Saturday, December 23, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
.................MUSIC...............
Music creates a pleasure so sensual and abstract, translates into vibrating air a nonlinguistic-nonlanguage whose meanings are forever just beyond reach, suspended tantalizingly at a point where emotion and intellect fuse.
paraphrased from Amsterdam, Ian McEwan
.................MUSIC...............
Music creates a pleasure so sensual and abstract, translates into vibrating air a nonlinguistic-nonlanguage whose meanings are forever just beyond reach, suspended tantalizingly at a point where emotion and intellect fuse.
paraphrased from Amsterdam, Ian McEwan
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Who lives within a family living fragmented lives, too far, and barriers to communication.
Money has a role on an individual's confidence, social standing and expectations. But it just cannot buy happiness. We have unfulfilled yearning for connectedness.
Understand, do not deny, we live in a state of perpetual decay.
Who lives within a family living fragmented lives, too far, and barriers to communication.
Money has a role on an individual's confidence, social standing and expectations. But it just cannot buy happiness. We have unfulfilled yearning for connectedness.
Understand, do not deny, we live in a state of perpetual decay.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"You can't go neither forwards nor backwards in your Daddy's time, nor into your children's if you have them. In yourself right now is all the place you've got. If there was any Fall, look there, if there was any redemption, look there, and if you expect any judgment, look there, because they all three will have to be in your time, and in your body, and where in your body can they be."
"Two things I can't stand. A man who doesn't know what's true, and a man who mocks what is."Flannery O'Conner, Wise Blood.
"You can't go neither forwards nor backwards in your Daddy's time, nor into your children's if you have them. In yourself right now is all the place you've got. If there was any Fall, look there, if there was any redemption, look there, and if you expect any judgment, look there, because they all three will have to be in your time, and in your body, and where in your body can they be."
"Two things I can't stand. A man who doesn't know what's true, and a man who mocks what is."Flannery O'Conner, Wise Blood.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Stanley Ketchel was shot in the back and killed by the common law husband of the woman who had been cooking his breakfast."
Ring Lardner, 1910.
Ketchel is considered by many to be the greatest middle-weight who ever fought. He liked women.
Lardner's lead is likely the greatest lead ever written.
mek
"Stanley Ketchel was shot in the back and killed by the common law husband of the woman who had been cooking his breakfast."
Ring Lardner, 1910.
Ketchel is considered by many to be the greatest middle-weight who ever fought. He liked women.
Lardner's lead is likely the greatest lead ever written.
mek
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Billie Holiday was singing parlando, one of the late songs when she had lost her voice and had only her nerve in reserve. She was back on her sailboat in the middle of the Sound, maybe, in the moonlight, her voice filled with regret and desire; revenge would be the furthest thing from her mind. Successful revenge requires the cramped disipline of the accountant and she preferred the unruly emotions of the spendthrift. She needed protection, but there was none and so she sang. The song, imitated everywhere but never equaled. It would be a good thing if presidents were required to listen to the blues and a good thing also if they were require to drink while listening. The blues would give them an idea of the limits of human ambition and the consequences of righteous action, an appreciation of grief and ecstasy and inscrutable providence and the certainty of betrayal, along with the impression of memory and often its loss altogether. Truth and falsehood were next of kin. That was what Lincoln knew. " Ward Just Forgetfulness.
"Billie Holiday was singing parlando, one of the late songs when she had lost her voice and had only her nerve in reserve. She was back on her sailboat in the middle of the Sound, maybe, in the moonlight, her voice filled with regret and desire; revenge would be the furthest thing from her mind. Successful revenge requires the cramped disipline of the accountant and she preferred the unruly emotions of the spendthrift. She needed protection, but there was none and so she sang. The song, imitated everywhere but never equaled. It would be a good thing if presidents were required to listen to the blues and a good thing also if they were require to drink while listening. The blues would give them an idea of the limits of human ambition and the consequences of righteous action, an appreciation of grief and ecstasy and inscrutable providence and the certainty of betrayal, along with the impression of memory and often its loss altogether. Truth and falsehood were next of kin. That was what Lincoln knew. " Ward Just Forgetfulness.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Stanley Ketchel was shot in the back and killed by the common law husband of the woman who had been cooking his breakfast."
Ring Lardner, 1910.
Ketchel is considered by many to be the greatest middle-weight who ever fought. He liked women.
Lardner's lead is likely the greatest lead ever written.
mek
"Stanley Ketchel was shot in the back and killed by the common law husband of the woman who had been cooking his breakfast."
Ring Lardner, 1910.
Ketchel is considered by many to be the greatest middle-weight who ever fought. He liked women.
Lardner's lead is likely the greatest lead ever written.
mek
Monday, September 25, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
cacozelia
ka-ko-zeel'-i-a
A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned.
Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.
Example
This is an adultery against the state, to have sex under the trophies of Miltiades. —Seneca
cacozelia
ka-ko-zeel'-i-a
A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned.
Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.
Example
This is an adultery against the state, to have sex under the trophies of Miltiades. —Seneca
Thursday, September 21, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa DaghTo Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of Mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, an filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary peace.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with fellowship delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa DaghTo Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of Mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, an filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary peace.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with fellowship delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa Dagh
To Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, and filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary pew.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with flourishing delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa Dagh
To Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, and filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary pew.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with flourishing delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Albert Einstein
There was a young lady named bright,
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day
In a relative way,
And returned home the previous night.
Arthur Buller, Punch, 19 DEC 1933
Albert Einstein
There was a young lady named bright,
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day
In a relative way,
And returned home the previous night.
Arthur Buller, Punch, 19 DEC 1933
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Socratic Wisdom
In ancient Greece (469 - 399 BC), Socrates was widely lauded for hiswisdom. One day the great philosopher came upon an acquaintance who ran up to himexcitedly and said, "Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one ofyour students?"
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied. "Before you tell me I'd like you to pass a little test. It's called the 'Test of Three'." "Three?" "That's right, "Socrates continued. "Before you talk to me about my student,let's take a moment to test what you're going to say.
The first test is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me istrue?" "No," the man said, "actually I just heard about it." "All right," said Socrates. "So you don't really know if it's true or not.
Now let's try the second test, the test of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my student something good?" "No, on the contrary..." "So," Socrates interrupted, "you want to tell me something bad about him even though you're not certain it's true?" The man shrugged, a little embarrassed.
Socrates continued. "You may still pass though, because there is a third test - the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about mystudent going to be useful to me?" "No, not really..."
"Well," concluded Socrates, "if what you want to tell me is neither True, nor Good, nor even Useful, why tell it to me at all?" The man was defeated and ashamed. This is the reason Socrates was such a great philosopher, and held in such high esteem.
It also explains why he never found out that Plato was banging his wife.
Socratic Wisdom
In ancient Greece (469 - 399 BC), Socrates was widely lauded for hiswisdom. One day the great philosopher came upon an acquaintance who ran up to himexcitedly and said, "Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one ofyour students?"
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied. "Before you tell me I'd like you to pass a little test. It's called the 'Test of Three'." "Three?" "That's right, "Socrates continued. "Before you talk to me about my student,let's take a moment to test what you're going to say.
The first test is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me istrue?" "No," the man said, "actually I just heard about it." "All right," said Socrates. "So you don't really know if it's true or not.
Now let's try the second test, the test of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my student something good?" "No, on the contrary..." "So," Socrates interrupted, "you want to tell me something bad about him even though you're not certain it's true?" The man shrugged, a little embarrassed.
Socrates continued. "You may still pass though, because there is a third test - the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about mystudent going to be useful to me?" "No, not really..."
"Well," concluded Socrates, "if what you want to tell me is neither True, nor Good, nor even Useful, why tell it to me at all?" The man was defeated and ashamed. This is the reason Socrates was such a great philosopher, and held in such high esteem.
It also explains why he never found out that Plato was banging his wife.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have thought about inherent value for many years-- especially when it concerns art. There is a story, which I believe to be true, about a dinner party in the South of France, attended by Picasso. While at dinner, he needed to use the rest room and was told that it was on the second floor. He went to the guest bathroom and notice one of his drawings on the wall.
When he returned to dinner he remarked to the hostess that he had noticed his drawing upstairs in the bathroom. She contradicted him, and said that she had been told that it was only a reproduction that she had inherited from her late husband.
"Oh, no!" Picasso replied, "it is definitely an original drawing and my signature on the bottom is real."
The hostess jumped from the table, and ran upstairs. Moments later she carried the framed drawing downstairs, took a painting down from the mantle piece, and replaced it with the original Picasso drawing.
Picasso asked whether the picture had changed since she learned that it was the original and not a reproduction.
"What," he asked, "made it deserving of the place of honor in the hostess' home?" He wanted to know "why it shouldn't remain in the bathroom," and whether, "it was a different piece of art."
mek
I have thought about inherent value for many years-- especially when it concerns art. There is a story, which I believe to be true, about a dinner party in the South of France, attended by Picasso. While at dinner, he needed to use the rest room and was told that it was on the second floor. He went to the guest bathroom and notice one of his drawings on the wall.
When he returned to dinner he remarked to the hostess that he had noticed his drawing upstairs in the bathroom. She contradicted him, and said that she had been told that it was only a reproduction that she had inherited from her late husband.
"Oh, no!" Picasso replied, "it is definitely an original drawing and my signature on the bottom is real."
The hostess jumped from the table, and ran upstairs. Moments later she carried the framed drawing downstairs, took a painting down from the mantle piece, and replaced it with the original Picasso drawing.
Picasso asked whether the picture had changed since she learned that it was the original and not a reproduction.
"What," he asked, "made it deserving of the place of honor in the hostess' home?" He wanted to know "why it shouldn't remain in the bathroom," and whether, "it was a different piece of art."
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It doesn't exactly mean what I thought:
improvident \im-PROV-uh-duhnt; -dent\, adjective:Lacking foresight or forethought; not foreseeing or providing for the future; negligent or thoughtless.
Elizabeth's husband . . . had been a reckless, improvident man, who left many debts behind him when he died suddenly of a consumption in September 1704.-- David Nokes, Jane Austen: A Life
Lily is spoiled, pleasure-loving, and has one of those society mothers who are as improvident as a tornado.-- Elizabeth Hardwick, Sight-Readings: American Fictions
He called the decision "an exercise in raw judicial power" that was "improvident and extravagant."-- Linda Greenhouse, "White Announces He'll Step Down From High Court", New York Times, March 20, 1993
Improvident derives from Latin improvidens, improvident-, from im- (for in-), "not" + providens, provident-, present participle of providere, "to see beforehand, to provide for," from pro-, "before, forward" + videre, "to see."
It doesn't exactly mean what I thought:
improvident \im-PROV-uh-duhnt; -dent\, adjective:Lacking foresight or forethought; not foreseeing or providing for the future; negligent or thoughtless.
Elizabeth's husband . . . had been a reckless, improvident man, who left many debts behind him when he died suddenly of a consumption in September 1704.-- David Nokes, Jane Austen: A Life
Lily is spoiled, pleasure-loving, and has one of those society mothers who are as improvident as a tornado.-- Elizabeth Hardwick, Sight-Readings: American Fictions
He called the decision "an exercise in raw judicial power" that was "improvident and extravagant."-- Linda Greenhouse, "White Announces He'll Step Down From High Court", New York Times, March 20, 1993
Improvident derives from Latin improvidens, improvident-, from im- (for in-), "not" + providens, provident-, present participle of providere, "to see beforehand, to provide for," from pro-, "before, forward" + videre, "to see."
Monday, September 18, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Buster Stronghart is my nom de plume and, perhaps, my alter-ego. I write a blog under that name and use it for an occasional original remark, more often very short quotations -- my latest being from Dr. Johnson, " In memorial disquisitions no man is on his oath." The blog may be found at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com -- my own original remarks are initialed, "mek," quotations from others (real writers or philosophers) are always identified.
A short, morose autobiographical poem may be found at Aug 24, and a friend's "counter-poem" answering my maudlin whining may be found in boldface just under it.
The photos are something new reflecting the fact that I have purchased a new camera and am trying to learn to post photos and to take them.
An explanation about Harry and "his last shoot in Texas," is in order, for those of us, like me, who have missed fifty years of installments.
The books, the books, oh the books...I am divesting myself of over fifty years of accumulated books (about 2000) --I wouldn't call it a "collection" it's really an "accumulation." Serious literature, history, philosophy (mostly only partly read), a lot of poetry, and of course many of the classics so resented by feminists in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. I am so glad that they are getting over their hatred of dead white men.
Buster and I consider ourselves to be pro-woman; in fact we have loved women overly much during the testosterone years, but we have never understood feminist criticism. Well, actually, we understand very little of any lit crit...
--I have told my boys, Aaron and Max, that they should feel worse for me now during the dispersion of my books, than they should when I am dying. It is bad. I have sold a few, and given many to Patti's children who have room, but my boys have no room, although Max would really like to have some--the remainder will go to the Garrison Library to be put up for sale next September. They have given me about twenty-five feet by eight rows of library shelving in their store room for the books. I think that they will just about fit there. It's nice seeing them all laid out together and in order. I'll take pictures with my new camera.
Cutting work back is fine but don't stop working until they measure you for the long, six-sided box. It's a mistake to do so. What work are you doing? The last I heard you were managing a ballet company, I think, which would be great because at about that time another woman whom I knew as a girl was managing the New York Ballet, Patty Avedon, niece of Richard Avedon. Of course, I haven't seen her since 1955, if then, so I have no idea where she is now.
I stopped (accosted) Richard Avedon on the street one day, just a month before he died, to ask about Patty, Michael and Keith, the three Avedons that Patti and I (and maybe you too) knew from 69th Avenue. He told me that Keith had died, Patty was "out west," and Michael had disappeared.
Anyway, with the 65% free time you have made for yourself take a look at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com , Don't forget what I said above about August 24.
mek
Buster Stronghart is my nom de plume and, perhaps, my alter-ego. I write a blog under that name and use it for an occasional original remark, more often very short quotations -- my latest being from Dr. Johnson, " In memorial disquisitions no man is on his oath." The blog may be found at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com -- my own original remarks are initialed, "mek," quotations from others (real writers or philosophers) are always identified.
A short, morose autobiographical poem may be found at Aug 24, and a friend's "counter-poem" answering my maudlin whining may be found in boldface just under it.
The photos are something new reflecting the fact that I have purchased a new camera and am trying to learn to post photos and to take them.
An explanation about Harry and "his last shoot in Texas," is in order, for those of us, like me, who have missed fifty years of installments.
The books, the books, oh the books...I am divesting myself of over fifty years of accumulated books (about 2000) --I wouldn't call it a "collection" it's really an "accumulation." Serious literature, history, philosophy (mostly only partly read), a lot of poetry, and of course many of the classics so resented by feminists in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. I am so glad that they are getting over their hatred of dead white men.
Buster and I consider ourselves to be pro-woman; in fact we have loved women overly much during the testosterone years, but we have never understood feminist criticism. Well, actually, we understand very little of any lit crit...
--I have told my boys, Aaron and Max, that they should feel worse for me now during the dispersion of my books, than they should when I am dying. It is bad. I have sold a few, and given many to Patti's children who have room, but my boys have no room, although Max would really like to have some--the remainder will go to the Garrison Library to be put up for sale next September. They have given me about twenty-five feet by eight rows of library shelving in their store room for the books. I think that they will just about fit there. It's nice seeing them all laid out together and in order. I'll take pictures with my new camera.
Cutting work back is fine but don't stop working until they measure you for the long, six-sided box. It's a mistake to do so. What work are you doing? The last I heard you were managing a ballet company, I think, which would be great because at about that time another woman whom I knew as a girl was managing the New York Ballet, Patty Avedon, niece of Richard Avedon. Of course, I haven't seen her since 1955, if then, so I have no idea where she is now.
I stopped (accosted) Richard Avedon on the street one day, just a month before he died, to ask about Patty, Michael and Keith, the three Avedons that Patti and I (and maybe you too) knew from 69th Avenue. He told me that Keith had died, Patty was "out west," and Michael had disappeared.
Anyway, with the 65% free time you have made for yourself take a look at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com , Don't forget what I said above about August 24.
mek
Sunday, September 17, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My sister and wife have each objected to the photos I choose to place on the blog. They each believe that I am better looking. I believe that I have worked 68 years to earn that face and that's the one I'll show and that's the one of which I'll be proud.
mek
My sister and wife have each objected to the photos I choose to place on the blog. They each believe that I am better looking. I believe that I have worked 68 years to earn that face and that's the one I'll show and that's the one of which I'll be proud.
mek
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Understand, do not deny, from the very beginning, we live in a state of perpetual decay.
mek
Understand, do not deny, from the very beginning, we live in a state of perpetual decay.
mek
Monday, September 04, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am a Jew, born outside the tribe. My mother was a Ruth, named Grace, who followed her husband. So one side of me comes from Norwegian stock.
But I am a Jew. I am not licensed to be a Jew. I do not join the rituals. I doubt that there is a God. But I am there. Here I am, God.
Remember: Ben Gurion insited that anyone who declares himself to be a Jew is a Jew. And Sartre asserted that if anyone points at you and shouts "Jew," then you are a Jew.
I qualify on both counts.
mek
I am a Jew, born outside the tribe. My mother was a Ruth, named Grace, who followed her husband. So one side of me comes from Norwegian stock.
But I am a Jew. I am not licensed to be a Jew. I do not join the rituals. I doubt that there is a God. But I am there. Here I am, God.
Remember: Ben Gurion insited that anyone who declares himself to be a Jew is a Jew. And Sartre asserted that if anyone points at you and shouts "Jew," then you are a Jew.
I qualify on both counts.
mek
Sunday, September 03, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool,
Except as a fellow handled an ax,
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Robert Frost...Two tramps at Mudtime
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool,
Except as a fellow handled an ax,
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Robert Frost...Two tramps at Mudtime
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A pox on all steps but big ones.
Thou'rt my son in any case and I could wish a better, you too might wish a better father.
Neither Thought nor Talk pays the Toll.
...............John Barth, The Sot Weed Factor
A pox on all steps but big ones.
Thou'rt my son in any case and I could wish a better, you too might wish a better father.
Neither Thought nor Talk pays the Toll.
...............John Barth, The Sot Weed Factor
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Living with Pessimism
Every rose has its' thorns--but not every thorn has a rose.
Living with Pessimism
Every rose has its' thorns--but not every thorn has a rose.
Shopenhauer
Monday, August 28, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"No man, however strong, can serve ten years as schoolmaster, priest, or senator and remain fit for anything else."
"Life is a narrow valley, and the roads run close together."
.........Henry Adams
I doubt all by habit; and always distrust my own judgment.
.................mek
"No man, however strong, can serve ten years as schoolmaster, priest, or senator and remain fit for anything else."
"Life is a narrow valley, and the roads run close together."
.........Henry Adams
I doubt all by habit; and always distrust my own judgment.
.................mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It is possible for some people to miss their lives as some people miss a plane or train. How can it happen that one day you are young, then another day you come to yourself and your life has passed like a dream?
But how can it be that only with death and dying does the sharp sense of life return?
What is the word for a state which is neither life nor death--a death in life?
I thought that books could tell me how to live, but they did not.
Why is it that without death one misses his life?
........Walker Percy
It is possible for some people to miss their lives as some people miss a plane or train. How can it happen that one day you are young, then another day you come to yourself and your life has passed like a dream?
But how can it be that only with death and dying does the sharp sense of life return?
What is the word for a state which is neither life nor death--a death in life?
I thought that books could tell me how to live, but they did not.
Why is it that without death one misses his life?
........Walker Percy
Sunday, August 27, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We live and learn-- but do we get smarter?
Ulotrichan: member of the wooly haired or crisp hair division of mankind.
Leiotrichi: the smooth haired
We live and learn-- but do we get smarter?
Ulotrichan: member of the wooly haired or crisp hair division of mankind.
Leiotrichi: the smooth haired
Friday, August 25, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
the author's edited version
before the convex mirror
the image magnified
pores, craters ; defects, bigsize.
no knowledge of the sweet, the kind
no forgiveness for the sane. No points
for moderation.
whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain
Exceptions there are few but as a poet
you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss
the author's edited version
before the convex mirror
the image magnified
pores, craters ; defects, bigsize.
no knowledge of the sweet, the kind
no forgiveness for the sane. No points
for moderation.
whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain
Exceptions there are few but as a poet
you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss
Thursday, August 24, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.
No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.
Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.
Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss (St Eve)
Editor's comment:
My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.
mek
SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.
No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.
Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.
Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss (St Eve)
Editor's comment:
My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Each man has his own batch of poems.
Herzog, Sol Bellow
My usual mistake is my greatest one: fearing to make one.
mek
Each man has his own batch of poems.
Herzog, Sol Bellow
My usual mistake is my greatest one: fearing to make one.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Date a jock and all they talk about is sports and sex and sports and sex; date a freak and all they talk about is pot and sex, pot and sex. "
three teenaged girls at the pool.
"Date a jock and all they talk about is sports and sex and sports and sex; date a freak and all they talk about is pot and sex, pot and sex. "
three teenaged girls at the pool.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Understand that a man would have to act as the land where he was born had trained him to do. "
"It's because a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change."
Wm. Faulkner, Light in August
"Understand that a man would have to act as the land where he was born had trained him to do. "
"It's because a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change."
Wm. Faulkner, Light in August
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Somewhere on a sea of convention,
A stinking, sinking craft.
In the terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Somewhere on a sea of convention,
A stinking, sinking craft.
mek
Friday, August 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Found on a memorial plate in St. Phillips cemetery, Garrison, NY
Found on a memorial plate in St. Phillips cemetery, Garrison, NY
----Catherine Heuston Ghiselin----
O hand unclasped of unbeholden friend
For thee the no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning,
No triumphs and no labor and no lust,
Only dead yew leaves and a little dust.
Sleep and have sleep for light.
Are the fruits gray like dust, or red like blood?
Are there flowers
At all, or any fruit?
.
1911-1980
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from a TLS review by William Logan, describing the poetry describing the apprentice poetry of Lawrence Durrell: --" lyrical afflatus of a blowhard."
from a TLS review by William Logan, describing the poetry describing the apprentice poetry of Lawrence Durrell: --" lyrical afflatus of a blowhard."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am a champion balancing act of the world and can now feel the cosmic conflict pulling part of me into the imaginal and spiritual realm as another part of me crashes into the side of the mountain and must deal with the very real parameters of the physical world. Although I may idealize the situation, yet it is important for me to try to see things as they truly are.
I am a champion balancing act of the world and can now feel the cosmic conflict pulling part of me into the imaginal and spiritual realm as another part of me crashes into the side of the mountain and must deal with the very real parameters of the physical world. Although I may idealize the situation, yet it is important for me to try to see things as they truly are.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The best you can expect in life is to avoid the worst.
I exist in the cemetery of spent and lost hours.
Everything we say is a continuation of what has been said before.
Italo Calvino
The best you can expect in life is to avoid the worst.
I exist in the cemetery of spent and lost hours.
Everything we say is a continuation of what has been said before.
Italo Calvino
Friday, July 28, 2006
OCT 25 IS OKAY WITH ME, BUT IS NOT OCT 25 THE DATE OF EVENT 50?
I am certainly in favor of dedicating the night to the dead and missing and would like to hear lengthy toasts to each lost member of the class, and should a member have been not well known by any one of us we could have a guest toaster, say Ed Sullivan, make the toast in our stead. An alternative might be to invite a member of the class who was familiar with the dead member. For instance, was any one of us friends with Frank Briggs? We could have someone from the class especially invited, perhaps only to make the toast honoring Frank.
As capacities have shrunk, and as there will be numerous members to remember, may I suggest that we toast with water or grape juice -- and in small glasses at that.
Some of you may want to honor past wives, past girl friends, or past lives. That is also okay with me, though I would draw the line at Margot von Vanderwort, a skinny girl whom I am very glad that none of you had the misfortune of meeting during the short time that I was embroiled with her. That she went to Smith and became a State Department official and at one time Ambassadress to Belgium, does not make up for the night we spent in my car in front of the Spry sign across the Hudson.
I didn't like her father either, who was President of the Corn and Merchants National Bank and who refused to pay compound interest until deposits were held by the bank for ninety days. Where was Eliot Spitzer when we needed him? In the First Form, I suppose. Margot's mother, however, was a charming, diminutive woman who often handicapped horses under my father's watchful tutelage.
I would like to dedicate the entire evening to the very great, and much missed, Stick Shift Bergavoy, ace driving instructor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am certainly in favor of dedicating the night to the dead and missing and would like to hear lengthy toasts to each lost member of the class, and should a member have been not well known by any one of us we could have a guest toaster, say Ed Sullivan, make the toast in our stead. An alternative might be to invite a member of the class who was familiar with the dead member. For instance, was any one of us friends with Frank Briggs? We could have someone from the class especially invited, perhaps only to make the toast honoring Frank.
As capacities have shrunk, and as there will be numerous members to remember, may I suggest that we toast with water or grape juice -- and in small glasses at that.
Some of you may want to honor past wives, past girl friends, or past lives. That is also okay with me, though I would draw the line at Margot von Vanderwort, a skinny girl whom I am very glad that none of you had the misfortune of meeting during the short time that I was embroiled with her. That she went to Smith and became a State Department official and at one time Ambassadress to Belgium, does not make up for the night we spent in my car in front of the Spry sign across the Hudson.
I didn't like her father either, who was President of the Corn and Merchants National Bank and who refused to pay compound interest until deposits were held by the bank for ninety days. Where was Eliot Spitzer when we needed him? In the First Form, I suppose. Margot's mother, however, was a charming, diminutive woman who often handicapped horses under my father's watchful tutelage.
I would like to dedicate the entire evening to the very great, and much missed, Stick Shift Bergavoy, ace driving instructor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Word tennis
Katz emerges from the electronic shadows
And loudly announces his return with 3 short calls.
Then in the course of his day he strolls
Energetically down the quiet main street to the banks
Of the Mighty River.
There with a broad sweeping gesture of his arm
He intones the first lines of "we are strangers met in
Friendship...." as a memorial to the lost boys of HM.
Oh Dick oh Danny oh Peter we remember your not so
Heroic lives.
At river's edge I memorialize the living too,
O Prince Hal, Mike, Malcolm, and St Eve,
Come now to the verge of the shadowy wood,
Where the mighty Hudson merely trickles,
And leave the Holy Rood,
And dip a toe, to make it tickle.
Cool feet and praise for the living,
But the dead ones murmur the future silence
The ceased flow of the mighty river,
The thinklessness of nada
Peter knows;
Richie though surprised has come to realize.
And Danny smiles.
A collaboration, SS & mek, cold spring, ny, July 2006
Word tennis
Katz emerges from the electronic shadows
And loudly announces his return with 3 short calls.
Then in the course of his day he strolls
Energetically down the quiet main street to the banks
Of the Mighty River.
There with a broad sweeping gesture of his arm
He intones the first lines of "we are strangers met in
Friendship...." as a memorial to the lost boys of HM.
Oh Dick oh Danny oh Peter we remember your not so
Heroic lives.
At river's edge I memorialize the living too,
O Prince Hal, Mike, Malcolm, and St Eve,
Come now to the verge of the shadowy wood,
Where the mighty Hudson merely trickles,
And leave the Holy Rood,
And dip a toe, to make it tickle.
Cool feet and praise for the living,
But the dead ones murmur the future silence
The ceased flow of the mighty river,
The thinklessness of nada
Peter knows;
Richie though surprised has come to realize.
And Danny smiles.
A collaboration, SS & mek, cold spring, ny, July 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill will hold more than his bellican
He can take in his beak
Food enogh for a week,
But I'm damned if I can see how the hellican.
Dixon Lanier Merritt
A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill will hold more than his bellican
He can take in his beak
Food enogh for a week,
But I'm damned if I can see how the hellican.
Dixon Lanier Merritt
Sunday, July 02, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Devil Wears Prada
Streep: 15 stars out of ten-- film 8 out of 10,
Streep plays a boss who lives for her work. She loves her work and becomes the best in the Cosmos at it. She can't tolerate fools gladly--and if she did she would be taking away from the energy she gives solely to her company. It's all for the company. She needs what she needs NOW and not later and expects to get it NOW!
Underlings don't understand; and some of them hate her for it, others merely fear her. None understand that her genius requires, deserves the instant gratification that Miranda (Streep) demands. Streep masters this part; as an actor she starts at the top and rises still higher.
But, except for Stanley Tucci, everyone else in the cast is just coasting. Anne Hathaway is miscast as Andrea, the second assistant, --she doesn't look or fit the part; she's weak, mooney, and her boyfriend, Nate, Adrian Grienier, is just a pretty face playing a sous chef, (well, Woody Allen sees something in him, as he's in one of his films but, I don't know. I kept wishing that he'd leave the sixties and get a haircut. We've seen his act already in a thousand pictures from the sixties.)
Stanley Tuccci is fine as a gay guy in the company. Loyal to Miranda, helpful to Andrea, he dances though the film and adds to every scene they give him. Besides the comedy, film goers will note there's a serious theme in the film too.
mek
Devil Wears Prada
Streep: 15 stars out of ten-- film 8 out of 10,
Streep plays a boss who lives for her work. She loves her work and becomes the best in the Cosmos at it. She can't tolerate fools gladly--and if she did she would be taking away from the energy she gives solely to her company. It's all for the company. She needs what she needs NOW and not later and expects to get it NOW!
Underlings don't understand; and some of them hate her for it, others merely fear her. None understand that her genius requires, deserves the instant gratification that Miranda (Streep) demands. Streep masters this part; as an actor she starts at the top and rises still higher.
But, except for Stanley Tucci, everyone else in the cast is just coasting. Anne Hathaway is miscast as Andrea, the second assistant, --she doesn't look or fit the part; she's weak, mooney, and her boyfriend, Nate, Adrian Grienier, is just a pretty face playing a sous chef, (well, Woody Allen sees something in him, as he's in one of his films but, I don't know. I kept wishing that he'd leave the sixties and get a haircut. We've seen his act already in a thousand pictures from the sixties.)
Stanley Tuccci is fine as a gay guy in the company. Loyal to Miranda, helpful to Andrea, he dances though the film and adds to every scene they give him. Besides the comedy, film goers will note there's a serious theme in the film too.
mek
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
There is just a shallow truth in facts. Otherwise, the telephone book would be the book of books.
Werner Herzog
There is just a shallow truth in facts. Otherwise, the telephone book would be the book of books.
Werner Herzog
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
:"You should say everything that comes into your head."
S. Freud. "On Initiating Treatment."
"I think that psychoanalysis is one of the great evils of civilization, even worse than the Spanish Inquisition. At least the Inquisition was about keeping something together. Analysis is only about taking someone apart."
Werner Herzog.
:"You should say everything that comes into your head."
S. Freud. "On Initiating Treatment."
"I think that psychoanalysis is one of the great evils of civilization, even worse than the Spanish Inquisition. At least the Inquisition was about keeping something together. Analysis is only about taking someone apart."
Werner Herzog.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My father was learned in pharmacy, of course, but also in race horses, boxing, baseball, gangsters, headwaiters, cards, good scotch, and fine women, of whom I assumed (wrongly) that my mother was only one.
There was a Saturday afternoon game high in the Majestic Apartments on Central Park West. Sometimes I was left on my own to play in Central Park, but my predilection was to sit quiet in a corner while cards and cash passed back and forth across green felt tables. Stories usually accompanied the sound of shuffling card decks and always my ears were perked to catch his voice flowing over the table telling a river of endless stories.
Clouds of cigar smoke hovered over the players, almost always men, though there was one woman, who occasionally came from Miami to play with her equals -- and she was recognized as such. Ann Baumwall was a squinty eyed woman with bleached blond hair and strings of pearls hanging from her neck. She liked to win from the boys, and she was the type that nobody minded losing to.
My father was modest and liked to say only that he "held his own" at the table, but the truth was that it was usual he that left with his pockets full.
My father was learned in pharmacy, of course, but also in race horses, boxing, baseball, gangsters, headwaiters, cards, good scotch, and fine women, of whom I assumed (wrongly) that my mother was only one.
There was a Saturday afternoon game high in the Majestic Apartments on Central Park West. Sometimes I was left on my own to play in Central Park, but my predilection was to sit quiet in a corner while cards and cash passed back and forth across green felt tables. Stories usually accompanied the sound of shuffling card decks and always my ears were perked to catch his voice flowing over the table telling a river of endless stories.
Clouds of cigar smoke hovered over the players, almost always men, though there was one woman, who occasionally came from Miami to play with her equals -- and she was recognized as such. Ann Baumwall was a squinty eyed woman with bleached blond hair and strings of pearls hanging from her neck. She liked to win from the boys, and she was the type that nobody minded losing to.
My father was modest and liked to say only that he "held his own" at the table, but the truth was that it was usual he that left with his pockets full.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Minnesota declaration: truth and fact in documentary cinema
"LESSONS OF DARKNESS"
1. By dint of declaration the so-called Cinema Verité is devoid of verité. It reaches a merely superficial truth, the truth of accountants.
2. One well-known representative of Cinema Verité declared publicly that truth can be easily found by taking a camera and trying to be honest. He resembles the night watchman at the Supreme Court who resents the amount of written law and legal procedures. "For me," he says, "there should be only one single law: the bad guys should go to jail."
Unfortunately, he is part right, for most of the many, much of the time.
3. Cinema Verité confounds fact and truth, and thus plows only stones. And yet, facts sometimes have a strange and bizarre power that makes their inherent truth seem unbelievable.
4. Fact creates norms, and truth illumination.
5. There are deeper strata of truth in cinema, and there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.
6. Filmmakers of Cinema Verité resemble tourists who take pictures amid ancient ruins of facts.
7. Tourism is sin, and travel on foot virtue.
8. Each year at springtime scores of people on snowmobiles crash through the melting ice on the lakes of Minnesota and drown. Pressure is mounting on the new governor to pass a protective law. He, the former wrestler and bodyguard, has the only sage answer to this: "You can´t legislate stupidity."
9. The gauntlet is hereby thrown down.
10. The moon is dull. Mother Nature doesn´t call, doesn´t speak to you, although a glacier eventually farts. And don´t you listen to the Song of Life.
11. We ought to be grateful that the Universe out there knows no smile.
12. Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of a hell that during evolution some species - including man - crawled, fled onto some small continents of solid land, where the Lessons of Darkness continue.
Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, Minnesota April 30, 1999
Werner Herzog
Minnesota declaration: truth and fact in documentary cinema
"LESSONS OF DARKNESS"
1. By dint of declaration the so-called Cinema Verité is devoid of verité. It reaches a merely superficial truth, the truth of accountants.
2. One well-known representative of Cinema Verité declared publicly that truth can be easily found by taking a camera and trying to be honest. He resembles the night watchman at the Supreme Court who resents the amount of written law and legal procedures. "For me," he says, "there should be only one single law: the bad guys should go to jail."
Unfortunately, he is part right, for most of the many, much of the time.
3. Cinema Verité confounds fact and truth, and thus plows only stones. And yet, facts sometimes have a strange and bizarre power that makes their inherent truth seem unbelievable.
4. Fact creates norms, and truth illumination.
5. There are deeper strata of truth in cinema, and there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.
6. Filmmakers of Cinema Verité resemble tourists who take pictures amid ancient ruins of facts.
7. Tourism is sin, and travel on foot virtue.
8. Each year at springtime scores of people on snowmobiles crash through the melting ice on the lakes of Minnesota and drown. Pressure is mounting on the new governor to pass a protective law. He, the former wrestler and bodyguard, has the only sage answer to this: "You can´t legislate stupidity."
9. The gauntlet is hereby thrown down.
10. The moon is dull. Mother Nature doesn´t call, doesn´t speak to you, although a glacier eventually farts. And don´t you listen to the Song of Life.
11. We ought to be grateful that the Universe out there knows no smile.
12. Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of a hell that during evolution some species - including man - crawled, fled onto some small continents of solid land, where the Lessons of Darkness continue.
Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, Minnesota April 30, 1999
Werner Herzog
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gordimer did not read the same book that I did. She may have been confused by the subject matter of the other three books which she notes, Memories of My Dying Wives, Inez, and Human Stain. I read Fuentes and recall the book as intense and detailed about the sexual conduct of the last years of a man's life--but I see nothing of that in Everyman.
Everyman deals with the anguish of regret and the mystery of what we are in contrast to what we might have been. There is more truth in the anguish of the bleak desolation in which Everyman has trapped himself than there was in his previous fifty years, when impulse and whim compassed his path.
The strength to search for the love he has tossed aside eludes him, his life is shattered by decrepitude. He dies suddenly without expecting death on the operating table, alone among strangers. He feels no lust on the table while he awaits the surgeons knife.
I think that Gordimer misses all this because she is surrounded by family and friends at every turn in the road.
Gordimer did not read the same book that I did. She may have been confused by the subject matter of the other three books which she notes, Memories of My Dying Wives, Inez, and Human Stain. I read Fuentes and recall the book as intense and detailed about the sexual conduct of the last years of a man's life--but I see nothing of that in Everyman.
Everyman deals with the anguish of regret and the mystery of what we are in contrast to what we might have been. There is more truth in the anguish of the bleak desolation in which Everyman has trapped himself than there was in his previous fifty years, when impulse and whim compassed his path.
The strength to search for the love he has tossed aside eludes him, his life is shattered by decrepitude. He dies suddenly without expecting death on the operating table, alone among strangers. He feels no lust on the table while he awaits the surgeons knife.
I think that Gordimer misses all this because she is surrounded by family and friends at every turn in the road.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Everyman -- Phillip Roth, 2006
Life doesn’t turn out the way that we wanted. Impulsive acts come to be regretted even when they seem to have been the right, only way.
Impulsive stupidity prevails.
Everyman’s black side expressed itself during his younger years. He gave up a family, hurt his wives and children, and ended up alone. Although he had tried to reach out to a few friends; it is too late, each is on his death bed, or had already been buried. He finds some solace in a small conversation with a simple gravedigger; who is modeled on the gravedigger in Hamlet.
Alone, He visits the cemetery where his grandparents and his parents are buried. The cemetery is overgrown, the entrances are broken, gates rusted, graves abandoned, names forgotten. Three generations previous the cemetery was founded (by his grandfather) on raw, bucolic land blessed by God and nature. Now it has become a wreck, it has been vandalized; it is rarely used, and not kept up. Tranquility can never be restored.
And then the reader remembers Ozymandius.
Industry and Commerce have crowded and polluted what once was a silent place of memorial. Thruway sounds overwhelm the prayers and thoughts of the bereaved and invade the graves of the buried. The dead are honored only by The Honorable Gravedigger who tries to do a good job of digging, almost carving, a “squared up, flat bottomed” grave, a final resting place for those persons who are brought to lie for eternity in the Jersey dirt.
Most of his life in retirement is spent alone even when he begins to teach a painting class to other retired men and women of his generation. But all his students speak of is their sicknesses and the sicknesses of their friends. He spots one possible companion but she soon takes enough pills to end her life which had become racked with pain.
Everyman is not ready to die; even when he realizes that he has crippled the lives of his children and wives. He wants to make amends but it is too late; just as it was too late to visit his old pals from the agency where he spent his life. His children just can’t bring themselves to see him in any other way than the man who left them. They despise him...
At the end of his life, after retirement, he does have a loyal, loving daughter. Nancy (modeled on Cordelia in Lear) checks on him, cares for him. His sons don’t speak to him... He cannot bring himself to explain himself to his sons. He has lost the fight that once was in him. He had tried to do “the right thing” for them and their mother, Phoebe, but had failed in both reality and in the eyes of those sons. They were lost to him. They could only “minimize his decency and magnify his defects.”
He has had several operations. He is weak in body as well as spirit. He can’t even delight in the swimming that once filled his happiest hours. When he was working he had dreamed of painting, so now he paints everyday, and fills his daughter’s apartment with paintings. But soon, he loses interest in even that.
He bitterly compares himself to his immensely successful, strong, buoyant, healthy older brother. His brother continues to lead a full, busy, engaging life; while he rusts at a Jersey Shore end-of-life stopping off point. He had always looked up to his brother and when needed, he had to admit that his brother was always there for him.
He becomes sick and seeks out a caregiver with whom he had had a brief fling. He remembers her loving care, and wants it back. She was young when he knew her; now she would be in her sixties. He can’t find her.
When he dies, in a room full of strangers, under the bright, sterile light of an operating room, he is surrounded by people and still alone. He doesn’t expect to die, but his body separates itself from life and he lets go. No one is with him.
But it didn’t matter who might have been with him. Even his children had become strangers, and he didn’t know his wives anymore.
Thanks to Gross for pointing out the Hamlet and Lear references in the novel.
Everyman -- Phillip Roth, 2006
Life doesn’t turn out the way that we wanted. Impulsive acts come to be regretted even when they seem to have been the right, only way.
Impulsive stupidity prevails.
Everyman’s black side expressed itself during his younger years. He gave up a family, hurt his wives and children, and ended up alone. Although he had tried to reach out to a few friends; it is too late, each is on his death bed, or had already been buried. He finds some solace in a small conversation with a simple gravedigger; who is modeled on the gravedigger in Hamlet.
Alone, He visits the cemetery where his grandparents and his parents are buried. The cemetery is overgrown, the entrances are broken, gates rusted, graves abandoned, names forgotten. Three generations previous the cemetery was founded (by his grandfather) on raw, bucolic land blessed by God and nature. Now it has become a wreck, it has been vandalized; it is rarely used, and not kept up. Tranquility can never be restored.
And then the reader remembers Ozymandius.
Industry and Commerce have crowded and polluted what once was a silent place of memorial. Thruway sounds overwhelm the prayers and thoughts of the bereaved and invade the graves of the buried. The dead are honored only by The Honorable Gravedigger who tries to do a good job of digging, almost carving, a “squared up, flat bottomed” grave, a final resting place for those persons who are brought to lie for eternity in the Jersey dirt.
Most of his life in retirement is spent alone even when he begins to teach a painting class to other retired men and women of his generation. But all his students speak of is their sicknesses and the sicknesses of their friends. He spots one possible companion but she soon takes enough pills to end her life which had become racked with pain.
Everyman is not ready to die; even when he realizes that he has crippled the lives of his children and wives. He wants to make amends but it is too late; just as it was too late to visit his old pals from the agency where he spent his life. His children just can’t bring themselves to see him in any other way than the man who left them. They despise him...
At the end of his life, after retirement, he does have a loyal, loving daughter. Nancy (modeled on Cordelia in Lear) checks on him, cares for him. His sons don’t speak to him... He cannot bring himself to explain himself to his sons. He has lost the fight that once was in him. He had tried to do “the right thing” for them and their mother, Phoebe, but had failed in both reality and in the eyes of those sons. They were lost to him. They could only “minimize his decency and magnify his defects.”
He has had several operations. He is weak in body as well as spirit. He can’t even delight in the swimming that once filled his happiest hours. When he was working he had dreamed of painting, so now he paints everyday, and fills his daughter’s apartment with paintings. But soon, he loses interest in even that.
He bitterly compares himself to his immensely successful, strong, buoyant, healthy older brother. His brother continues to lead a full, busy, engaging life; while he rusts at a Jersey Shore end-of-life stopping off point. He had always looked up to his brother and when needed, he had to admit that his brother was always there for him.
He becomes sick and seeks out a caregiver with whom he had had a brief fling. He remembers her loving care, and wants it back. She was young when he knew her; now she would be in her sixties. He can’t find her.
When he dies, in a room full of strangers, under the bright, sterile light of an operating room, he is surrounded by people and still alone. He doesn’t expect to die, but his body separates itself from life and he lets go. No one is with him.
But it didn’t matter who might have been with him. Even his children had become strangers, and he didn’t know his wives anymore.
Thanks to Gross for pointing out the Hamlet and Lear references in the novel.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, March 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It's a cliche, I guess, and I shouldn't have been so surprised, but the parallels between the fall of the Holy Roman Empire and the US today are amazing.
I bought a book, A Short History of Italy, Henry Dwight Sedgwick, at Strand for a dollar several years ago, and just rescued it from our storage room at Garden City, Long Island.
Sedgwick, a member of an old New England family, was a important historian in his day. He writes that the City of Rome was the head of the world. That from East and West, North and South, "booty, spoils, taxes and tribute flowed into Rome. But, he remarks, that the riches acquired by conquest had "brought the seeds of Evil" with them.
"Society was divided into the very rich and the very poor. The simple laborious life of freeman was gone. The regular occupations of production had been abandoned to serfs and slaves; moderate incomes and plain living had disappeared. The middle class had been thrust down to the level of the plebs. In the country the small proprietors had been reduced to a position little better than serfs, while the great landlords had got vast tracts of land into their hands. Taxes had become heavier and heavier as the exigencies of the Empire grew; great numbers of officials were maintained and great mercenary armies. The rich controlled the government, and shifted almost the whole burden of taxation from their own shoulders to those of the poor. In the cities had grown up a vicious unemployed class, living on the distribution of bread which was paid for out of public revenues."
It's a cliche, I guess, and I shouldn't have been so surprised, but the parallels between the fall of the Holy Roman Empire and the US today are amazing.
I bought a book, A Short History of Italy, Henry Dwight Sedgwick, at Strand for a dollar several years ago, and just rescued it from our storage room at Garden City, Long Island.
Sedgwick, a member of an old New England family, was a important historian in his day. He writes that the City of Rome was the head of the world. That from East and West, North and South, "booty, spoils, taxes and tribute flowed into Rome. But, he remarks, that the riches acquired by conquest had "brought the seeds of Evil" with them.
"Society was divided into the very rich and the very poor. The simple laborious life of freeman was gone. The regular occupations of production had been abandoned to serfs and slaves; moderate incomes and plain living had disappeared. The middle class had been thrust down to the level of the plebs. In the country the small proprietors had been reduced to a position little better than serfs, while the great landlords had got vast tracts of land into their hands. Taxes had become heavier and heavier as the exigencies of the Empire grew; great numbers of officials were maintained and great mercenary armies. The rich controlled the government, and shifted almost the whole burden of taxation from their own shoulders to those of the poor. In the cities had grown up a vicious unemployed class, living on the distribution of bread which was paid for out of public revenues."
Friday, February 24, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
1. From the Desk of David Pogue: How to Survive a Tech
Support Call
=============================================================
OK, we all know that the tech-support problem is out of
control these days. But just for fun, reader John Stumpf, ex-
CIO and now just a "retired geek," wrote up a Guide to Dell
Tech Support that's so clever/funny/smart, I had to pass it
on. Please welcome substitute columnist John Stumpf.
PREPARATORY WORK
So it has happened: you have fired up your Dell PC, and -
nothing. Or the dreaded "cannot find boot drive" or something
like that. Now you are forced into the unenviable position of
having to call Dell Off-shore Hardware Support. Look at it as
a journey, one on which you will be tested, much like Job or
Arthur Dent. You will descend into the ninth circle, but with
the proper preparation, tools and attitude, you will return,
a better person for it.
First, before you call, prepare. Raid your kids' library and
find some simple reading primers along the lines of "See Spot
Run." This will help you speak in non-complex sentences and
monosyllabic words.
Make an appointment for that root canal you have been putting
off. After what you are about to experience, you will look
forward to it.
Buy a speakerphone; it's tough to stay rational when your
neck is cramped.
When you are ready to MAKE THE CALL, go to the bathroom, take
an aspirin, get a book or crossword, stock up on water and
nibbles (preferably ones with high sugar content and no
nutritional value; Twinkies are good). Shoo the kids out of
your den; it's possible that they will hear things that could
cause serious psychological issues later.
Do your relaxation exercises; take a sip of water; remember
Dan Rather's closing, "Courage." And MAKE THE CALL.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
The first thing that you will get is a recorded announcement
saying that you can go to support.dell.com online to get
help. This is your first test. Refrain from screaming that
your PC is broken and you can't GET to the Internet. This is
where it is handy to have a towel to bite on, so your family
doesn't hear you screaming at a recording.
You may also be asked to enter your "Express Service Code."
(The discussion of why you have an "Express" Service Code
when you are spending a long time on hold is best put off for
another time.)
Eventually you will get to a person. You will tell him/her
why you are calling, and most likely you will be told you
have to call someone else. They will offer to transfer you,
but before they do, GET THE EXENSION NUMBER. This is very
important, especially when (not if) you get cut off. Note
that it is a seven-digit extension number.
While waiting, pause and ponder the size and complexity of a
company that needs an extension number the size of your phone
number.
Now you are getting close. You will eventually get to someone
who after getting your name, address, problem, and again,
Express Service code, will say the magic words, "I can help
you with that problem." You have now contacted a Dell
Offshore Personal Expert - a DOPE.
Some notes on this part of the process:
* The DOPE will probably call you by your first name, because
he/she wants to be your new best friend.
* He/she will profusely thank you at every step of the way
for the same reason.
* He/she will have a notable American name like Patrick,
Matthew or even a Shaun. Do not react to this.
But congratulations; YOU HAVE REACHED SOMEONE WHO IS TRYING
TO HELP YOU! You reached the ninth circle, and all you have
to do is return.
THE RETURN
What happens now will vary depending on your problem. But
here are some guidelines for dealing with the DOPES.
* Do not yell at them. Aside from the fact that it is rude, I
think the phone system has a volume limiter that will cut you
off. Bite the towel instead.
* Do not try sarcasm; DOPES don't understand it. Again, bite
the towel.
* Ditto humor.
* Do not use words like "escalate" or "supervisor." In my
case, they were greeted by a frosty silence. My guess is that
they sound like obscenities in the local language.
* Do not ask if there is U.S.-based support. You will be told
that there is "no U.S.-based Dell support."
* You may be told that the DOPE will take personal
responsibility for your problem. Loosely translated, this
means you will never hear from him/her again.
THERE IS HOPE
At some point in this process, you may reach a Newly Oriented
Dell Off-shore Personal Expert - a NO-DOPE. This is a person
that has recently joined Dell who hasn't been fully trained
and therefore will approach your problem in a friendly,
knowledgeable and professional manner. He/she will solve your
problem in less time than it took to write this.
The moral of the story is to keep trying; eventually you will
reach a NO-DOPE.
YOU HAVE DONE IT
See, I told you that you could do it. Let the kids and pets
back in, throw out the towel, and start using complex
sentences and polysyllabic words again. And late that night,
after everyone has gone to bed, break out the 12-year-old
stuff, and toast yourself. Tomorrow you can reload all your
programs and restore your data from your backup. You do have
a backup, don't you?
(All of the events related here are based on my experience
with two incidents. The process was so frustrating that I
probably will not buy another Dell. And of course apologies
to Dante, Doug Adams, Greek mythology and those at Dell Off-
shore Support who are great.)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Due to my experiences with Dell Dis-Support over the last ten years I have resolved never to buy another Dell Machine No Matter How Highly They Are Rated by Consumer's Reports. I have owned four different Dells (two lappies and two desk-tops) and with the exception of Dell Dis-Support I think that they were okay.
In the meantime, I have a problem with my Dell Inspiron 8600 and I have been procrastinating and have not called for dis-support for at least a year due to Dell-Dis-Support Phobia. For all I know my problem may not be a Dell problem -- it might be a BellSouth problem, but I am too afraid to call Dell-Dis-Support to find out.
There is no excuse for a successful company like Dell, a company that makes boatloads of money, to abuse its customers like Dell does. But, for several years Business Schools taught that short term bottom lines were much more important than long term customer relationships. From my perusals of the Harvard Business Review, I get the feeling that some doubt has recently been sown in that sad, selfish, shortsighted theory. In a few years, or perhaps in several years, companies may come back to their customers. But I doubt that it will be American owned companies. Think, Toyota, and how it drove General Motors to the junk yard.
Here's a horrible statistic: Wall Street capitalises GM at 13 billion dollars. .. Wall Street capitalizes Toyota at 193.5 Billion dollars.
GM used to be a bellwether stock for the entire market. Let's hope it no longer is. And Charlie Wilson, Ike's Secretary of the Defense, and former president of GM, used to say, "What's good for GM is good for the nation." -- Well, Chapter 11 will be good for GM. What does that say for US?
mek
1. From the Desk of David Pogue: How to Survive a Tech
Support Call
=============================================================
OK, we all know that the tech-support problem is out of
control these days. But just for fun, reader John Stumpf, ex-
CIO and now just a "retired geek," wrote up a Guide to Dell
Tech Support that's so clever/funny/smart, I had to pass it
on. Please welcome substitute columnist John Stumpf.
PREPARATORY WORK
So it has happened: you have fired up your Dell PC, and -
nothing. Or the dreaded "cannot find boot drive" or something
like that. Now you are forced into the unenviable position of
having to call Dell Off-shore Hardware Support. Look at it as
a journey, one on which you will be tested, much like Job or
Arthur Dent. You will descend into the ninth circle, but with
the proper preparation, tools and attitude, you will return,
a better person for it.
First, before you call, prepare. Raid your kids' library and
find some simple reading primers along the lines of "See Spot
Run." This will help you speak in non-complex sentences and
monosyllabic words.
Make an appointment for that root canal you have been putting
off. After what you are about to experience, you will look
forward to it.
Buy a speakerphone; it's tough to stay rational when your
neck is cramped.
When you are ready to MAKE THE CALL, go to the bathroom, take
an aspirin, get a book or crossword, stock up on water and
nibbles (preferably ones with high sugar content and no
nutritional value; Twinkies are good). Shoo the kids out of
your den; it's possible that they will hear things that could
cause serious psychological issues later.
Do your relaxation exercises; take a sip of water; remember
Dan Rather's closing, "Courage." And MAKE THE CALL.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
The first thing that you will get is a recorded announcement
saying that you can go to support.dell.com online to get
help. This is your first test. Refrain from screaming that
your PC is broken and you can't GET to the Internet. This is
where it is handy to have a towel to bite on, so your family
doesn't hear you screaming at a recording.
You may also be asked to enter your "Express Service Code."
(The discussion of why you have an "Express" Service Code
when you are spending a long time on hold is best put off for
another time.)
Eventually you will get to a person. You will tell him/her
why you are calling, and most likely you will be told you
have to call someone else. They will offer to transfer you,
but before they do, GET THE EXENSION NUMBER. This is very
important, especially when (not if) you get cut off. Note
that it is a seven-digit extension number.
While waiting, pause and ponder the size and complexity of a
company that needs an extension number the size of your phone
number.
Now you are getting close. You will eventually get to someone
who after getting your name, address, problem, and again,
Express Service code, will say the magic words, "I can help
you with that problem." You have now contacted a Dell
Offshore Personal Expert - a DOPE.
Some notes on this part of the process:
* The DOPE will probably call you by your first name, because
he/she wants to be your new best friend.
* He/she will profusely thank you at every step of the way
for the same reason.
* He/she will have a notable American name like Patrick,
Matthew or even a Shaun. Do not react to this.
But congratulations; YOU HAVE REACHED SOMEONE WHO IS TRYING
TO HELP YOU! You reached the ninth circle, and all you have
to do is return.
THE RETURN
What happens now will vary depending on your problem. But
here are some guidelines for dealing with the DOPES.
* Do not yell at them. Aside from the fact that it is rude, I
think the phone system has a volume limiter that will cut you
off. Bite the towel instead.
* Do not try sarcasm; DOPES don't understand it. Again, bite
the towel.
* Ditto humor.
* Do not use words like "escalate" or "supervisor." In my
case, they were greeted by a frosty silence. My guess is that
they sound like obscenities in the local language.
* Do not ask if there is U.S.-based support. You will be told
that there is "no U.S.-based Dell support."
* You may be told that the DOPE will take personal
responsibility for your problem. Loosely translated, this
means you will never hear from him/her again.
THERE IS HOPE
At some point in this process, you may reach a Newly Oriented
Dell Off-shore Personal Expert - a NO-DOPE. This is a person
that has recently joined Dell who hasn't been fully trained
and therefore will approach your problem in a friendly,
knowledgeable and professional manner. He/she will solve your
problem in less time than it took to write this.
The moral of the story is to keep trying; eventually you will
reach a NO-DOPE.
YOU HAVE DONE IT
See, I told you that you could do it. Let the kids and pets
back in, throw out the towel, and start using complex
sentences and polysyllabic words again. And late that night,
after everyone has gone to bed, break out the 12-year-old
stuff, and toast yourself. Tomorrow you can reload all your
programs and restore your data from your backup. You do have
a backup, don't you?
(All of the events related here are based on my experience
with two incidents. The process was so frustrating that I
probably will not buy another Dell. And of course apologies
to Dante, Doug Adams, Greek mythology and those at Dell Off-
shore Support who are great.)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Due to my experiences with Dell Dis-Support over the last ten years I have resolved never to buy another Dell Machine No Matter How Highly They Are Rated by Consumer's Reports. I have owned four different Dells (two lappies and two desk-tops) and with the exception of Dell Dis-Support I think that they were okay.
In the meantime, I have a problem with my Dell Inspiron 8600 and I have been procrastinating and have not called for dis-support for at least a year due to Dell-Dis-Support Phobia. For all I know my problem may not be a Dell problem -- it might be a BellSouth problem, but I am too afraid to call Dell-Dis-Support to find out.
There is no excuse for a successful company like Dell, a company that makes boatloads of money, to abuse its customers like Dell does. But, for several years Business Schools taught that short term bottom lines were much more important than long term customer relationships. From my perusals of the Harvard Business Review, I get the feeling that some doubt has recently been sown in that sad, selfish, shortsighted theory. In a few years, or perhaps in several years, companies may come back to their customers. But I doubt that it will be American owned companies. Think, Toyota, and how it drove General Motors to the junk yard.
Here's a horrible statistic: Wall Street capitalises GM at 13 billion dollars. .. Wall Street capitalizes Toyota at 193.5 Billion dollars.
GM used to be a bellwether stock for the entire market. Let's hope it no longer is. And Charlie Wilson, Ike's Secretary of the Defense, and former president of GM, used to say, "What's good for GM is good for the nation." -- Well, Chapter 11 will be good for GM. What does that say for US?
mek
Thursday, February 23, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Richard Russell's "Dow Theory Letters"
February 16, 2006 -- I should be in shock, but I'm really not. I just read on Bloomberg that my old high school, Horace Mann School for Boys (now just called Horace Mann because it's coed), will charge tuition of around $30,000 a year (this is a high school, mind you, not a university). And it's a good high school -- Eliot Spitzer is a graduate, so it must be good. But $30,000? I told my sister about it, and she laughed. "Get with it," she said, "Kindergarten at Ethical Culture school (where we both attended) now charges in the high $20 thousands, that is if you can get in at all." Actually, I hear there's near hysteria to get kids into private kindergartens in New York City. Remember when they called New York "Fun City"? I think that was back in the 70s or was it the '80s? It's still Fun City if you've got around half a million to spend every year.
So why am I surprised at the $30,000 at my old high school? Well, you see, we old codgers remember. Back in the late 1930s when I was attending Horace Mann, the tuition was a lot different. In those days Horace Mann was begging people to attend. Tuition then was $450 a year and thanks for thinking of us. Don't smirk. In the late '30s you could buy a new Ford for that same $450, so my folks didn't think Horace Mann was a bargain; they thought it was just a good school. I liked the school, of course, We had a really good football team. Our star running back was Jack Kerouac, who later became famous as the leader of the "beats." I knew Jack well. He was a tough guy, he came from New Jersey, and he thought all us Manhattan kids were spoiled brats.
Jack's "beat" buddies later became the hippies of the 1960s. With the arrival of the hippies, America's forgotten children burst on to the scene, and in time the hippies gave birth to the "bobby-soxers" and then to today's "teens." The Bobby-soxers loved Elvis, and later Frankie. The teens turned to a higher form of music, and Rock and Roll was born. Born? Hey, the teens almost took over the nation. The teens graduated to black penitentiary "music," and the whole thing morphed into what today we call the hip-hop generation. And it all started with Jack Kerouac back at Horace Mann School for Boys.
So tuition from $450 to $30,000. That's a big jump. But I thought the Federal Reserve was the guardian of our money? No, they don't really guard our money -- they create it. And doesn't Fed Chairman Bernanke say that he's going to target inflation at just 1 to 2 percent? That kind of inflation (if he can pull it off) is not too noticeable, unless you live a long time like your editor. Then you can look back and say, "What the hell happened to that money that I saved over 30 or 40 or 50 years?" Aw, the Fed ate it. You should have been smart enough to put some of it in gold or Sears or General Electric, no, I said General Electric, dummy, not General Motors.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I went to Horace Mann in the middle '50s. Tuition was $900 and the Dormitory was another $900.
From Richard Russell's "Dow Theory Letters"
February 16, 2006 -- I should be in shock, but I'm really not. I just read on Bloomberg that my old high school, Horace Mann School for Boys (now just called Horace Mann because it's coed), will charge tuition of around $30,000 a year (this is a high school, mind you, not a university). And it's a good high school -- Eliot Spitzer is a graduate, so it must be good. But $30,000? I told my sister about it, and she laughed. "Get with it," she said, "Kindergarten at Ethical Culture school (where we both attended) now charges in the high $20 thousands, that is if you can get in at all." Actually, I hear there's near hysteria to get kids into private kindergartens in New York City. Remember when they called New York "Fun City"? I think that was back in the 70s or was it the '80s? It's still Fun City if you've got around half a million to spend every year.
So why am I surprised at the $30,000 at my old high school? Well, you see, we old codgers remember. Back in the late 1930s when I was attending Horace Mann, the tuition was a lot different. In those days Horace Mann was begging people to attend. Tuition then was $450 a year and thanks for thinking of us. Don't smirk. In the late '30s you could buy a new Ford for that same $450, so my folks didn't think Horace Mann was a bargain; they thought it was just a good school. I liked the school, of course, We had a really good football team. Our star running back was Jack Kerouac, who later became famous as the leader of the "beats." I knew Jack well. He was a tough guy, he came from New Jersey, and he thought all us Manhattan kids were spoiled brats.
Jack's "beat" buddies later became the hippies of the 1960s. With the arrival of the hippies, America's forgotten children burst on to the scene, and in time the hippies gave birth to the "bobby-soxers" and then to today's "teens." The Bobby-soxers loved Elvis, and later Frankie. The teens turned to a higher form of music, and Rock and Roll was born. Born? Hey, the teens almost took over the nation. The teens graduated to black penitentiary "music," and the whole thing morphed into what today we call the hip-hop generation. And it all started with Jack Kerouac back at Horace Mann School for Boys.
So tuition from $450 to $30,000. That's a big jump. But I thought the Federal Reserve was the guardian of our money? No, they don't really guard our money -- they create it. And doesn't Fed Chairman Bernanke say that he's going to target inflation at just 1 to 2 percent? That kind of inflation (if he can pull it off) is not too noticeable, unless you live a long time like your editor. Then you can look back and say, "What the hell happened to that money that I saved over 30 or 40 or 50 years?" Aw, the Fed ate it. You should have been smart enough to put some of it in gold or Sears or General Electric, no, I said General Electric, dummy, not General Motors.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I went to Horace Mann in the middle '50s. Tuition was $900 and the Dormitory was another $900.
Monday, February 13, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The levelers insisted on an equal distribution of power and property and disclaimed all dependence and subordination.
The millenaians or fifth-monarchy-men required, that government itself should be abolished, that all human powers be laid in dust, in order to pave the way for the dominion of Christ whose second coming they immediately expected.
The Antinomians even insisted that the obligations of morality and natural law were suspended, and that the elect, guided by internal principle, more perfect and divine, were superior to the beggarly elements of justice and humanity.
A considerable party declaimed against tithes and hireling priests, and were resolved that the magistrate should not by power or revenue any ecclesiastical establishment.
Another party inveiged against the law and its professors; and on pretense rendering more simple the distribution of justice, were desirous of dismantling the entire system of English jurisprudence, which seemed interwoven with monarchic government.
Even among those republicans, who adopted no such extravagances, were so intoxicated with their saintly character, that they supposed themselves possessed of peculiar privledges; and that all professions, oaths, laws, and engagements, had, in great measure, lost their influence over them.
The bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.
David Hume : HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOL VI
The levelers insisted on an equal distribution of power and property and disclaimed all dependence and subordination.
The millenaians or fifth-monarchy-men required, that government itself should be abolished, that all human powers be laid in dust, in order to pave the way for the dominion of Christ whose second coming they immediately expected.
The Antinomians even insisted that the obligations of morality and natural law were suspended, and that the elect, guided by internal principle, more perfect and divine, were superior to the beggarly elements of justice and humanity.
A considerable party declaimed against tithes and hireling priests, and were resolved that the magistrate should not by power or revenue any ecclesiastical establishment.
Another party inveiged against the law and its professors; and on pretense rendering more simple the distribution of justice, were desirous of dismantling the entire system of English jurisprudence, which seemed interwoven with monarchic government.
Even among those republicans, who adopted no such extravagances, were so intoxicated with their saintly character, that they supposed themselves possessed of peculiar privledges; and that all professions, oaths, laws, and engagements, had, in great measure, lost their influence over them.
The bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.
David Hume : HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOL VI
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gross wanted to know "Why aren't you telling me to read Paul Auster's newest, "Brooklyn Follies"?
Ah, thanks for reminding me. I went to Miami to see Auster read from Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago. It sounds like the type of novel that I would like, and, of course, it is an Auster work. I just plain forgot to order it from the library. Wait a few moments, please. I'll be right back...
Brooklyn follies
You are number 19 in the holds list
There are 21 holdable copies
Okay: it's ordered. I am number 19 in the hold list; but as there are 21 copies I should be getting it soon. Hiis wife was there too and I could have a lot to say about her too, but suffice it to say that she is very hot, and reads very well, and is definitely smarter than I am. Auster may be.
In the meantime: I went to Naples and spent Superbowl night with the great HR. I lost $5.00 betting on the Seahawks--I actually wanted to bet the Steelers because I like the guy with the long hair, but Hal wanted the Steelers and so he gave me the points and I rooted for the Seahawks. There were two Ref calls that hurt the Seahawks, I called both opposite to the Refs but my calls weren't allowed by Hal.
As it turned out my guy with the long hair wasn't as great as he was in the playoffs, and had I taken the Steelers I wouldn't have had much to cheer about anyway. Troy Polamalu is going to be around for a long time, I guess, as this is only his third NFL season, so I'll get to see him a lot more in the future. I just hope that there is no Delila around to cut his hair. Maybe Hal will let me take his team next year.
Anyway, watching the game with Hal was a lot of fun, except I kept thinking that I might never see him again as he is moving to the west coast. You guys missed out in not seeing the house as Mary did it.
I dragged Hal to the Naples Museum which is a pretty good small museum. He was a good guy and went along, although I am sure that he would rather have done something else, like bake a pie or go to church.
And I learned something in the museum thanks to HR. There was a special exhibit of Andrew Wyeth which I would have skipped, because, art snob that I am, I thought of Wyeth as an illustrator, like Norman Rockwell, who made pretty pictures filled out with false sentiment. Maybe Christina's World threw me off.
Hal went to see the Wyeths while I spent some time with second tier American artists and some Mexican contemporary artists in whose works I found some real emotion, though sometimes I worry that I can't tell the difference between truth, art, emotion and propaganda--like with Rivera, Orozco, and Siquieros. I like to look at their work; but it makes me think about Justice instead of feel. Is that art? Or is it propaganda?
Anyway Hal came down from the gallery where the Wyeths were being shown. I could see that he had been impressed so I went up to look at them. I figured that he has lived with Mary so long that some of her esthetic must have rubbed off. He might be right about liking Wyeth. -- It turned out that the Helga pictures were included in the show, and when I looked at them I could see how right HR was and how wrong I had been. Helga is painted over and over again with a meticulous intensity that only an artist obsessed and in love could have produced. Wyeth's wife never knew about Helga until about fifty or so paintings were discovered hidden in his studio. Wyeth freed his emotions from his mind and attached them to the canvases. Wyeth does it...at least in the Helga paintings. Now I have to look at Christina's World again. It was chilling. If the show goes to NYC let me know what you think.
I limited myself to two martinis, but of course we ate too much, and so I didn't sleep well, but early in the AM, before Hal awoke, I jumped into his pool which was ice cold and very, very refreshing. If only I could get the people in my building to allow the pool to get cold. They insist that it be warm, probably so that they can get away with peeing in it.
I swam a couple of laps furiously kicking my feet, not using my arms, as my rotator cuff is still a problem, but somehow it seems that the ice cold water helped it a lot. It still feels better. And I was in for only ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible Doctors?
I didn't like leaving Hal -- I felt like I was losing something again.
Gross wanted to know "Why aren't you telling me to read Paul Auster's newest, "Brooklyn Follies"?
Ah, thanks for reminding me. I went to Miami to see Auster read from Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago. It sounds like the type of novel that I would like, and, of course, it is an Auster work. I just plain forgot to order it from the library. Wait a few moments, please. I'll be right back...
Brooklyn follies
You are number 19 in the holds list
There are 21 holdable copies
Okay: it's ordered. I am number 19 in the hold list; but as there are 21 copies I should be getting it soon. Hiis wife was there too and I could have a lot to say about her too, but suffice it to say that she is very hot, and reads very well, and is definitely smarter than I am. Auster may be.
In the meantime: I went to Naples and spent Superbowl night with the great HR. I lost $5.00 betting on the Seahawks--I actually wanted to bet the Steelers because I like the guy with the long hair, but Hal wanted the Steelers and so he gave me the points and I rooted for the Seahawks. There were two Ref calls that hurt the Seahawks, I called both opposite to the Refs but my calls weren't allowed by Hal.
As it turned out my guy with the long hair wasn't as great as he was in the playoffs, and had I taken the Steelers I wouldn't have had much to cheer about anyway. Troy Polamalu is going to be around for a long time, I guess, as this is only his third NFL season, so I'll get to see him a lot more in the future. I just hope that there is no Delila around to cut his hair. Maybe Hal will let me take his team next year.
Anyway, watching the game with Hal was a lot of fun, except I kept thinking that I might never see him again as he is moving to the west coast. You guys missed out in not seeing the house as Mary did it.
I dragged Hal to the Naples Museum which is a pretty good small museum. He was a good guy and went along, although I am sure that he would rather have done something else, like bake a pie or go to church.
And I learned something in the museum thanks to HR. There was a special exhibit of Andrew Wyeth which I would have skipped, because, art snob that I am, I thought of Wyeth as an illustrator, like Norman Rockwell, who made pretty pictures filled out with false sentiment. Maybe Christina's World threw me off.
Hal went to see the Wyeths while I spent some time with second tier American artists and some Mexican contemporary artists in whose works I found some real emotion, though sometimes I worry that I can't tell the difference between truth, art, emotion and propaganda--like with Rivera, Orozco, and Siquieros. I like to look at their work; but it makes me think about Justice instead of feel. Is that art? Or is it propaganda?
Anyway Hal came down from the gallery where the Wyeths were being shown. I could see that he had been impressed so I went up to look at them. I figured that he has lived with Mary so long that some of her esthetic must have rubbed off. He might be right about liking Wyeth. -- It turned out that the Helga pictures were included in the show, and when I looked at them I could see how right HR was and how wrong I had been. Helga is painted over and over again with a meticulous intensity that only an artist obsessed and in love could have produced. Wyeth's wife never knew about Helga until about fifty or so paintings were discovered hidden in his studio. Wyeth freed his emotions from his mind and attached them to the canvases. Wyeth does it...at least in the Helga paintings. Now I have to look at Christina's World again. It was chilling. If the show goes to NYC let me know what you think.
I limited myself to two martinis, but of course we ate too much, and so I didn't sleep well, but early in the AM, before Hal awoke, I jumped into his pool which was ice cold and very, very refreshing. If only I could get the people in my building to allow the pool to get cold. They insist that it be warm, probably so that they can get away with peeing in it.
I swam a couple of laps furiously kicking my feet, not using my arms, as my rotator cuff is still a problem, but somehow it seems that the ice cold water helped it a lot. It still feels better. And I was in for only ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible Doctors?
I didn't like leaving Hal -- I felt like I was losing something again.
Monday, February 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
No doubt your grandson is reading Keats, and a good thing it is.
Truth
Beauty
Justice
Can we live for these three things. Have we? Certainly the four of you have made an effort in those honorable directions. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. Whereas some of us have much for which to make up. Repairs. Note, when you re-read the poem that it is not Keats who makes the point; rather it is written on the urn. We do not know whether Keats believed that truth is beauty and beauty is truth.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
______________________________________________________
It seems to me on re-reading the poem for the first time in fifty or so years that the beauty of the urn is absolutely not truthful, as Keats tells us, more than once, that the articles of beauty depicted on the urn are not transitory, in fact that each article of beauty transits generations--and remains frozen in time. Unlike the reality of Therefore Beauty is not truth.
Whereas, we know that all things evanesce, change, are destroyed, as Shelly reminds us in Ozymandius:
___________________________________________
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
_________________________________________________________
Ralph warns us that it is our duty, in fact it is our only duty not to lie; that is to be truthful: but then what are we doing when we take ugliness and make art of it as in Strange Fruit, or Guernica? Are we truthful when we deny our essential loneliness; when we deny the predictability of chaos? But our loneliness is beautiful and so is chaos.
mek
No doubt your grandson is reading Keats, and a good thing it is.
Truth
Beauty
Justice
Can we live for these three things. Have we? Certainly the four of you have made an effort in those honorable directions. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. Whereas some of us have much for which to make up. Repairs. Note, when you re-read the poem that it is not Keats who makes the point; rather it is written on the urn. We do not know whether Keats believed that truth is beauty and beauty is truth.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
______________________________________________________
It seems to me on re-reading the poem for the first time in fifty or so years that the beauty of the urn is absolutely not truthful, as Keats tells us, more than once, that the articles of beauty depicted on the urn are not transitory, in fact that each article of beauty transits generations--and remains frozen in time. Unlike the reality of Therefore Beauty is not truth.
Whereas, we know that all things evanesce, change, are destroyed, as Shelly reminds us in Ozymandius:
___________________________________________
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
_________________________________________________________
Ralph warns us that it is our duty, in fact it is our only duty not to lie; that is to be truthful: but then what are we doing when we take ugliness and make art of it as in Strange Fruit, or Guernica? Are we truthful when we deny our essential loneliness; when we deny the predictability of chaos? But our loneliness is beautiful and so is chaos.
mek
Saturday, January 21, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Marty:
It was painful to watch the video; but its implication that there was a conspiracy involving Americans is laughable.
How many people would have been needed to install all the explosives that the voice tells us must have been used on the 103 floors of the WTC. They would have had to have been technical explosive experts.
How many people must have been needed to make sure that the airplanes were only partially filled? These would have had to have been a group of Continental employees and a second unrelated group of American Airline employees. Or, perhaps a group of hackers.
How many people must have been involved in "knowing ahead of time" that the attack was imminent? They would have been high administration officials.
How many people would have held back NORAD fighters? These would have been Dept of Defense or Air force staffers.
All these groups of people would be unrelated. What would their common goal have been? Who would have brought them together and convinced them (hundreds of them) to go along with this project.
Wouldn't there have even been one single doubter among the hundreds or thousands that would have had to have been contacted?
How could any investigation of the WTC center cost only $600,000? Some murder investigations by the NYC cost more.
Isn't obvious that no conspiracy of this size could not have remained secret for all these years--or even more obvious that no conspiracy of this size could have been kept secret before its detonation.
It's silly to pass this kind of stuff around. And, from the number of dead soldiers (1000+) this thing is pretty old.
I consider myself to be pretty far to the left--but this is only someone's idea for a novel or movie. It has zero believability.
Please pass this back to the sadly credulous people who sent this to you.
Thanks
Mike
Dear Marty:
It was painful to watch the video; but its implication that there was a conspiracy involving Americans is laughable.
How many people would have been needed to install all the explosives that the voice tells us must have been used on the 103 floors of the WTC. They would have had to have been technical explosive experts.
How many people must have been needed to make sure that the airplanes were only partially filled? These would have had to have been a group of Continental employees and a second unrelated group of American Airline employees. Or, perhaps a group of hackers.
How many people must have been involved in "knowing ahead of time" that the attack was imminent? They would have been high administration officials.
How many people would have held back NORAD fighters? These would have been Dept of Defense or Air force staffers.
All these groups of people would be unrelated. What would their common goal have been? Who would have brought them together and convinced them (hundreds of them) to go along with this project.
Wouldn't there have even been one single doubter among the hundreds or thousands that would have had to have been contacted?
How could any investigation of the WTC center cost only $600,000? Some murder investigations by the NYC cost more.
Isn't obvious that no conspiracy of this size could not have remained secret for all these years--or even more obvious that no conspiracy of this size could have been kept secret before its detonation.
It's silly to pass this kind of stuff around. And, from the number of dead soldiers (1000+) this thing is pretty old.
I consider myself to be pretty far to the left--but this is only someone's idea for a novel or movie. It has zero believability.
Please pass this back to the sadly credulous people who sent this to you.
Thanks
Mike
Friday, January 20, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The fight against pornography is a diversion, and is going to be used to retain the Republican base and divert the rest of the American people's attention from Iraq, the collapsing dollar, the national debt, and universal medical care. And look at the box that the Democrats will be forced into: Any Democrat defense of freedom of speech and ideas will easily be twisted into a position of pro-pornography.
mek
The fight against pornography is a diversion, and is going to be used to retain the Republican base and divert the rest of the American people's attention from Iraq, the collapsing dollar, the national debt, and universal medical care. And look at the box that the Democrats will be forced into: Any Democrat defense of freedom of speech and ideas will easily be twisted into a position of pro-pornography.
According to AOL news, today, MSN has already delivered the information although its spokesman won't say yes or no; Yahoo has said that it has submitted to all government subpoenas.
mek
mek
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have obtained the Peter Watson book from the library. The Modern Mind
It is a weighty volume which I have looked through and it seems to me (at this point) that it is almost a quick, light,very long, bring-me-up-to-date-Charlie-about-what-happened-while-I- was-asleep-during-the-twentieth-century gossip column. Most of what I have skipped through was stuff that I already knew from general conversation and magazine articles.
Noting what I thought was another coincidence, I skipped over to the paragraphs on TH Lawrence, mistaking it, at first, for DH Lawrence who, as you probably remember, was the current subject of Dubin, the adulterous-lost-soul-biographer.
Of course, I excuse my mistake as it was three-thirty in the morning and I had woken myself from a disturbing dream involving Katz Drug Store, a fire, and an aged geriatric doctor whom I knew in Brooklyn when it was me that was a lost soul, among other things.
But then that wasn't really the Watson book that I was reading; rather, it was another heavy tome, by William T. Vollmann, called RISING UP and RISING DOWN, which I recommend to you, even though it is lengthy, although abridged from a seven volume essay on violence.
Even more than Vollmanns' essays I recommend his fiction some of which I previously recommened to you and which you may have read, namely, The Rifles.
Volllman: 730 pp (abridged from 3500 pp)
Watson: 850 pp.
Malamud 361 pp
............. 1941 pp
I will finish the Malamud, but I have little hope for the Vollmann and Watson.
I have obtained the Peter Watson book from the library. The Modern Mind
It is a weighty volume which I have looked through and it seems to me (at this point) that it is almost a quick, light,very long, bring-me-up-to-date-Charlie-about-what-happened-while-I- was-asleep-during-the-twentieth-century gossip column. Most of what I have skipped through was stuff that I already knew from general conversation and magazine articles.
Noting what I thought was another coincidence, I skipped over to the paragraphs on TH Lawrence, mistaking it, at first, for DH Lawrence who, as you probably remember, was the current subject of Dubin, the adulterous-lost-soul-biographer.
Of course, I excuse my mistake as it was three-thirty in the morning and I had woken myself from a disturbing dream involving Katz Drug Store, a fire, and an aged geriatric doctor whom I knew in Brooklyn when it was me that was a lost soul, among other things.
But then that wasn't really the Watson book that I was reading; rather, it was another heavy tome, by William T. Vollmann, called RISING UP and RISING DOWN, which I recommend to you, even though it is lengthy, although abridged from a seven volume essay on violence.
Even more than Vollmanns' essays I recommend his fiction some of which I previously recommened to you and which you may have read, namely, The Rifles.
Volllman: 730 pp (abridged from 3500 pp)
Watson: 850 pp.
Malamud 361 pp
............. 1941 pp
I will finish the Malamud, but I have little hope for the Vollmann and Watson.
Monday, January 09, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Gross:
You know the story I like to tell about the time that your mother explained to me that in Russia her father's side of the family was called Katznelson, but that when they came to America they dropped the Katz, and became “Nelson.” And I responded that OUR name in Russia was also Katznelson, but that when we arrived in America we dropped the nelson and became “Katz.”
My joke may have gone over your head, but your mother got it.
Well, today I heard a story that may have topped that one.
I was speaking to the son of a friend of my father's whose name was Shapiro.
My father's friend was nicknamed "Shep" which, apparently was the nickname given to Shapiros in those days.
Shep had two sons; Larry and Peter and both went to Horace Mann about six years before we did. They also went to Raquette Lake.
Both boys went to Wesleyan (Connecticut.)
Peter Shapiro thought that changing his name from "Shapiro" to "Sheppe" might help his chances of getting into Harvard Law School. He changed his name, was admitted to Harvard and received his degree. He became GC of Time-Life.
Peter died early in life and Larry wanted to memorialize him by putting his name on a room at Wesleyan. He sent a check to a Robert Kelly, a person in charge of such donations, with the request that his brother's name, "Peter Sheppe" be placed on a plaque over a room in the gym. (By the way, If you do it for me, a room in the Osaka Shiatsu Club would be fine.)
Larry's letter requesting that his brother's name, “Peter Sheppe” be placed on the plaque confused Mr. Kelly, who called Larry for clarification.
"Mr. Shapiro,” Kelly said, “your letter says that you wish to memorialize your brother; but the name you gave us for the plaque is ‘Peter Sheppe’."
"Well," Larry explained, "the name was changed."
"Oh," Kelly replied, "I understand. By the way, which one of you changed his name?"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dear Gross:
You know the story I like to tell about the time that your mother explained to me that in Russia her father's side of the family was called Katznelson, but that when they came to America they dropped the Katz, and became “Nelson.” And I responded that OUR name in Russia was also Katznelson, but that when we arrived in America we dropped the nelson and became “Katz.”
My joke may have gone over your head, but your mother got it.
Well, today I heard a story that may have topped that one.
I was speaking to the son of a friend of my father's whose name was Shapiro.
My father's friend was nicknamed "Shep" which, apparently was the nickname given to Shapiros in those days.
Shep had two sons; Larry and Peter and both went to Horace Mann about six years before we did. They also went to Raquette Lake.
Both boys went to Wesleyan (Connecticut.)
Peter Shapiro thought that changing his name from "Shapiro" to "Sheppe" might help his chances of getting into Harvard Law School. He changed his name, was admitted to Harvard and received his degree. He became GC of Time-Life.
Peter died early in life and Larry wanted to memorialize him by putting his name on a room at Wesleyan. He sent a check to a Robert Kelly, a person in charge of such donations, with the request that his brother's name, "Peter Sheppe" be placed on a plaque over a room in the gym. (By the way, If you do it for me, a room in the Osaka Shiatsu Club would be fine.)
Larry's letter requesting that his brother's name, “Peter Sheppe” be placed on the plaque confused Mr. Kelly, who called Larry for clarification.
"Mr. Shapiro,” Kelly said, “your letter says that you wish to memorialize your brother; but the name you gave us for the plaque is ‘Peter Sheppe’."
"Well," Larry explained, "the name was changed."
"Oh," Kelly replied, "I understand. By the way, which one of you changed his name?"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sunday, January 08, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Bernard Malamud, Dubin's Lives:
" 'Tell me about D. H. Lawrence, ' Kitty sometimes said as they sat alone in the room, and Dubin would make the effort to tell episodes from the man's life.
'You tell it so interestingly. Why is it so hard to write?'
'It resists the pen. The second thought hides from the first.' "
From Bernard Malamud, Dubin's Lives:
" 'Tell me about D. H. Lawrence, ' Kitty sometimes said as they sat alone in the room, and Dubin would make the effort to tell episodes from the man's life.
'You tell it so interestingly. Why is it so hard to write?'
'It resists the pen. The second thought hides from the first.' "
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)