December 2018
Tad Richards
tad@tadrichards.com
tad@tadrichards.com
Note: I have assiduously, or mostly assiduously, avoided using myself as a subject for poetry, and when I comes to prose I have always been a model of assiduousness. Above all, I have always sworn i would never write a memoir. Somehow, that is exactly what I’m doing now, having sort of been tricked into it—a memoir in little anecdotal bursts on Facebook. More characteristically, I have just released “Listening to Prestige Vol. 3, 1957-58,” the third in my history of the jazz label Prestige Records. I’ve recently finished a new novel and sent it to an agent who loves it. Cross your fingers for me.
THE BALLAD OF OCNOPHILE AND PHILOBYTE
Ocnophile: A personality type characterized by the avoidance of dangerous or unfamiliar situations and reliance on external objects or other people for security. Often contrasted with philobyte.
Philobyte: A personality type characterized by enjoyment of the challenge of coping alone with dangerous and uncertain situations. Often contrasted with ocnophile.
Here's a tale that's sad but true
Though psychologically sound,
About the girl that Frankie lost
Because she would not stick around.
Frankie was an ocnophile,
He loved those old familiar faces,
Comfy chairs and cozy rooms,
But not those dreadful open spaces.
One night across a crowded room
Frankie spotted little Nell,
He fell in love with her on sight—
He loved the crowded room as well.
But there are things it's hard to tell
When we choose lovers at first sight,
And so it was with little Nell:
Nellie was a philobyte.
She tiptoed warily about
A world of ocnophilic snares,
Soft leg irons of security,
Like cozy rooms and comfy chairs.
She found her harbor on the road,
Much like John Wayne in The Searchers,
With room to breathe and, most of all,
Distance from Love, the Beast That Nurtures.
And yet her eyes and Frankie's locked
With chemistry that banished fear,
And, twinkletoeing to his side,
She breathed, "Can't we get out of here?"
The words were music to his ears,
But not heard quite the way she meant them.
What Frankie understood as prelude
Was played by Nellie as an anthem.
And such is life: one's harmony
Another finds harsh and atonal.
When Frankie heard the mating song,
For Nell, it was l'etude hormonal.
But that one evening, though the back
seat of his BMW
was cramped for her and wild for him,
the melody was pas de deux.
Content, he snoozed upon the soft
Quicksilver pillow of her breast.
Gently, she replaced it with
Her duffel bag; quickly, she dressed.
And as he dreamed of his and hers
Towels, her thumb flashed in the night.
A car stopped, bound for Monterey;
"Why not?" replied the philobyte.
Now Frankie has a duffel bag
Of memories: patched jeans, Earth Shoes,
Toothpaste and Tampax, On The Road
And Even Cowgirls Get The Blues.
Some evenings, still, he stirs and wakes
From dreams that he's run off and found her.
He sighs, puts on a Janis tape
And burrows in his BarcaLounger.
THE BALLAD OF OCNOPHILE AND PHILOBYTE
Ocnophile: A personality type characterized by the avoidance of dangerous or unfamiliar situations and reliance on external objects or other people for security. Often contrasted with philobyte.
Philobyte: A personality type characterized by enjoyment of the challenge of coping alone with dangerous and uncertain situations. Often contrasted with ocnophile.
Here's a tale that's sad but true
Though psychologically sound,
About the girl that Frankie lost
Because she would not stick around.
Frankie was an ocnophile,
He loved those old familiar faces,
Comfy chairs and cozy rooms,
But not those dreadful open spaces.
One night across a crowded room
Frankie spotted little Nell,
He fell in love with her on sight—
He loved the crowded room as well.
But there are things it's hard to tell
When we choose lovers at first sight,
And so it was with little Nell:
Nellie was a philobyte.
She tiptoed warily about
A world of ocnophilic snares,
Soft leg irons of security,
Like cozy rooms and comfy chairs.
She found her harbor on the road,
Much like John Wayne in The Searchers,
With room to breathe and, most of all,
Distance from Love, the Beast That Nurtures.
And yet her eyes and Frankie's locked
With chemistry that banished fear,
And, twinkletoeing to his side,
She breathed, "Can't we get out of here?"
The words were music to his ears,
But not heard quite the way she meant them.
What Frankie understood as prelude
Was played by Nellie as an anthem.
And such is life: one's harmony
Another finds harsh and atonal.
When Frankie heard the mating song,
For Nell, it was l'etude hormonal.
But that one evening, though the back
seat of his BMW
was cramped for her and wild for him,
the melody was pas de deux.
Content, he snoozed upon the soft
Quicksilver pillow of her breast.
Gently, she replaced it with
Her duffel bag; quickly, she dressed.
And as he dreamed of his and hers
Towels, her thumb flashed in the night.
A car stopped, bound for Monterey;
"Why not?" replied the philobyte.
Now Frankie has a duffel bag
Of memories: patched jeans, Earth Shoes,
Toothpaste and Tampax, On The Road
And Even Cowgirls Get The Blues.
Some evenings, still, he stirs and wakes
From dreams that he's run off and found her.
He sighs, puts on a Janis tape
And burrows in his BarcaLounger.
© 2018 Tad Richards
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