Dreaming of the Oracle and Me

Last night I dreamed I stood face to face

with the Oracle of Delphi. I am of Greek

ancestry so that didn’t seem foreign to me.

We agreed to use English to communicate

for I was most comfortable with my native

tongue. Besides, it was my dream and I in-

sisted on having my way. Why should I listen

to you, anyway? I questioned as she gyrated

her arms in the thick hallucinogenic fog from

which she came. All the folks you’ve advised

throughout history are dead now making your

track record unreliable and questionable to me.

What do you see in the future which involves

me, I asked her? It’s a mystery to me how you

came this far in the first place, she responded.

I admitted to her, that enigma amazes me as

well. You wouldn’t be looking for an assistant

or a protege would you, I asked her? Poof! She

evaporated back into her cloud of smoke, and

three and a half millennia too late, I awoke.

Chris Hanch 7-21-19

One Sheet Among the Many

I am but a copy, a facsimile of an original

long ago tossed into the recycle bin of history.

I have yellowed and wrinkled with age.

Air, sunlight and moisture are at play as the

cause of my wrinkled and brittle deterioration.

The images imprinted on my surface which in

the beginning identified my reason for being

have faded and become mostly untenable over

time. However, I do believe you can barely make

out the second to the last line. Look carefully,

see the complimentary close near the end—

it says, Sincerely. Mind you, I didn’t always mean

that. Otherwise, the context of my being has

been bleached beyond legibility. Be that as it may,

this is all which remains. Burn or shred this should

you find the time. Another copy has already
been made.

Chris Hanch 7-18-19

Something About Some Days

Some days, the pain of loneliness can be

overwhelming. Ever felt way out there,

lost in space? Happens to the best of us

at times, I know.

Some days, feeling grubby, nasty and

unfit, you just want to be left alone. Pity,

pity, poor me. I have done this to myself,

you will agree.

Some days, the sunshine and birdsong

are enough to inspire and move you along.

But the loss comes when stagnation and

feelings of worthlessness set in.

Some days, the essence of the soul seems

distant as Pluto, a dwarf planet, cold, rocky

and desolate, cast in the dim light of a far

flung sun, some 3.6 billion miles away.

Some days, unexpectedly, New Horizons,

a gift from Earth passes nearby and waves,

Hello, Pluto! Seems this took years in the

making. And out of the darkness, a better

day suddenly appears.

Some days we find the strength to go on

in synchronous harmony with the rest of

Life as we know it, orbiting in our place

merrily around the sun.

It is then you realize there is still a ray of

hope some days. It is on its way, my friend.

Wait for it!..Wait for It!...

Chris Hanch 7-19-19

Today, No Name to Claim

Today, I take my leave, placing my name

and ego aside. A dog comes when its name

is called. Today, I resist that and all other

commands. I shall flock with the birds,

crawl with the worms today. Partnered with

blades of grass and leaves on the trees, I shall

make no claims. Think of the anonymous

rolling of ocean waves or the lone soy bean

lost in a thousand acres of all the same.

The name I was given by my mother at

birth has been reversed. I am but a single

seed, one germ unseen among the trillions

hidden below the surface. It’s all a numbers

game, my friends. Name me and it is I who

am earmarked to accept both credit and blame.

Give me a break, tally me absent from your

rolls of present and accounted for. Today, and

who knows, from this moment on into eternity,

don’t call me. Should I sprout and bloom once

again, I’ll call you...maybe.

Thusly and hereby today, I am withdrawing my

name from comsideration. That old man hobbling

down the street, though he may look familiar to

you, likely it is not I you see. One soy bean lost in

a thousand acres all the same.

Chris 7-10-19

In My Mind's Eye

I have often wondered about all that

I have managed to accomplish in my

lifetime, and all which was left un-

done, will any of it really matter?

Is the world really better off or worse?

Or in the grand scheme of things, will

none of it really have mattered at all?

I believe this thought enters the mind

of most folks towards the end. I expect

we are willing to accept for the most

part, we have done the best we could.

I see a young man on the street, the

self assured one, fit and trim with a

certain swagger and vigorous bounce

to his step. That could have been a

positive and more hopeful me with

all my grand ideas some forty or fifty

years ago. It was then I came to realize

that through all those days, weeks,

months and years, with all the blood,

sweat and tears, my replacement has

finally arrived. I’m tired. It’s your turn

now, young man, Give it your best shot;

let the world see what you’ve got.

Chris Hanch 7-17-19

The Assignment

I’ve told a version of this story before, the one

about the therapist who faulted me for being

unwilling to ask for help.

I neglected to tell her about the time I had a

freelance job assigned to me by a prestigious

publishing firm.

They needed over a hundred full-color illustrations

for a children’s slide presentation they were putting

together.

The project director told me that the project had to be

completed within two weeks, preliminary sketches to

the finished works.

Can do, I told him. I needed the money, and even

though I had a full-time job to boot, I committed

to the deadline.

Son-of-a-bitch, I knew I had bitten off more than I

could chew. So, I interviewed two other artists, tying

to enlist help with my overwhelming assignment.

Neither one was suitable for the job, so I worked

alone through the nights for the next two weeks in

order to get the job done.

I had sought help which didn’t work out, so I wound

up doing the work all on my own. I had forgotten to

tell the therapist about that.

I am not Walt Disney Productions, you know. I don’t

command a staff of artists, a hundred of which can

animate Mickey Mouse at any given time.

Had that incident come to mind at the time, I may have

most certainly told that therapist of mine, you can go

eat shit and die!

Chris Hanch 7-9-19

The Interview

This may sound silly or absurd to you, but a

thought came to mind as I was reading this

morning. The piece I was digesting had nothing

to do with the image which flashed through

my mind unannounced, it just came.

Early1966, I was a nineteen-year old in the Army

stationed in Germany, being interviewed by a panel

of First Sergeant superiors from my unit. That was

the practice back then to determine who would be

promoted in rank above the E4 pay grade.

I happened to be a candidate for Specialist Fifth Class,

but first I needed to successfully answer questions from

the board. There would not be soft-ball questions from

a bunch of wall flower pansies. No sir, they would be

serious shots across the bow by battle-hardened

career soldiers meant to befuddle and stymie, to test
the metal and worthiness of the interviewee.

Well, somehow I managed to get through the intense

interrogation that day, and was one of the coveted few

who was duly awarded promotion to the higher rank

and grade.

And today, some fifty-three years later, I couldn’t for

the life in me tell you one question I was asked back

then, not a single one. But I can say I made it, even

though after all these years, memory fails me as to how.

I still have my Spec-5 chevron tucked away in the top

drawer of my desk at home, an embroidered reminder

that in order to pass muster, my recollection way back

then had to be a hell of a lot clearer than the foggy one

settled over me today.

Chris Hanch 7-8-19