BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Note to Bob-
Bob:
I had to go the motor vehicle bureau in order to make a change on my license.
While I was there I saw a man taking an eye test using an optical device that looked like a long pair of binoculars.
I assume that there is an eye-chart within the device.
Apparently he misunderstood the instructions and he read the eye-chart vertically. Has this ever happened in your office? Is this very rare?
When the examiner asked him to read horizontally he read from right to left. No, he was neither Chinese nor Hebrew.
Does this happen in your office?
mek
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Masks, roles: we never get rid of them. Maybe years of meditation, or of analysis would strip them away. Right now the Guggenheim Museum in NYC has an exhibit of Aztec art and one of the pieces shows a face being un-wrapped from two other faces that cover the orginal face. I think it is on the Guggenheim website--better if you are in NYC go to see the exhibit before it leaves town.
I am an old man--at least much older than you. I am lucky enough to have retained many friends from my high school days. When we get together all masks that life has painted upon us are stripped away. We know each other as the real boys we once were. We can breathe again, without restriction, and laugh, and find our essential honest selves again.
Masks, roles: we never get rid of them. Maybe years of meditation, or of analysis would strip them away. Right now the Guggenheim Museum in NYC has an exhibit of Aztec art and one of the pieces shows a face being un-wrapped from two other faces that cover the orginal face. I think it is on the Guggenheim website--better if you are in NYC go to see the exhibit before it leaves town.
I am an old man--at least much older than you. I am lucky enough to have retained many friends from my high school days. When we get together all masks that life has painted upon us are stripped away. We know each other as the real boys we once were. We can breathe again, without restriction, and laugh, and find our essential honest selves again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Often
I awaken to an eldritch sunrise at my window,
And black clouds floating east towards me,
Their furthest eastern edges gilded in a pinkish gold,
And a narrow beam of the bright light seemingly aimed right for my eye.
Often
I awaken to an eldritch sunrise at my window,
And black clouds floating east towards me,
Their furthest eastern edges gilded in a pinkish gold,
And a narrow beam of the bright light seemingly aimed right for my eye.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Monday, January 03, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
New Year's Resolution.
Well, here's a few things that I already do. No resolutions needed here--except to try harder to live up to them. And then, the resolutions:
Punctuality. My score is close to perfect.
Truth: My word is my bond. My score is close to perfect.
Justice: personally I try to be just. My score, however, could be improved.
Getting things done quickly. The sooner I get things done, the sooner I can get to something else. I believe in this, but my score is close to Failure.
Routine: Someone pointed out to me that having a routine helps to get things done, while hardly noticing that I am doing them. My score? Failure.
Do the hard things first. This came from a woman with three names who was editor of a woman's magazine for several years, decades ago. She was incredibly efficient, and handled many jobs simultaneously. Her husband's name was Brown and he, too, was a man with his own successes. I would add remembering names to my list, but one one of my resolutions is to not worry about my memory. O, it comes to me. Like magic: her name was Helen Gurly Brown.
MORE: More exercise. More water. More Sleep. These three imperatives could be from Ben Franklin. Every one has had them on their resolution list at one time or another, or every time. I won't give myself a grade, a another resolution is not to criticise myself.
LESS: Less food. Gloria Vanderbilt reminds us that even a leaf of lettuce has calories.
Do not worry about Memory: It's there or it isn't.
Criticism. Most criticism, though it may seem objective is actually self-criticism. I must boost myself -- and others too. I give myself an A+ for boosting others; but a D for boosting myself. Instead of boosting myself I boot myself.
--
New Year's Resolution.
Well, here's a few things that I already do. No resolutions needed here--except to try harder to live up to them. And then, the resolutions:
Punctuality. My score is close to perfect.
Truth: My word is my bond. My score is close to perfect.
Justice: personally I try to be just. My score, however, could be improved.
Getting things done quickly. The sooner I get things done, the sooner I can get to something else. I believe in this, but my score is close to Failure.
Routine: Someone pointed out to me that having a routine helps to get things done, while hardly noticing that I am doing them. My score? Failure.
Do the hard things first. This came from a woman with three names who was editor of a woman's magazine for several years, decades ago. She was incredibly efficient, and handled many jobs simultaneously. Her husband's name was Brown and he, too, was a man with his own successes. I would add remembering names to my list, but one one of my resolutions is to not worry about my memory. O, it comes to me. Like magic: her name was Helen Gurly Brown.
MORE: More exercise. More water. More Sleep. These three imperatives could be from Ben Franklin. Every one has had them on their resolution list at one time or another, or every time. I won't give myself a grade, a another resolution is not to criticise myself.
LESS: Less food. Gloria Vanderbilt reminds us that even a leaf of lettuce has calories.
Do not worry about Memory: It's there or it isn't.
Criticism. Most criticism, though it may seem objective is actually self-criticism. I must boost myself -- and others too. I give myself an A+ for boosting others; but a D for boosting myself. Instead of boosting myself I boot myself.
--
Thursday, December 30, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
Monday, December 27, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Yes, twelve stories up. But no stories to speak.
At dawn the lights of night still lit,
From the west
A yellow light over the city.
On the eastern horizon,
A red blip, as yet only the top of the arc,
I feel my morning urge to pee.
Dark clouds gilded in red and gold.
Watching, alone, I wonder.
A few cars speed on the roads.
--and a siren breaks my only possession,
My peaceful, happy silence.
For a moment I deliberate—I should pee.
Shall I start the coffee first?
Or pee? I get out the coffee can,
Carefully measure out
Exactly four cups of water. Then,
Four heaping tablespoons of Brown Gold
Into the filter. I turn on the machine, hear
Its slight hiss as the water seeps through the grounds.
And make my way through the dawn-light in
The familiar apartment. I hear Maria sleep-breathing
In the bedroom. At last, I make my pee.
Yes, she labors, even in sleep.
MEK, December 2004
Yes, twelve stories up. But no stories to speak.
At dawn the lights of night still lit,
From the west
A yellow light over the city.
On the eastern horizon,
A red blip, as yet only the top of the arc,
I feel my morning urge to pee.
Dark clouds gilded in red and gold.
Watching, alone, I wonder.
A few cars speed on the roads.
--and a siren breaks my only possession,
My peaceful, happy silence.
For a moment I deliberate—I should pee.
Shall I start the coffee first?
Or pee? I get out the coffee can,
Carefully measure out
Exactly four cups of water. Then,
Four heaping tablespoons of Brown Gold
Into the filter. I turn on the machine, hear
Its slight hiss as the water seeps through the grounds.
And make my way through the dawn-light in
The familiar apartment. I hear Maria sleep-breathing
In the bedroom. At last, I make my pee.
Yes, she labors, even in sleep.
MEK, December 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Someone said:
People don't seem to realize that their opinion of the world is a confession of character.
Someone said:
People don't seem to realize that their opinion of the world is a confession of character.
Monday, December 20, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
Friday, December 10, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Serious literature fans:
You couldn't do better than "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll," Alvaro Mutis.
Serious literature fans:
You couldn't do better than "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll," Alvaro Mutis.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Yes, I want to be attentive, involved in what I am doing, involved in what is going on around me. I want to engage with with friends, my family members. But somehow, I am not really engaged. I am apart. I keep myself that way. I am like Alvaro Mutis' character, Maqroll, known to his friends as the 'watchman.' But my habit of keeping myself at a distance from my own life, and from the lives of my friends and my dearest removes me from what is real. I am always peering through a window trying to see what is real. But I can't feel through the glass. I only observe.
Is that the way I want it?
And, by the way, you couldn't find a better book than, Alvaro Mutis, "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll."
Yes, I want to be attentive, involved in what I am doing, involved in what is going on around me. I want to engage with with friends, my family members. But somehow, I am not really engaged. I am apart. I keep myself that way. I am like Alvaro Mutis' character, Maqroll, known to his friends as the 'watchman.' But my habit of keeping myself at a distance from my own life, and from the lives of my friends and my dearest removes me from what is real. I am always peering through a window trying to see what is real. But I can't feel through the glass. I only observe.
Is that the way I want it?
And, by the way, you couldn't find a better book than, Alvaro Mutis, "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Another aspect of the Bush vote was that the great unwashed and the bourgeoisie have been bamboozled by the Republican Propaganda Machine. Patriotism,. The American flag, "socialist" ideas, the danger of gov't subsidized medical care...etc. -- It's really amazing how stupid Mr. Average Joe is; can't he see how good Medicare is? Can't he see how good even Medicaid is (in some states.)
It's great to believe in Democracy, but until there is an educational system, with educable students, we are never going to have a rational, fair and just government. And now they are falling for the privatization of Social Security. Under Mrs. Thatcher the old age pension system was revamped partially privatized--and it doesn't work.There have been scandals and failures. But the Republicans want Privatization. But the Brits also have a National Health Care System.
But, Heaven forefend!! No No!! They don't want that!
Another aspect of the Bush vote was that the great unwashed and the bourgeoisie have been bamboozled by the Republican Propaganda Machine. Patriotism,. The American flag, "socialist" ideas, the danger of gov't subsidized medical care...etc. -- It's really amazing how stupid Mr. Average Joe is; can't he see how good Medicare is? Can't he see how good even Medicaid is (in some states.)
It's great to believe in Democracy, but until there is an educational system, with educable students, we are never going to have a rational, fair and just government. And now they are falling for the privatization of Social Security. Under Mrs. Thatcher the old age pension system was revamped partially privatized--and it doesn't work.There have been scandals and failures. But the Republicans want Privatization. But the Brits also have a National Health Care System.
But, Heaven forefend!! No No!! They don't want that!
Friday, November 26, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
November 25, 2004
The first time I saw waxed fruit I knew it was wrong. -- Fake fruit? Who, I thought, did Mrs. Craven think she was fooling? I was six, maybe seven, but I knew instinctively that I would never have fake fruit in my house.It was off. Its ugliness began to dominate the kitchen. From that very moment I knew that I was better than Brian and his mother. My innocence had been lost and I knew that I could never again trust appearances.That didn't, however, stop me from lusting after Brian's redheaded, slim and smiling mother. I didn't yet know why, but I wanted her. (A precursor, perhaps, of my future, far ahead, when I would lust after a nurse or maid hired by my children to look after me, but will have forgotten why, or what to do with them.)I would have regained that precious innocence, undeserved of course, because between that morning of the waxed fruit and my future years of decrepitude much will have happened.
But padding around the apartment or house in my robe and deerskin, fur-lined slippers (fake fur, now that I think of it) an harmless old man, grey headed, already partly ghost or spirit, I will be glad to pass through the warm dust-mote laden sunbeams that will float through the windows, and stripe the wall and carpet. I know that I will engage a faulty memory, confusing a nephew with a child, a teen-age romance with a French film seen in middle age, or perhaps a business failure with some one else's successful invasion of the perfume import market
November 25, 2004
The first time I saw waxed fruit I knew it was wrong. -- Fake fruit? Who, I thought, did Mrs. Craven think she was fooling? I was six, maybe seven, but I knew instinctively that I would never have fake fruit in my house.It was off. Its ugliness began to dominate the kitchen. From that very moment I knew that I was better than Brian and his mother. My innocence had been lost and I knew that I could never again trust appearances.That didn't, however, stop me from lusting after Brian's redheaded, slim and smiling mother. I didn't yet know why, but I wanted her. (A precursor, perhaps, of my future, far ahead, when I would lust after a nurse or maid hired by my children to look after me, but will have forgotten why, or what to do with them.)I would have regained that precious innocence, undeserved of course, because between that morning of the waxed fruit and my future years of decrepitude much will have happened.
But padding around the apartment or house in my robe and deerskin, fur-lined slippers (fake fur, now that I think of it) an harmless old man, grey headed, already partly ghost or spirit, I will be glad to pass through the warm dust-mote laden sunbeams that will float through the windows, and stripe the wall and carpet. I know that I will engage a faulty memory, confusing a nephew with a child, a teen-age romance with a French film seen in middle age, or perhaps a business failure with some one else's successful invasion of the perfume import market
Monday, November 15, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
So much has been lost that any account of the Katz-Iverson saga will be of necessity mostly surmise and fictional. The reader is invited to gather around him/herself an aura of what might have been and what has formed the existing generation. There are some facts that we know and from them we will generate an history biased by hope, and conjured up in my mind and the minds of my father and mother and, much later, my sister.
My claim to truth is limited by lack of information. For the most part, my story is merely conjecture.
So much has been lost that any account of the Katz-Iverson saga will be of necessity mostly surmise and fictional. The reader is invited to gather around him/herself an aura of what might have been and what has formed the existing generation. There are some facts that we know and from them we will generate an history biased by hope, and conjured up in my mind and the minds of my father and mother and, much later, my sister.
My claim to truth is limited by lack of information. For the most part, my story is merely conjecture.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Of my proud agnosticism:
In my life I have always distrusted those with provincial fixed opinion, and my faith in the "man who cannot say, 'I am,' who remains himself and another," remains unabated. I am a cosmopolitan, admittedly only half-educated, but still a person with a view of the world that encompasses all. My scale is often in balance, and when one side or another of any issue puts too heavy a thumb on the mechanism I become anxious, and my sense of justice becomes inflamed. I need to see both sides just as I need to have beauty in my life.
mek
Of my proud agnosticism:
In my life I have always distrusted those with provincial fixed opinion, and my faith in the "man who cannot say, 'I am,' who remains himself and another," remains unabated. I am a cosmopolitan, admittedly only half-educated, but still a person with a view of the world that encompasses all. My scale is often in balance, and when one side or another of any issue puts too heavy a thumb on the mechanism I become anxious, and my sense of justice becomes inflamed. I need to see both sides just as I need to have beauty in my life.
mek
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page
They court the notice of a future age:
Those tiny twinkling lusters of the land
Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand:
Lethaean gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
William Cowper, “Observing Some Names of Little Note Recorded in the Biographia Brittanica”
Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page
They court the notice of a future age:
Those tiny twinkling lusters of the land
Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand:
Lethaean gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
William Cowper, “Observing Some Names of Little Note Recorded in the Biographia Brittanica”
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