and put it in your suit pocket. Return to the party sans tie with a smile and jaunty step that proclaims, Nothing’s gonna tie me down!

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
—Dylan Thomas
❊

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