Category: Writing

Looking Back

Michael Rappa3 Comments

As 2013 winds to a close, I thought it would be a good time to take a look back at the past year, during which this blog has come a long way: on this day last year I had three followers and only posted sporadically. As I began posting with more frequency (concentrating on my travel stories) my audience grew, which in turn inspired me to post even more frequently, and so on . . . it’s the circle of life. 😉

This year has been very rewarding for me as a writer and I want to thank all of you for inspiring me to stick with it. I’ve never been much for resolutions, but if I were to make any, they would be to work harder on getting my novel published and to set aside more time for visiting the blogs of everyone who has visited mine.

In 2014 I will continue writing and sharing the journal from my recent trip to Mexico, and I am considering a trip to London this summer to see the Monty Python reunion (and build a trip of the UK around it). Until then, and in keeping with the tradition of year-end countdowns, here is a countdown of my own (or I should say count-up since I’m starting with #1). The following posts were my most popular of 2013 based on “likes.”

  1.  Photo of the Day: Overlooking Dubrovnik – A happy accident photo.
  2.  The Vintage Reel Award – My acceptance of this award from my fellow blogger at The Vintage Postcard touches on some fond childhood memories.
  3.  The Inca Trail Day 3: Almost There (My Trip to Peru, Part 6) – This was my favorite day of the Inca Trail hike as we passed by numerous remote Inca ruins that the average tourist will never see.
  4.  Dubrovnik: A Tour of King’s Landing (and other locations) – This is my most-viewed post by a wide, wide margin. Perhaps I should start tagging all of my posts with “Game of Thrones.” 🙂
  5.  Eurotrip 2009 Part 2: Munich – Recounting my adventures in Munich, Germany, including stops in Dinkelsburg and Nordlingen.
  6.  The Inca Trail Day 2: Detour Through Hell (My Trip to Peru, Part 5) – Although this was the worst day of my trip to Peru (hiking up a mountain through freezing sleet), it is probably my favorite post because it represents some of the best storytelling of any of my travel writing.
  7.  My Trip to Peru, Part 2: Here and There – My time in Cusco as well as excursions to Maras and the Inca ruins of Moray.
  8.  Photographs and Memories – This poem is a tribute to my grandfather.
  9.  Eurotrip 2009 Part 4: Lucerne – The beautiful city of Lucerne, Switzerland and breathtaking views from the top of Mount Pilatus.
  10.  Hiking the D&R Canal – Photos from my hike along the D&R Canal in Princeton, NJ.

And here are ten of my most-viewed posts:

Well, that’s it for 2013. I wish all of you a Happy New Year. See in the blogosphere!

Keep Krampus in Christmas

Michael Rappa4 Comments

The first chapter of my Mexico journal will be posted shortly, but in the meantime, and in keeping with spirit of the season, I thought I’d share an essay I originally wrote three years ago.  Perhaps I’ll make this re-post an annual tradition, like the yearly Christmas TV specials. 🙂

Keep Krampus in Christmas

I would be remiss during this time of season if I did not touch on the most dominant cultural event in the world: Comic-Con.  Just kidding.  I’m talking, of course, about Christmas—a time for joy, giving, family, and . . . listening to the oppressed majority complain that the secularist heathens of the world have declared war on their beloved holiday.  These Christmas purists lament that the true meaning of the holiday has been lost—that we in America have relegated a pivotal symbol of Christmas to the sidelines.  You know what?  I agree, and it’s high time we rescued this figure from the fringes of the yuletide wastelands and restored him to his rightful place at the forefront of Christmas prominence.  So join me in demanding that we keep Krampus in Christmas.

“Krampus?” you may ask, “what the grinch are you talking about?”  Well, why don’t you grab a cup of cocoa, sit down by the fire, and let me tell you a Christmas story.  In many European traditions, Krampus is a grotesque, devil-like being who accompanies St. Nick during the holiday season.  While the latter gives gifts to the good children of the world, Krampus punishes the naughty children in scary ways, and his myth is still prominent in many places around Europe.  It’s a shame that Krampus never made the trip to the States with Santa Claus, Christmas trees, and Yule logs.  How much better behaved would children be if they feared retribution by Krampus?  I mean, what kid nowawadys is really afraid of a little coal in his stocking?  Today’s kids need something with a little more oomph to strike the fear of Christmas into them.

Imagine how different our traditions would be if Krampus had made it over here.  Song lyrics like “You better watch out,” “He’s making a list,” and “He sees you when you’re sleeping” would carry much darker connotations, while the most famous Christmas poem might have been entirely different: “Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, Krampus was stirring, he stomped on a mouse.”  And how much cooler would those claymation Christmas specials have been with a little taste of Krampus?  Over time, he could have become one of the more popular Christmas characters and, just as Santa Claus has become more benign over the years (from his darker beginnings), I imagine Krampus taking a similar path (also known as the Godzilla path): the bad guy in earlier films, the good guy in later films.  The older films would depict Krampus threatening Christmas while newer films would have him stepping in to save Christmas from some outside threat.

One could also imagine what a day in the life would be like for Santa and Krampus.  Do they talk to each other or not?  A trip around the world in that tiny sleigh would be a long time to sit there in awkward silence.  Do they live together at the North Pole?  Talk about the ultimate odd couple!  I could see Santa as the Oscar-like slob leaving his red suits all over the place, much to the ire of the uptight, Felix-like Krampus, who constantly yells at Santa to pick up after himself.  Or do they never see each other at all except on Christmas Eve?  Perhaps they just clock out at the end of the day like the wolf and sheepdog from that Warner Brothers cartoon: “Good night, Claus.”  “Good night, Kramp.”

How much different would our decorations be?  In Europe men dress as Krampus, carrying chains, bells, and switches to scare kids (and the adults use the Krampus festivals as an excuse to drink all weekend).  Perhaps our Christmas lights would be strung on festive chains, and maybe we’d have candy switches instead of candy canes.  On Christmas Eve, in addition to leaving milk and cookies for Santa, we might leave beer and brats for Krampus.  The possibilities are endless.

So let’s all work together to keep Krampus in Christmas.  And remember, kids, if you hear an extra set of hooves on the roof on Christmas Eve, you may just be getting a visit from the malevolent monster himself.  Pleasant dreams and Merry Christmas!

Jenna

Michael Rappa1 Comment

This weekend my wife and I celebrate our twelfth wedding anniversary. To honor the occasion I thought I’d share a little poem I wrote for her while we were dating.

Jenna

One day I decided to leap
away from the Earth,
abandon caution
and walk on the stars.

Gravity tried to push me back
but I broke through
and rode a comet
to the edge of the universe.

There I met you
and knew I’d found heaven.

dd
Jen and me in 1998.

The Cat and I

Michael Rappa2 Comments

I’m not a cat person, never have been, never will be. I prefer the warmth and emotion of a dog to the seemingly cold stare of a cat. My family have never been cat people; we always had dogs growing up. The last time I tried to pet a cat it dug its claws into my hand and wouldn’t let go, so I pretty much steer clear now. I don’t see a scenario where I would ever live with a cat, but a recent discussion brought me back to a brief time in my life when I did.

When I was a kid my grandparents lived on a farm in a small town called Meshoppen, nestled in the mountains of northern Pennsylvania, just off Route 6. On a side note: Route 6 is a beautifully scenic (occasionally scary) road that winds its way through the mountains, a highly recommended drive if you happen to be in the area (my wife and I detoured through there once on our way back from Niagara Falls, totally worth it).

During the summer our family would make the long drive from South Jersey for a visit. One year my parents dropped me off to stay by myself. They would return later in the summer to pick me up. I don’t recall how long I stayed, it likely was a shorter duration than I remember, but our fondest memories have a way of growing larger and grander as the years go by.

While I was there I had the time of my young life: wandering around the big farmhouse and exploring the grounds that featured a pond, wooded hills, and a barn where you could climb to the loft and swing down off a rope to land in the hay below. It was like one of those summers you read about in books.

One day my grandparents brought home a kitten and offered to let me name him. I called him Garfield, despite the fact that with his gray and white fur he looked nothing like the cartoon cat–I guess it was the only cat name I could think of. He took to me immediately and we were inseparable during my entire stay. He followed me all around and when I lay down he would climb on to my chest and sleep there, his body rising and falling in that funny, heavy way he had of breathing. Our friendship was the highlight of my summer.

When it was time to go back home, I was sad to leave Garfield behind but took comfort in knowing that I would see him again. However, not long after returning home I received the devastating news that Garfield had died. It turned out that his heavy breathing was a symptom of a medical problem, something that had afflicted him since birth. I can’t help but wonder if my disposition toward cats would be different now if I had spent more time with him, had watched him grow from a kitten to a cat, but it was not meant to be. Looking back, I am glad I was able to give him affection and companionship during his short life. He gave me so much more in return.

I’m not a cat person, but for one summer of my youth, I had a cat that I loved. I’ll never forget Garfield. He will always hold a special place in my heart.

Mosquito Haiku Cycle

Michael RappaLeave a comment

It’s been a while since I’ve posted something to the creative writing section of my blog, so in honor of the large, nasty mosquitoes that have already begun assaulting us on our patio (looks like it’s going to be a bad mosquito year), here is a haiku cycle devoted to the abominable bloodsuckers (a slightly modified version of one I wrote back in college).

Humid August dawn;
mosquitoes swarm into black
carnivorous clouds.

Mosquitoes cling to
saturated swimmers;
August afternoon.

Damp August darkness;
voracious frogs devour
fleeing mosquitoes.

All of the haiku I have posted so far have dealt with worms, crickets, and mosquitoes. Perhaps I have some sort of insect fixation. 😉

Cricket Haiku

Michael RappaLeave a comment

As the weather continues to warm around here, it won’t be long before the songs of crickets are once again dominating the night.  In anticipation of their return I thought I’d share this haiku, which is excerpted from the same haibun as the worm haiku I shared earlier:

Rapid little bells—
Crickets sing under the stars
through razor-cold wind.

The “razor-cold” line may seem an odd choice when discussing creatures of the summer, but I promise you it makes more sense in the context of the larger haibun, which I should probably get around to sharing one day. 🙂

Photographs and Memories

Michael Rappa2 Comments

 

This is one of my most personal poems, dedicated to my grandfather.  Like the previous poems posted here, this was published in the literary magazine of Rowan University in the 1990’s.

Photographs and Memories
              (for Pop Pop)

I remember finding the tattered snapshots
in a dresser in the guest room of Mom Mom’s house,
old, black and white pictures,
delicate, flimsy, warped photographs
of you as a World War II soldier
posing with various men in your squadron,
along with photographs depicting battle-torn fields
blanketed by blizzards of debris
where cities had once stood,
and one vivid picture of a building
in which the second floor had replaced the first.
Your handwritten descriptions
in decaying blue ink,
addressed to Mom Mom with love,
occupied the backs of the photographs.

I remember how well you looked in these photographs,
young, thin, handsome, vibrant, happy,
in sharp contrast to my childhood memories
of a heavy, gentle, gray-haired man
whose brain suddenly exploded
like a carefully hidden land mine.

I remember visiting you in the hospital.
Sometimes you saw me as a baby and
sometimes you saw me as a young man.
Sometimes you saw me and asked me who I was.
Sometimes you were calm and
sometimes you were volatile.
Sometimes you laughed and
sometimes you cried.
Your emotions were at war with your memories.

I remember Dad taking long walks,
head down,
staring at dead, brown autumn leaves
blowing in the whining wind
above sparse, hollow, dying grass,
crumbling,
as Mom dragged me the other way.

I remember the front yard of your red brick house,
playing ball with Nicky
on a hot summer day when
the garage roof snatched our ball
and our parents would not help us,
but you immediately fetched a ladder
to retrieve the ball.
A seemingly insignificant memory
it is among my most cherished,
my only concrete memory of you before the aneurysm.

I remember eighth grade English class
when Aunt Sherry pulled me out
to tell me that
you had finally lost your long battle
with Death,
you were at peace.

I remember crying at the funeral.
I don’t know if I cried more for you or for Dad.
Despite his best efforts
he could not hide his suffering,
nor could Mom Mom or Uncle Nick
or any of those whose lives you touched.
They were not ready to tell you goodbye.

I remember photographs
of all your grandchildren being buried with you.

I remember placing a rose
on your closed casket
that merged with the other roses
to form a blood-red blanket
that covered your shiny black coffin.

I remember the American Flag.

I remember traveling with my family
to the cemetery every Christmas,
standing in the biting cold
and warming your grave
with a blanket of flowers.
Recently, Mom Mom had a picture of you
in your World War II uniform
reprinted and framed
as a Christmas gift to Dad.
Your picture still stands proudly at attention
on Dad’s dresser
illuminating
an otherwise dark room.
Sometimes I venture into his room
and stare at your picture through watery eyes,
wishing I could remember you better,
but thanking God I remember you at all.

Pop Pop

The Television

Michael RappaLeave a comment
Here’s another poem I published in the literary magazine of Rowan University back in the 90’s. It will probably seem quaint to those who have grown up in the era of remote controls and flat screen TVs, but anyone who knows me will not be surprised that my poetry catalog includes an ode to a television. 😉

The Television

An aging television rests
on a giant, black footlocker
under the low, slanted ceiling
of a small stuffy attic.

I turn on the television,
receiving a shock
when my hand touches
the metal power knob.

An electric tingle runs up my arm
as my fingers move across the screen,
gathering dry, gray dust
and leaving a clear line in their wake.

I cut the power
and light shrinks
toward the screen’s center
like water falling down a sink’s drain.

Even powerless the television breathes
for in its screen I see myself,
an apparition
in ethereal blackness.

Haiku of the Day

Michael Rappa3 Comments

Observations on a walk outside today inspired me to share this haiku, which is actually part of a larger haibun I wrote in college:

Torrential downpour—
sidewalk is crowded with worms
escaping the flood.

Although I now know that flooding is not the reason that worms surface, I still like the imagery. 🙂