BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
People are dying everyday on behalf of an imaginary God.
Monday, February 07, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
People are dying everyday on behalf of an imaginary God.
Well, after all these years I realize now that I will have traveled this earth from birth to death without experiencing a single bursting wonderful week in my lifetime. Nothing has happened, not tragedy, not eleation, not discovery. My life, like most, has been nothing more than that of the average middle class American-- a lot better than most of the human beings on earth, yes-- but still, there hasn;t been a sense of brilliant moments, unbearable excitement, just an on going soap opera, a melodrama in which nothing happens that can't be fixed.
That ignores the loss of friends and family.
People are dying everyday on behalf of an imaginary God.
Well, after all these years I realize now that I will have traveled this earth from birth to death without experiencing a single bursting wonderful week in my lifetime. Nothing has happened, not tragedy, not eleation, not discovery. My life, like most, has been nothing more than that of the average middle class American-- a lot better than most of the human beings on earth, yes-- but still, there hasn;t been a sense of brilliant moments, unbearable excitement, just an on going soap opera, a melodrama in which nothing happens that can't be fixed.
That ignores the loss of friends and family.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A Tale of Love and Darkness, Amos Oz
The first tale:
I could not get to see Bob as things got very complicated. I was to drive to a certain house in the far west of Ft, Lauderdale, a little known section of Tamarac, where he would be visiting another friend who is living with an Israeli. Then we would go aside for a time together.
Finding this place in Tamarac is harder than finding Timbuktu--and Spencer and I had a hard enough time getting there.
I obtained sets of directions from the friend, the Israeli, and later from MapQuest. MapQuest could not find the house until prompted by a US Postal Zipcode.
But then he left a voice mail asking me to come earlier but I was at the gym and so did not get his call until I got out of the gym returned to my car, the Solera convertible of which we spoke the other day.
And there was a second voice mail that he had arrived at the friend's house and that I should come there for a short time after which he would be going to still another house where Robin's brother, Mason, was staying (or lived?) ... At his point I decided that I should just go home and see Bob the next time that I am in New York which will be in February.
Is Robin's brother actually named Mason, or is he a bricklayer, or a member of a secret society? I'd like to get to the bottom of this. If he is a Mason perhaps he would have shown me a secret handshake or two--maybe I should have gone.
The second tale:
I am sending a copy of the Amos Oz book to Michel's (Patti's daughter) husband who is a history buff and who has a special interest in things Jewish. I can't finish the book because I keep rereading his sentences and paragraphs. He is delicious. Better than eating a warm, fresh apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese and better than most sex. Oz knows how to write--and yes, the translator did a fine job. I can't help reading the same lines over and over again.
But, from the memoir you can see that he had the genes to write and was brought up in a house of writers. Gad, there's so much to do. Now we have to find out about S. Y. Agnon. Did you know anything about him before the book? I had heard of him--but that's all.
I was speaking with my mother this morning who sends regards to all and who reminds me to be tolerant.
A Tale of Love and Darkness, Amos Oz
The first tale:
I could not get to see Bob as things got very complicated. I was to drive to a certain house in the far west of Ft, Lauderdale, a little known section of Tamarac, where he would be visiting another friend who is living with an Israeli. Then we would go aside for a time together.
Finding this place in Tamarac is harder than finding Timbuktu--and Spencer and I had a hard enough time getting there.
I obtained sets of directions from the friend, the Israeli, and later from MapQuest. MapQuest could not find the house until prompted by a US Postal Zipcode.
But then he left a voice mail asking me to come earlier but I was at the gym and so did not get his call until I got out of the gym returned to my car, the Solera convertible of which we spoke the other day.
And there was a second voice mail that he had arrived at the friend's house and that I should come there for a short time after which he would be going to still another house where Robin's brother, Mason, was staying (or lived?) ... At his point I decided that I should just go home and see Bob the next time that I am in New York which will be in February.
Is Robin's brother actually named Mason, or is he a bricklayer, or a member of a secret society? I'd like to get to the bottom of this. If he is a Mason perhaps he would have shown me a secret handshake or two--maybe I should have gone.
The second tale:
I am sending a copy of the Amos Oz book to Michel's (Patti's daughter) husband who is a history buff and who has a special interest in things Jewish. I can't finish the book because I keep rereading his sentences and paragraphs. He is delicious. Better than eating a warm, fresh apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese and better than most sex. Oz knows how to write--and yes, the translator did a fine job. I can't help reading the same lines over and over again.
But, from the memoir you can see that he had the genes to write and was brought up in a house of writers. Gad, there's so much to do. Now we have to find out about S. Y. Agnon. Did you know anything about him before the book? I had heard of him--but that's all.
I was speaking with my mother this morning who sends regards to all and who reminds me to be tolerant.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic.
You have highly developed auditory skills, enjoy reading and writing and telling stories, and are good at getting your point across. You learn best by saying and hearing words. People like you include poets, authors, speakers, attorneys, politicians, lecturers and teachers.
Verbal/Linguistic 100%
Intrapersonal 92%
Interpersonal 89%
Bodily/Kinesthetic 79%
Visual/Spatial 64%
Logical/Mathematical 64%
Musical/Rhythmic 14%
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic. The Rogers Indicator of Multiple Intelligencescreated with QuizFarm.com";
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic.
You have highly developed auditory skills, enjoy reading and writing and telling stories, and are good at getting your point across. You learn best by saying and hearing words. People like you include poets, authors, speakers, attorneys, politicians, lecturers and teachers.
Verbal/Linguistic 100%
Intrapersonal 92%
Interpersonal 89%
Bodily/Kinesthetic 79%
Visual/Spatial 64%
Logical/Mathematical 64%
Musical/Rhythmic 14%
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic. The Rogers Indicator of Multiple Intelligencescreated with QuizFarm.com";
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"I would have liked to have been a man with with three shadows..."
"He may not be a good man. But at least he knows bad from good, and he knows we haven't much choice. "
Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness
"I would have liked to have been a man with with three shadows..."
"He may not be a good man. But at least he knows bad from good, and he knows we haven't much choice. "
Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness
Thursday, January 20, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
if the person taking the test had a brain tumor or stroke that allowed him to see to his left only (a right homonymous hemianopsia) he might start on the right and read to the left. since he can't see to the right he might move vertically in an attempt to find a starting point within the blind area. by the way, he should not drive.....its a complicated subject...call later i'll try for a better explanation.....bob
----- Original Message -----
if the person taking the test had a brain tumor or stroke that allowed him to see to his left only (a right homonymous hemianopsia) he might start on the right and read to the left. since he can't see to the right he might move vertically in an attempt to find a starting point within the blind area. by the way, he should not drive.....its a complicated subject...call later i'll try for a better explanation.....bob
----- Original Message -----
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From "an interesting blog"
Listen, Buster (which I couln't resist)-I don't know how old you think I am, but I'm no spring chicken myself. I am 45 if I'm a day, and well versed in maskery. I think other people force me into masks, and I am too polite to climb out of them or point out that they actually aren't there. Perhaps masks work like snake skins- as soon as you're aware of your mask you shed it. So many questions, so few typewriter keys.
16:30
From "an interesting blog"
Listen, Buster (which I couln't resist)-I don't know how old you think I am, but I'm no spring chicken myself. I am 45 if I'm a day, and well versed in maskery. I think other people force me into masks, and I am too polite to climb out of them or point out that they actually aren't there. Perhaps masks work like snake skins- as soon as you're aware of your mask you shed it. So many questions, so few typewriter keys.
16:30
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Sunday, December 26, 2004
My Dear Stephen,
I received your New Year’s missive this morning. I recognized your firm, manly hand immediately, and avidly opened its envelope eagerly expecting a jolly note, and I wasn’t disappointed.
But, dear Stephen, an assertion that a check is enclosed is not the same as actually enclosing one. Perhaps it has something to do with appearance and reality. This is usually discussed in Philosophy 101. There are people who think that saying something makes it true. I believe that it was Kant who wrote several volumes discussing this problem—or it may have been my mother.
Search as I may, even after carefully inspecting every corner of the envelope, even calling Sam the Bloodhound, Mrs. Garamond’s affable pet, and even after resurrecting Sherlock Holmes and putting him on the case—no check was found.
Sherlock mentioned the ideograms at the bottom right-side of your letter. Watson has been unable to find a dictionary in any language with which to decipher them. Any clues that you might share will be appreciated.
Another mystery to be solved is the regular alternation of lines in bold with lines in regular font in my letters. Please take no ill meaning, friend, in fact, take no meaning at all. My printer is out of control, mischievous, and needs a good thrashing—or, perhaps, defenestration.
I remain your devoted servant, sir,
Sunday, December 26, 2004
My Dear Stephen,
I received your New Year’s missive this morning. I recognized your firm, manly hand immediately, and avidly opened its envelope eagerly expecting a jolly note, and I wasn’t disappointed.
But, dear Stephen, an assertion that a check is enclosed is not the same as actually enclosing one. Perhaps it has something to do with appearance and reality. This is usually discussed in Philosophy 101. There are people who think that saying something makes it true. I believe that it was Kant who wrote several volumes discussing this problem—or it may have been my mother.
Search as I may, even after carefully inspecting every corner of the envelope, even calling Sam the Bloodhound, Mrs. Garamond’s affable pet, and even after resurrecting Sherlock Holmes and putting him on the case—no check was found.
Sherlock mentioned the ideograms at the bottom right-side of your letter. Watson has been unable to find a dictionary in any language with which to decipher them. Any clues that you might share will be appreciated.
Another mystery to be solved is the regular alternation of lines in bold with lines in regular font in my letters. Please take no ill meaning, friend, in fact, take no meaning at all. My printer is out of control, mischievous, and needs a good thrashing—or, perhaps, defenestration.
I remain your devoted servant, sir,
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
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
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.
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