BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
When I think about Hal I try to bring together each of the facets that made up his personality. He wanted to be outsize and memorable but he banged up against his limitations and couldn't bring himself to accept them. He was in a business surrounded by creative types but he wasn't one of them. He wasn't 'talent' but he wasn't a 'suit' either.
He kept his insecurities to himself, he was very closed, very private, so it is doubly hard to put him together in a written sketch. He hid so much of himself from us, and only occasionally, when he was bleeding, did we glimpse a little of what lived under his skin.
His self-protective shield was anger, not a blistering anger, but rather a blustering anger. I loved him for it. It was clear to me that he used his anger to keep himself separate from his life's accumulation of ticks and harrumphs, experience and memory.
When Hal dressed for his role -- the role he played before us, his audience -- when he prepared the fiction that became his self, his character, he dropped deep into his unconscious and the role he played actualized into himself, without deliberate intention, and therefore, paradoxically, into a genuine self. The man we saw on on stage was real.
He never told us that he was dying. We are not sure whether he knew it or whether he was in denial. By not telling us, he deprived himself (and us) of a farewell; we never got to tell him directly how much he meant to each of us, how important to us he was, and, most important, how much we loved him.
Mike
This is beauifully written and a rare tribute to a friend. However, I disagree when you say Hal was surrounded by creative people but he wasn't one of them ..In my occasional get-togethers with Hal over the years we often talked about business, first his advertising work and later his role as producer/director of TV commercials. It was his job to be creative, and I think he did his job well.
John
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
When I think about Hal I try to bring together each of the facets that made up his personality. He wanted to be outsize and memorable but he banged up against his limitations and couldn't bring himself to accept them. He was in a business surrounded by creative types but he wasn't one of them. He wasn't 'talent' but he wasn't a 'suit' either.
He kept his insecurities to himself, he was very closed, very private, so it is doubly hard to put him together in a written sketch. He hid so much of himself from us, and only occasionally, when he was bleeding, did we glimpse a little of what lived under his skin.
His self-protective shield was anger, not a blistering anger, but rather a blustering anger. I loved him for it. It was clear to me that he used his anger to keep himself separate from his life's accumulation of ticks and harrumphs, experience and memory.
When Hal dressed for his role -- the role he played before us, his audience -- when he prepared the fiction that became his self, his character, he dropped deep into his unconscious and the role he played actualized into himself, without deliberate intention, and therefore, paradoxically, into a genuine self. The man we saw on on stage was real.
He never told us that he was dying. We are not sure whether he knew it or whether he was in denial. By not telling us, he deprived himself (and us) of a farewell; we never got to tell him directly how much he meant to each of us, how important to us he was, and, most important, how much we loved him.
Monday, February 16, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
2. Moni was Hal's second wife. She was unfriendly toward Carl and Nonine from the very beginning, going as far as not permitting them to live in the apartment in Boston where Phil lived with Moni. According to Phil, the children lived alone in an apartment on Beacon Hill after Phil's first wife, Brenda, left them in the apartment and took off for North Carolina with an orthodox Jew. (But that's another story and I don't know the details.)
3. Carl had a very early script writing success in California. According to Phil, he spent all the money within a year or two including a wedding in Venice that Phil alleged cost $250,000. But after his early success with two scripts (never filmed, but bought and paid for) Carl never sold another script. Never.
4. Therefore, young Carl was a constant financial drain on Phil, that led Phil to rationalize stripping the trust, and further, caused a rift between Phil and Carl. Phil ended up loathing Carl.
5. Carl found out about the Trust stripping only after Phil's death. He looked to Moni, a woman he had always despised (that's one thing that Phil and Carl had in common) for relief. None was forthcoming.
After the funeral, the old friends, went to Oeste where Carl walked in by chance. I called to him and he sat with us and spewed the aforementioned venom all over the table, over our food and onto my lap and even my shoes. Worse, he did not pay for his drinks.
6. Moni received Phil's entire estate including Carl and Nonine's Grandmother's very high end antique furniture, jewelry, china, and gold flatware. According to Carl Moni shared none of it. I suspect that some or all of the money went to the purchase of the condo in Hancock Park, or as Phil would say, "Beverly Hills adjacent." So Moni got all that plus the house in Hancock Park & the house in the Adirondacks.
7. I cannot understand why Phil did not write or amend a proper will. Phil admired himself for his "producer values." "producer values" meant that he took care of everything, and made sure that there were no loose ends.
8. Moni died five weeks after Phil. She had inherited everything. She gave that "everything" to her relatives and friends. Nothing to Carl, nothing to Nonine . Not even a memento.
9. Carl (and Nonine?) are suing Phil's Estate and Moni's Estate.
10. Basically I take Carl's point of view--Two of the friends think that Carl is a low-life. (Those unpaid drinks, I guess.) Another is quiet on the issue. Carl might be a low-life but he is still right.
11. I told Carl that he has script made of gold here and that he should start writing it. He says he is too close to the situation right now. I replied that the cliche that you should write what you know is a cliche because of its essential truth.
It's been a struggle all weekend I want to write as accurately as possible. I want to let you know how I feel and what I saw, but it's hopeless. I can't dig up the preciseness that I'd like to.
Yes, it's hopeless, and I know that no one will understand--that is if I could actually say the truth...So, preciseness and the truth each elude me.
But what follows is a listing of facts (as I know them, mostly through Phil)
Yes, it's hopeless, and I know that no one will understand--that is if I could actually say the truth...So, preciseness and the truth each elude me.
But what follows is a listing of facts (as I know them, mostly through Phil)
Ah yes. That venom.
1.Carl and Nonine, Phil's children, had a trust set up by their grandparents (Phil's parents) that Phil invaded-- in fact, completely stripped. There was zero money in it at Phil's death.
2. Moni was Hal's second wife. She was unfriendly toward Carl and Nonine from the very beginning, going as far as not permitting them to live in the apartment in Boston where Phil lived with Moni. According to Phil, the children lived alone in an apartment on Beacon Hill after Phil's first wife, Brenda, left them in the apartment and took off for North Carolina with an orthodox Jew. (But that's another story and I don't know the details.)
3. Carl had a very early script writing success in California. According to Phil, he spent all the money within a year or two including a wedding in Venice that Phil alleged cost $250,000. But after his early success with two scripts (never filmed, but bought and paid for) Carl never sold another script. Never.
4. Therefore, young Carl was a constant financial drain on Phil, that led Phil to rationalize stripping the trust, and further, caused a rift between Phil and Carl. Phil ended up loathing Carl.
5. Carl found out about the Trust stripping only after Phil's death. He looked to Moni, a woman he had always despised (that's one thing that Phil and Carl had in common) for relief. None was forthcoming.
After the funeral, the old friends, went to Oeste where Carl walked in by chance. I called to him and he sat with us and spewed the aforementioned venom all over the table, over our food and onto my lap and even my shoes. Worse, he did not pay for his drinks.
6. Moni received Phil's entire estate including Carl and Nonine's Grandmother's very high end antique furniture, jewelry, china, and gold flatware. According to Carl Moni shared none of it. I suspect that some or all of the money went to the purchase of the condo in Hancock Park, or as Phil would say, "Beverly Hills adjacent." So Moni got all that plus the house in Hancock Park & the house in the Adirondacks.
7. I cannot understand why Phil did not write or amend a proper will. Phil admired himself for his "producer values." "producer values" meant that he took care of everything, and made sure that there were no loose ends.
8. Moni died five weeks after Phil. She had inherited everything. She gave that "everything" to her relatives and friends. Nothing to Carl, nothing to Nonine . Not even a memento.
9. Carl (and Nonine?) are suing Phil's Estate and Moni's Estate.
10. Basically I take Carl's point of view--Two of the friends think that Carl is a low-life. (Those unpaid drinks, I guess.) Another is quiet on the issue. Carl might be a low-life but he is still right.
11. I told Carl that he has script made of gold here and that he should start writing it. He says he is too close to the situation right now. I replied that the cliche that you should write what you know is a cliche because of its essential truth.
mek
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It's finished
It's all over
Over
And there won't be another
It won't be good
Ever again
Maybe never more
It's like a nightmare
Where is somebody new?
Where will he come from
If he comes?
Or won't he come ever again
Maybe never more.
Take it or leave it.
What can you do?
You lse your words
Yet you cannot go.
It's been over long ago,
It's good there's Shangri-La,
...Good to know
I won't be here long.
Take it or leave it.
Say, Honey, Why?
Why must it be over
...over now?
And there won't be another
And it won't be good
...ever again.
Maybe never more.
He's got my soul
Things are going his way
Without him this world is barren..
With him life is full and happy.
How could it be over?
Silly
Never again,
maybe never more
...It's over
There's no end
No end now
It can't fade...
Ever again
Never Maybe
Maybe never more.
From the film, "Damnation" Bela Tarr, a Hungarian director.
It's finished
It's all over
Over
And there won't be another
It won't be good
Ever again
Maybe never more
It's like a nightmare
Where is somebody new?
Where will he come from
If he comes?
Or won't he come ever again
Maybe never more.
Take it or leave it.
What can you do?
You lse your words
Yet you cannot go.
It's been over long ago,
It's good there's Shangri-La,
...Good to know
I won't be here long.
Take it or leave it.
Say, Honey, Why?
Why must it be over
...over now?
And there won't be another
And it won't be good
...ever again.
Maybe never more.
He's got my soul
Things are going his way
Without him this world is barren..
With him life is full and happy.
How could it be over?
Silly
Never again,
maybe never more
...It's over
There's no end
No end now
It can't fade...
Ever again
Never Maybe
Maybe never more.
From the film, "Damnation" Bela Tarr, a Hungarian director.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
This was another time. She was sitting on the window seat, letting the sunlight warm her body through the navy blue sweater she wore. The book was in her hands, it was a little heavy for her, and I came over so that I could look over her shoulder and see which chapter she was reading. She was already about three-quarters through and was struggling with the poetry which was far too allusive for her. Annoyingly allusive, I say, because you know, don't you, that some writers try to impress us with their erudition. Childish and reflective of an undeveloped ego, I would say.
Anyway, she was sitting primly, her legs crossed, her red hair glinting in the sunlight, and I couldn't resist touching the back of her collar with my fingers which she felt, and when she looked up at me I stretched my finger into her collar, along her neck, just under her hairline. Her eyes widened for a flash, then, she waited, still prudent, unwilling to acknowledge my indiscretion nor to encourage me to continue.
This was another time. She was sitting on the window seat, letting the sunlight warm her body through the navy blue sweater she wore. The book was in her hands, it was a little heavy for her, and I came over so that I could look over her shoulder and see which chapter she was reading. She was already about three-quarters through and was struggling with the poetry which was far too allusive for her. Annoyingly allusive, I say, because you know, don't you, that some writers try to impress us with their erudition. Childish and reflective of an undeveloped ego, I would say.
Anyway, she was sitting primly, her legs crossed, her red hair glinting in the sunlight, and I couldn't resist touching the back of her collar with my fingers which she felt, and when she looked up at me I stretched my finger into her collar, along her neck, just under her hairline. Her eyes widened for a flash, then, she waited, still prudent, unwilling to acknowledge my indiscretion nor to encourage me to continue.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
She told me of her cowboy, riding on the Texas plain, tight lipped, soft-spoken, a man whose sex was silent and polite, crafted by the sure knowledge of strong, experienced hands, their coarseness, she explained, leavened by his soft ways.
He was true in ways that she couldn't be, and his hurt was written in the far-away gaze he came to have when they were together. His eyes were narrow, permanently sun-squinted, and steel gray, not yet skeptical, but, because of her, unfortunately, soon to be cynical.
I was angry with her, and I couldn't resist saying, "every woman has a cowboy in her past--you're only one of many.
mek
She told me of her cowboy, riding on the Texas plain, tight lipped, soft-spoken, a man whose sex was silent and polite, crafted by the sure knowledge of strong, experienced hands, their coarseness, she explained, leavened by his soft ways.
He was true in ways that she couldn't be, and his hurt was written in the far-away gaze he came to have when they were together. His eyes were narrow, permanently sun-squinted, and steel gray, not yet skeptical, but, because of her, unfortunately, soon to be cynical.
I was angry with her, and I couldn't resist saying, "every woman has a cowboy in her past--you're only one of many.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"At a lyceum, not long since, I felt that the lecturer had chosen a theme too foreign to himself, and so failed to interest me as much as he might have done. He described things not in or near his heart, but toward his extremities and superficies. "
Thoreau, "Life Without Principle"
Write what you know!
Write what you know!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Palestinians have done and continue to do everything possible to lose the peace. In seeking what they consider to be perfect justice they have destroyed or made miserable two or three generations of their own children.
There seems to be no "compromise" gene in their leadership. I feel very sorry for the Palestinian people.
My heart, however, lies with the Israelis who, I admit, are far from perfect themselves. Their insistence on settlements is a continual provocation, their treatment of Palestinians is a desecration of their own morality and ethics.
Both sides have fanatics, but the Palestinian move to terror since the sixties has proven to be self-defeating. It is they who have engendered the terroristic strategy of killing innocents that runs rampant in the world today.
Considering that Palestinians and Jews are genetically cousins, think what progress could have been made in science, agriculture and business if they had been working together instead of this madness.
Hamas prefers death, mayhem and destruction to solutions.
Get rid of their leaders--bring in new ones who actually want peace by compromise.
The Palestinians have done and continue to do everything possible to lose the peace. In seeking what they consider to be perfect justice they have destroyed or made miserable two or three generations of their own children.
There seems to be no "compromise" gene in their leadership. I feel very sorry for the Palestinian people.
My heart, however, lies with the Israelis who, I admit, are far from perfect themselves. Their insistence on settlements is a continual provocation, their treatment of Palestinians is a desecration of their own morality and ethics.
Both sides have fanatics, but the Palestinian move to terror since the sixties has proven to be self-defeating. It is they who have engendered the terroristic strategy of killing innocents that runs rampant in the world today.
Considering that Palestinians and Jews are genetically cousins, think what progress could have been made in science, agriculture and business if they had been working together instead of this madness.
Hamas prefers death, mayhem and destruction to solutions.
Get rid of their leaders--bring in new ones who actually want peace by compromise.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A few more missing persons who I would like to see again:
Harold Ruderfer
Bob Berman
Ernie Wyre
First, you should understand that Auld Lang Syne means something like: For Old Times Gone, or, long, long ago, or, for old times sake, or, the good old days-- or, for the sake of the good old days.
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and those good old times...
For auld lang syne, my dear
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you'll buy your pint,
And surely Ill buy mine!
And we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We two have run the slopes,
And picked the daisies fine,
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
Since auld lang syne,
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dinner,
But seas between us broad have roared
Since auld lang syne.
And there's a hand my trusty friend,
And give us a hand of thine!
And we'll take a right good will draught,
for auld lang syne
mek
A few more missing persons who I would like to see again:
Harold Ruderfer
Bob Berman
Ernie Wyre
First, you should understand that Auld Lang Syne means something like: For Old Times Gone, or, long, long ago, or, for old times sake, or, the good old days-- or, for the sake of the good old days.
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and those good old times...
For auld lang syne, my dear
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you'll buy your pint,
And surely Ill buy mine!
And we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We two have run the slopes,
And picked the daisies fine,
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
Since auld lang syne,
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dinner,
But seas between us broad have roared
Since auld lang syne.
And there's a hand my trusty friend,
And give us a hand of thine!
And we'll take a right good will draught,
for auld lang syne
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
New Years Day Tradition
For Ernie Wyre, RIP and Father Robert Earl Hood, RIP
Hoppin' John
Ingredients:
1 pound dried black-eyed peas
2 small smoked ham hocks or meaty ham bone
2 medium onions, divided
3 large cloves garlic, halved
1 bay leaf
1 cup long-grain white rice
1 can (10 to 14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes with chile peppers, juices reserved
1 medium red bell pepper, chopped
1/2 green bell pepper, chopped
3 ribs celery, chopped
1 jalapeno or serrano pepper, minced
2 teaspoons Cajun or Creole seasoning
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme leaves
3/4 teaspoon ground cumin
3/4 teaspoon salt
4 green onions, sliced
Preparation:
In a large Dutch oven or kettle, combine the black-eyed peas, ham bone or ham hocks, and 6 cups water.
Cut 1 of the onions in half and add it to the pot along with the garlic and bay leaf. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer gently until the beans are tender but not mushy, 2 to 2 1/2 hours.
Remove the ham bone or hocks, cut off the meat; dice and set aside.
Drain the peas and set aside.
Remove and discard the bay leaf, onion pieces, and garlic.
Add 2 1/2 cups of water to the pot and bring to a boil. Add the rice, cover, and simmer until the rice is almost tender, about 10 to 12 minutes.
Mince the remaining onion then add to the rice along with the peas, tomatoes, and their juices, red and green bell pepper, celery, jalapeno pepper, Creole seasoning, thyme, cumin, and salt.
Cook until the rice is tender, 5 to 8 minutes. Stir in the sliced green onions and the reserved diced ham.
Serve with hot sauce and freshly baked cornbread.
Diana Rattray, About.com
New Years Day Tradition
For Ernie Wyre, RIP and Father Robert Earl Hood, RIP
Hoppin' John
Ingredients:
1 pound dried black-eyed peas
2 small smoked ham hocks or meaty ham bone
2 medium onions, divided
3 large cloves garlic, halved
1 bay leaf
1 cup long-grain white rice
1 can (10 to 14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes with chile peppers, juices reserved
1 medium red bell pepper, chopped
1/2 green bell pepper, chopped
3 ribs celery, chopped
1 jalapeno or serrano pepper, minced
2 teaspoons Cajun or Creole seasoning
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme leaves
3/4 teaspoon ground cumin
3/4 teaspoon salt
4 green onions, sliced
Preparation:
In a large Dutch oven or kettle, combine the black-eyed peas, ham bone or ham hocks, and 6 cups water.
Cut 1 of the onions in half and add it to the pot along with the garlic and bay leaf. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer gently until the beans are tender but not mushy, 2 to 2 1/2 hours.
Remove the ham bone or hocks, cut off the meat; dice and set aside.
Drain the peas and set aside.
Remove and discard the bay leaf, onion pieces, and garlic.
Add 2 1/2 cups of water to the pot and bring to a boil. Add the rice, cover, and simmer until the rice is almost tender, about 10 to 12 minutes.
Mince the remaining onion then add to the rice along with the peas, tomatoes, and their juices, red and green bell pepper, celery, jalapeno pepper, Creole seasoning, thyme, cumin, and salt.
Cook until the rice is tender, 5 to 8 minutes. Stir in the sliced green onions and the reserved diced ham.
Serve with hot sauce and freshly baked cornbread.
Diana Rattray, About.com
Monday, December 29, 2008
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Thanks to Mr. Google I discovered the meaning of "Liber scriptus proferetur,in quo totum continetur, unde mundus judicetur." Mozart's, Requiem.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
The written book shall be brought
In which all is contained
Whereby the world shall be judged.
If we write the book ourselves,
one would expect a lot of spinning of our story, and a heap of rationalization.
Thanks to Mr. Google I discovered the meaning of "Liber scriptus proferetur,in quo totum continetur, unde mundus judicetur." Mozart's, Requiem.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
The written book shall be brought
In which all is contained
Whereby the world shall be judged.
If we write the book ourselves,
one would expect a lot of spinning of our story, and a heap of rationalization.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
email exchange:
Dear St Eve my amazing friend,
I do not, and never have, consider your positions against capitalism to be "rants" or "bizarre." I have always taken them seriously. I realized long ago that you understood, much more than I, capitalism's harmful ramifications that are so easily overlooked by we. the selfish, who enjoy its benefits.
I do not think that I have a "life."
I understand and enjoy your buffoonery.
I am never certain of anything. I live in uncertainty and am comfortable here.
It am intrigued that MG seems to have become more certain of his views even as they change. I sense that you, on the other hand, have backed off the torque a little.
But I am not sure about my statements about either of you.
Truth is often found in cliches.
Is it still a cliche to say that violence leads to violence? Is it a cliche to say that those who will themselves to power are the most likely to engage in and justify violence?
If Gandhi and MLK were Palestinians how would they organize the situation?
mek
We all do have lives so there is no need to get one the question at this stage is how we spend the remainder. I prefer to entertain, play the buffoon and work on my little projects, rail against the tyrants and miscreants and laugh at the happening that my bizarre objections to capitalism and its deformed relative imperialism have all come to pass.
Note our brave Yiddish brothers are now bombing gaza. There is
a striking parallel to the Warsaw ghetto. We starved and strangled this tiny enclave they struck back and the Israelis bomb it and plan to level it. Shame shame on the nasty jewish hypocrites. With a small diminished j. With the Madoffs we join the biggest of the
of the wall street crooks and the Israelis we link arms with the
worst of the world oppressors. A schande on the jews as the NY Times points out. The christs are filled with glee and schadenfreude. Maybe we should all bust out israeli lapel pins
and strut around in yarmulkes with our pants unzipped and
our circumcised weddlers exposed chanting hurray for the jews.
ss
ss
email exchange:
Dear St Eve my amazing friend,
I do not, and never have, consider your positions against capitalism to be "rants" or "bizarre." I have always taken them seriously. I realized long ago that you understood, much more than I, capitalism's harmful ramifications that are so easily overlooked by we. the selfish, who enjoy its benefits.
I do not think that I have a "life."
I understand and enjoy your buffoonery.
I am never certain of anything. I live in uncertainty and am comfortable here.
It am intrigued that MG seems to have become more certain of his views even as they change. I sense that you, on the other hand, have backed off the torque a little.
But I am not sure about my statements about either of you.
Truth is often found in cliches.
Is it still a cliche to say that violence leads to violence? Is it a cliche to say that those who will themselves to power are the most likely to engage in and justify violence?
If Gandhi and MLK were Palestinians how would they organize the situation?
mek
We all do have lives so there is no need to get one the question at this stage is how we spend the remainder. I prefer to entertain, play the buffoon and work on my little projects, rail against the tyrants and miscreants and laugh at the happening that my bizarre objections to capitalism and its deformed relative imperialism have all come to pass.
Note our brave Yiddish brothers are now bombing gaza. There is
a striking parallel to the Warsaw ghetto. We starved and strangled this tiny enclave they struck back and the Israelis bomb it and plan to level it. Shame shame on the nasty jewish hypocrites. With a small diminished j. With the Madoffs we join the biggest of the
of the wall street crooks and the Israelis we link arms with the
worst of the world oppressors. A schande on the jews as the NY Times points out. The christs are filled with glee and schadenfreude. Maybe we should all bust out israeli lapel pins
and strut around in yarmulkes with our pants unzipped and
our circumcised weddlers exposed chanting hurray for the jews.
ss
ss
Saturday, December 13, 2008
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The birds fly away
When the weather turns to autumn
In spring they return.
They fly, fly, fly,
Their wings carry them;
Suddenly you notice
That they already
Drink of the distant blue sky.
They fly so swiftly that one takes
Them as disappearing dreams.
What flies more swiftly
Than the birds? Life!
But, unlike the birds,
It never comes back.
…………………………………………..Adapted From “Satantango,” a Hungarian Film
The birds fly away
When the weather turns to autumn
In spring they return.
They fly, fly, fly,
Their wings carry them;
Suddenly you notice
That they already
Drink of the distant blue sky.
They fly so swiftly that one takes
Them as disappearing dreams.
What flies more swiftly
Than the birds? Life!
But, unlike the birds,
It never comes back.
…………………………………………..Adapted From “Satantango,” a Hungarian Film
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Far away, a man on the beach
With a flashlight.
What does he think about?
'Whatever death is
Life is worth more.'
You who are tied to me by friendship's chain,
And with whom together we kept
Wide awake so many nights;
You may want to
Mourn over my corpse.
But I say to my friends
Do not mourn me;
You know that with us
It was mostly laughs;
And mourning would strike
Against our normal selves.
But, for sure, come out to me,
And as you stand over my grave,
Cheerfully tell the jokes
We told ourselves.
And laugh some more
And mention all the old names
And know that your blood ran in mine;
---------------------------
Inspired by Satantango, a Hungarian Film.
Far away, a man on the beach
With a flashlight.
What does he think about?
'Whatever death is
Life is worth more.'
You who are tied to me by friendship's chain,
And with whom together we kept
Wide awake so many nights;
You may want to
Mourn over my corpse.
But I say to my friends
Do not mourn me;
You know that with us
It was mostly laughs;
And mourning would strike
Against our normal selves.
But, for sure, come out to me,
And as you stand over my grave,
Cheerfully tell the jokes
We told ourselves.
And laugh some more
And mention all the old names
And know that your blood ran in mine;
---------------------------
Inspired by Satantango, a Hungarian Film.
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