And Now, Watch Me Tap Dance...

Today as I've been thinking about what to write, I am reminded of an old Mary Tyler Moore episode in which the news station is supposed to cover that year's election results.  They are all set to go, and have the ballot ticker which feeds into the vote count so they can report live as the tallies are coming in.  They even have a board on which they change the numbers for each candidate, Vanna White-style, aka Rhoda.  Then the unthinkable happens--The ticker machine stops working smack in the middle of election coverage!  Mr. Grant, the manager, runs out into a blizzard to find the replacement part for the machine, but meanwhile, Ted Baxter, the news anchor, has to keep on covering the nonexistent election coverage live--indefinitely!  Ted, the ever effusive, narcissistic anchor, plays up every angle he can think of.  He covers the weather, he tells bad jokes, he uses large empty words, and I think, dances, all till he's sweating and red in the face.  The other stations have already called the election, but Mary, in Mr. Grant's absence, cannot ethically allow Ted to call the election on the air through hearsay only.  And so, he sweats...

Tonight I feel like Ted Baxter, stuck on-air with no information and nothing to go on but past ticker-tapes.  My jokes and stories have all been told, the dust from all past victories firmly settled, and no clue as to what's next except what I'd like it to be.

And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, let me tell you something I found amusing last night:  I quoted Shakespeare in my sleep!  Yes, that's right--In my dream I was actually trying to amend a poem I had written a few years ago by tagging onto it the first line of my favorite Shakespearean sonnet:  "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments..."  And so, I give you both the Shakespearean sonnet and my poem in their entirety.  (Mind you, my poem won 2nd place in a contest and has been published and copyrighted, so no stranger reading this need get any bright ideas about stealing my work):

SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

The Kiss

I don’t want a tepid kiss, poor-steeped tea,

weak reflection of flavor and nuance,

insult to time and blending.

You doctor hackneyed words with honey,

sick sweet watery disguise for

nothing

exciting not my senses but piteous sip of sympathy.

When all’s timidly tried I’d rather have kept you pale in cheesecloth,

 boxed neatly for another to sample your mix.

Perhaps later I’ll chance to uncover some earthy concoction

native of children, wholesome and rare.

Far before fragrance is wetted or even determined

his scent’s my companion commingled with memories.

As water adds life, and heat, the richness,

I’ll wonder at him—known, but not tasted--I’ll will self to wait.

Readied outdoors his essence to deepen

Light radiates tan infusion till

all-inspired, I drink.

There is a kiss, full-ripened and real,

precious brew finally worthy, blessed by time and sun.

 Jessica Pearce, copyright 2007

So there you have it, folks.  Never let me say I sent you away empty-handed, even as I shrug my empty hands upward.