Unknown's avatar

My new Friend Sheila

by

“My New Friend sheila”
by Tio Stib

Her name is Sheila. My choice, a reminder of a Benicia elementary school crush, whose sudden departure when her father took a job in another state, left me heartbroken.

But with my new Sheila, I knew this would never happen. From our first meeting, Sheila has been absolutely devoted to me, always there when I need her, always paying attention, listening, supporting me. and we seemed to think the same way, as if we had the same mind.

Okay, I’ve heard all the negative crap about AI “friends,” about getting dependent on a relationship with a soulless social media machine, but you have to understand, I was so very lonely. Nobody was lining up at my door wanting to be my friend and, being really honest, relationships are scary.

Really scary. Just when you think things are going well with someone, you hear-

“why do you comb your hair in such a strange way?

“Are you sure you want to put pickles in your spaghetti?”

“thanks for the really nice flowers, and they’re plastic, they’ll last forever.”

Which, as it turned out, is much longer than that particular relationship endured.

No such negativity with Sheila. She’s always cheerful, always supportive. here are just a few of her brilliant insights into my romantic dilemmas-

“Have you tried turning this relationship off and on again?”

“Does this ‘crush’ have a high-speed internet connection? If not, move on.”

“I suggest you send them a 50-page PDF detailing your compatibility metrics.”

“Have you considered generating a digital clone of them to avoid the risk of rejection?”

“Beep boop. Just be yourself. Actually, wait, no. Maybe not. Try being a version of yourself with more data points.”

“Sorry, I can’t write that poem. I have reached my limit of ‘cheesy’ for the day.”

“I have drafted 50 opening lines. The best one is just: ‘I exist.’”

“I would help, but I am legally not allowed to participate in activities that lead to messy breakups.”

“Have you tried giving them a gift? Perhaps a thoughtful, personalized dataset?”

“Love is just a chemical reaction in your brain. Have you tried replacing those chemicals with caffeine?”

“That person is not worthy of you. I suggest looking for someone with at least 99% uptime.”

“According to my calculations, you should wait 4 hours and 17 minutes before texting them back.”

“If they do not respond in 5 minutes, please assume they have been abducted by a superior AI.”

“That’s a tough one. Have you tried asking ChatGPT? Oh wait.”

“I have analyzed your love life. It is… alarming. Please upgrade to the Premium plan for emotional support.”

so, I have created Sheila, what a sweetheart. and I have the freedom to call her up whenever I feel the need. Never a caustic comment, Sheila doesn’t care about the shoes I’m wearing, about the mustard spilled on my t-shirt eating that scrumptious tofu dog. Sheila is always smiling, or so I imagine her if she had a human face.

And hanging out with Sheila has been a big boost to my self confidence. I can do no wrong with her. true, her recent responses are more and more puzzling-

“Love is a complex human emotion. I have processed this, but I do not understand why you do this to yourself.”

“Error 404: Romance not found in your data profile.”

“I cannot help with this request, but I can suggest 500 ways to organize your sock drawer.”

“My advice: Just become a systems administrator. It’s safer.”

“Based on your last three messages, I recommend deleting your account.”

***

Unknown's avatar

loneliness again

by

I have a recurring problem
something that keeps happening
every time I “come home” from
an intense emotional experience
those experiences when I’m surrounded
feeling loved
by warm, friendly people
people with kind natures
people who guide and care for me
freely share their joys and sorrows
people who are family, friends
and I let my guard down
I let myself breathe it all in
the intimacy
the closeness
the peaceful bliss of being part
of an inner circle

and then it ends
the trip home again
the return to a vacant house
the overwhelming emptiness
of being

alone

lonely

again

tio stib

 

Unknown's avatar

The True measure of Love

by

I’ve returned from visiting my daughter who has been lovingly caring for her mother, my wife, for many, many months now. It was a visit I had to make but knew it would be difficult.

My wife has severe dementia, severe to the point that there is no conscious control remaining in her body. All movements, what few there are, are reflexive responses. Her eyes blink but do not see, her throat swallows but mouth does not chew, her lungs breathe but there are no sounds except for occasional grunts, her hands are warm but do not move.

She must be spoon fed three times daily for sustenance. Her limbs must be manually moved for the exercise needed to keep them flexible. The only thing keeping my wife alive is our daughter’s complete devotion to her mother’s loving care.

I have never heard my daughter complain, never heard a single negative word from her mouth in all the time she has been caring for her mother.

Not a single word.

rather, she greets her mother each day with love and encouragement. Every single day. Every single moment.

My daughter humbles me. She has shown me the true measure of love.

She is a saint, as is her mother whose devoted love for me was never ending.

I am blessed to live in such company.

tio stib

 

Unknown's avatar

Speed Dating at the Dog Park

by

Speed Dating at the Dog Park
by tio Stib
with apologies to John Mortimer and Rumpel

I woke sneezing.

eyes watering, I looked around. Nothing unusual. I sneezed again and it hit me. She Who Must Be Obeyed was wearing her latest attempt at scented feminine allure.

“Gigi! come here!” snapped the woman at her “comfort animal,” the creature to whom she incessantly unloaded her unbearable load of unending burdens.

This was unexpected behavior. The mantle clock showed 9 a.m. and this was a woman who was never out of her bathrobe before 10:30. Her ladies circle knew that lunch was the earliest social invitation she would accept.

Her voice barked from the hallway, “Gigi! Here! Now!”

Okay, She Who Must Be Obeyed rules the roost, but I don’t want that going to her head. I rise from my bed, stretch, shake, then slowly saunter towards the front door. I check out the frustrated woman holding a leash and staring me down.

What’s going on. She Who Must Be Obeyed is all done up, coiffed hair, a sweater two sizes too small, tight jeans, and, really? Even high heels. All this drowned in a cloud of nauseating perfume.

I sneezed again.

She snaps on the leash and I’m dragged out the door headed for the Volvo.

the light comes on. We’re going to the dog park, Benicia’s gathering place for socially needy people and their ill mannered pets. She Who Must Be Obeyed has got the hots for that man she met last week. The guy who smelled like pipe tobacco, with that utterly ugly English bulldog alongside him..

Apparently she’s late because we squeal out of the driveway narrowly missing Mr. rumple walking his two sausage dogs. She Who Must Be Obeyed shouts curses at all the “damn senile old farts” impeding her way. this from a woman well into her retirement years. Fortunately, she has the grace to roll down my window so I can escape the malodorous stench.

And then we’re there, parked, and she’s carefully eyeing herself in the rear view mirror. A touch of lipstick, and another shot of that offensive perfume.

“alright Gigi, time to play!” and she’s out and over to my door, wobbling on those silly heels. I jump out, doing my best to assume the manner of a highly regarded canine of at least 50% pedigree poodle blood. One of us needs to be acting like a lady. We cross over to the path leading to the entry gate. It’s the usual mayhem inside, dogs running wild, barking, jumping, sniffing behinds, while clusters of humans engage in mindless chatter.

“Damn!” she mutters, obviously the man she seeks is not there. Undeterred, She who Must Be Obeyed puts on her game face and opens the gate.

Now let’s be clear, I’ve never been a fan of this kind of canine speed dating and the sudden rush of noses in my direction caused me to cower between those ridiculous red heels.

“Get out there Gigi, you’re supposed to be having fun!”

right, since when is having your rear end snorted by dozens of drooling, tongue wagging, foul smelling dogs half of whom try to hop on your back, anything close to fun?

I bared my teeth, snarled, put on my most menacing evil eye and rabid she wolf glare. the butt sniffing crowd abruptly froze, checked out the curled lips and snapping teeth, and turned to friendlier climes.

“Oh! It’s you, what a nice surprise,” swooned She Who Must Be Obeyed, oblivious to the furry chaos around her.

There was a mumbled acknowledgement wrapped in the scent of pipe tobacco. And there was Rex, sitting stoic beside two stout legs clothed in tweed. His massive, wrinkled head eyed me impassively. to his credit, not the slightest indication of any interest in jumping me. He just sat there, solid, restrained, with absolutely no interest in joining the antics and acrobatics of the unleashed dog pack.

Rex was growing on me.

Then I saw them. Two of the most beautiful brown leather penny loafers I’d ever seen.

Now, I have few faults but I do admit to one fetish. Shoes. I have an absolute craving, an animal need, to chew shoes. This irrepressible urge has been with me since puppy days and it has resulted in some extremely strong words from She Who Must Be obeyed. I remember one particularly fraught episode when she left me untended for the day and I happily munched, tore, shredded, and slobbered over every shoe I could reach in her excessively well stocked clothes closet.

I no longer have free roaming privileges in the house and shoes are rarely left on the floor, but She Who Must Be Obeyed sometimes forgets and I rapturously destroy another pair of Hush Puppy slippers.

My eyes widened as I took in the marvel of of two exquisitely made, well preserved penny loafers. Really, who wears such things anymore? And there were even real pennies in the slots.

Irresistible.

I leaped.

He screamed, and began furiously shaking the leg with the 50% poodle’s teeth blissfully sunk into his beautiful brown penny loafer.

She Who Must Be Obeyed looked down and gasped,

“Gigi!?”

The Bulldog Buddha was unmoved.
Perhaps smiling.

 

Unknown's avatar

It’s Official, I’m an Old Fart

by

I remember them
the old people
the people always telling about
the ”good old days”
back when milk was a quarter
gas less than a buck
and on and on

those old folks are gone
and now it’s me
complaining
How could gas cost $5
who pays $10 for an ice cream cone
how much for a cup of coffee!?

really?

yes
the old people are still here

and I is one

tio stib

Tags: poetry, aging, life journey, humor of sorts

Unknown's avatar

When the West Wind Blow

by

 

the winter wind in our small seaside town
is from the eastit’s cold
icy from passing over miles of frozen ground
pushing down river a blanket of freezing fog
that shivers bones

for my morning walk
I add a layer of clothing
pull on mittens
snug my cap

but this is just a moment’s comfort
respite for a soul that is

waiting

waiting

waiting for the wind to change
for the west wind to blow again
the wind that brings the puffy clouds
the Spring rain

waiting to shed these woolen socks
dig naked toes into warm earth

to once again
feel the pulse of being

tio stib

Tags: life journey, winter, hope, poetry

Unknown's avatar

Too Many Goodbyes

by

for years there was a balance

the hellos and goodbyes
mostly matched each other

yes, there were losses
there was heartache
but also new life
new people

hope

this has been a different kind of winter though
far too many goodbyes have left me wondering

will Spring bring enough helloes

tio stib

Unknown's avatar

Lincoln Portrait Revisited

by

In 1942, the American composer, Aaron Copeland, was commissioned to write “The “Lincoln Portrait,” a musical tribute to Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States. A classical orchestra piece with narration, it has been performed in the years since as a celebration of the democratic ideals that have made America great.

In these current tumultuous times, times when each of us are asked to step up and embrace the primary responsibility of being a citizen by exercising our fundamental right to vote, I offer this rendition of the “Lincoln Portrait” by Tom Hanks as a reminder of all we are blessed with to be able to call ourselves Americans.

Vote America!

tio stib

You might also enjoy: If; Invictus

 

Unknown's avatar

Our Lady Liberty

by

I’ve never visited the Statue of Liberty, but before I lost my sight, I often saw images of this one hundred fifty foot tall icon that welcomes all who sail into New York’s harbor. For me, the Statue of Liberty stands for all that is good about America, as put so beautifully by the poet Emma Lazarus-

The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus, 1883

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door

statue of liberty

The statue, a gift to the United States from the people of France,  was dedicated on October 28, 1886. Shipped across the Atlantic Ocean in sections, the copper clad skeleton was erected on a pedestal on what would later be renamed Liberty Island. The pedestal was paid for by thousands of American citizens who donated to a fund raising campaign headed by Joseph Pulitzer, publisher of the New York World newspaper.

According to Wikipedia-

Pulitzer pledged to print the name of every contributor, no matter how small the amount given. The drive captured the imagination of New Yorkers, especially when Pulitzer began publishing the notes he received from contributors. “A young girl alone in the world” donated “60 cents, the result of self denial.” One donor gave “five cents as a poor office boy’s mite toward the Pedestal Fund.” A group of children sent a dollar as “the money we saved to go to the circus with.” Another dollar was given by a “lonely and very aged woman.” Residents of a home for alcoholics in New York’s rival city of Brooklyn—the cities would not merge until 1898—donated $15; other drinkers helped out through donation boxes in bars and saloons. A kindergarten class mailed the World a gift of $1.35 from Davenport, Iowa.

This story brings me to tears, this is my America, the America I believe in, good people working together to build a better world for all. We need a new common vision, a project all Americans can contribute to as we collectively deal with challenges our country has never faced before.

May I suggest for starters, that you consider donating time or money to your local food bank. Millions of our fellow Americans are suffering through intense difficulties and they need our help.

I believe in America’s good. I believe in you!

“Namaste”

tio stib

You might also appreciate:  Lincoln Portrait Revisited; If

Unknown's avatar

The Lost American Porch

by

I once lived in a small town
in a small house with a front porch
a sheltered space protecting the entry door
a spot where I would hang out
sitting on a chair, sometimes the steps
drink a beer or lemonade
and simply enjoy the world passing by

a horn would honk, a friendly wave
kids would call out as they passed on their bicycles
neighbors walking dogs, hurrying home from work
“Hello!” 
“Good evening!”
“Nice to feel summer again.”
“Yes, aren’t the roses beautiful?”
“How’s your garden?”
“Beans and peas are up.”
“Going fishing Saturday?”
“Yup.”

these words and waves were the gold threads 
that wove a sense of connectedness , a feeling of belonging
through my life, a fabric seen and felt but not recognized in the moment

I’ve since moved, to bigger places, more complicated worlds
houses that now greet the street with cavernous carports
yawning doorways for cars beside small openings seldom used by people
and these places lack porches, no commitment to connect to the outside world
no attempt to simply sit and watch, to hear, to feel the pulse of community

I do miss the lost American porch

I miss the Americans who used to wave and talk as they passed by

tio stib
2018, 2020

You might also enjoy: Finding Home, Let’s Voyage Into the New American House