Beyond the C by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Ad nauseum?
Most assuredly. To be allowed to post one’s words seems so obviously a right, the writer must certainly be missing something to feel the need to point that out. Just as the writers can post, the readers have the power and right to ignore. The Free-Speech-Anni-Nut-Zealots seem to forget that no one is obliged to peruse their “revelations.”
The multi-billionaires who have been granted the right to establish and profit from publically sourced platforms purporting bulk communication, must certainly understand that their editing and deletions are more in tune with the mindset of a protagonist of popular propaganda. That to do otherwise will result in lawsuits is a non-starter, as given your allowed deep pockets, you will be sued no matter what you do. Your only real choice is whether you’d prefer to defend yourself as a censor or as a laissez-faire purveyor of broad based opinions.
Perhaps, just perhaps, your entrees into the initial stance of
“morally-needed-censorship” is indicative of an ego inflated on your own web. Do you really believe that the people form their opinions based on what you permit them to read? That would be
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sufficiently pathetic and deluded to bring out the crew with the butterfly nets.
Veteran’s Day – The Year of the Knee Veterans Day – Wednesday - November 11th – The Year of the Knee
Beyond the C
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Beyond the C
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The little houseboat and “Driftin’” by Tim Buckley; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
Thanksgiving Day – The Year of the Little Bush Thanksgiving Day – Thursday – November 24th – The Year of the Little Bush – Corrales Bosque Daisy pulled Cy along as she had picked up the death scent that always fascinated her. There’s little dead that she wouldn’t
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like to eat, including the things the coyotes won’t touch. She dragged him through some tall reeds that made his footing difficult and slapped his face. They found a sandy area with some small rocks that didn’t exist three years prior, where Cy first met Maureen. Today Daisy and he found twenty-two dead fish, all recent corpses and Daisy had to sniff at every one.
Fortunately, fish was probably the only thing she doesn’t crave.
She nibbled on them, sometimes ingesting a head, but no more. Cy was to later be told that the fish demise was the result of a huge fire 50 miles north. Either the soot or fire retardant had clogged their gills. But why did they choose this burial ground?
Cy had somewhat dismissed the red tide seen a few years back with Maureen as a probably chance event, but now the probability of it having had a deeper meaning had increased.
As Daisy slowly checked and rechecked every carcass, the mountain across the river became Cy’s visual interest and he remembered a recent dream.
He was alone, walking down a city street. As he approached an old four story brick apartment building, she exited the front door. He thought that she had seen him coming and tried to quickly walk away. He never expected to see her long graying hair and that bouncing gait again. In a normal tone of voice he said; “Maureen.” For a fraction of a second he thought that she
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intended to keep going, and maybe she did, but for some reason chose to stop, turn around and look at Cy, saying; “Why are you following me around?”
He said; “I’m not. I didn’t even know that you lived here.”
He walked over to her and instinctively tried to put my arms around her. I expected to be pushed away, but was allowed a short cuddle.
Breaking away, she surprised him again, saying; “Let’s go get a drink.”
He said; “I don’t have any money.”
She said; “I’ll pay.”
She led him to the saloon two doors away. Its darkness and large crowd contrasted the sunny, empty sidewalk. We walked to the packed bar and stood there. He wasn’t sure what she ordered and not being much of a drinker, he said; “I’ll have the same.”
It looked like a heavy beer. He sipped his, as everyone there said “Hi” to her. He didn’t know any of them and she didn’t introduce him.
After the salutations, she wolfed down the glass without ever taking it away from her lips and then walked to the door. He
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took a sip or two, but had to leave the bulk of it on the bar to keep up with her.
When they got back outside she wordlessly stopped and he again briefly held her. She moved away and briskly walked down the street, as if she were late for an appointment. He stood still and watched. Patti Smith sang “Wing.”
“Oh, Daisy. No, no, no, no, no.” She was back in the river, to get a drink and a soaking and seemed insistent that he follow her to a spot where the water was deeper. Cy was a stubborn landlubber in this late Fall weather and she strolled in the cool wetness. He thought that she was probably wondering why he was not following her to a spot where they used to go, though she was more aware of his deficiencies than he knew.
“I guess she thinks that I’d rather go somewhere else,” he thought, because she pranced to the opening in the bordering woods, climbed it and stopped in the shade, looking at him.
Other than not wanting to get soaked, he didn’t have a preference. If they went left they’d have a long walk and if they went right it will be a short one. Daisy went right on an inland path and they headed back toward the gate. Where the path cuts toward the levee, he saw Demi with her little dog, Murphy Brown, walking back on the highest ground. They had chatted
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before, about the usual stuff like the sanctity of marriage and the effects of different hallucinogenics.
He knew that Demi was in here somewhere as when he had parked he saw her car. He didn’t know one car from another and could care less about the subject. However, he knew hers because of Demi’s parking regimen. It was the only car that always had the left front and left rear wheels on the firm flat ground and the other two right ones elevated on a two foot berm at the side of the road. It managed to be both high and low at the same time. When he again gazed at it from the front the left-right situation reversed. He recalled that at other times Demi parked on the other side of the road, causing the right wheels to be grounded and the left ones to be in the air from a rear view and the opposite from the front.
He wondered what would be the result of a side view. Which side?
What angle? He stopped trying to describe, as he was confused and starting to feel dizzy. The possibilities are probably infinite. He wondered if her unique positioning gets anyone else’s attention and admiration. He suspected so.
When they were within earshot, he called out; “Demi, did you see all the dead fish?”
“No, where?”
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He pointed back south and said; “You know that spot near what used to be an island that is quickly becoming a peninsula?”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t go that way today.”
Daisy and he climbed the levee at a steep spot. He probably couldn’t have made it himself, but Daisy pulled him up, wanting to say “Hi” to her tiny canine friend. Murphy tolerated Daisy’s nose and went into somewhat of a trance, standing still, apparently now oblivious to the rude imposition of the nosy world. Though currently fourteen years old and under Demi’s gentle care for the last ten, he still remembers the abuse of the first four; both from the hands of people and from other dogs. As we walk Murphy secretly eyed Daisy and chose to keep Demi between his tiny, long haired body and her.
Cy told Demi what he knew about the fire and consequent soot and retardant, specifying that he wasn’t referring to anyone local.
She kind of shrugged. “How terrible,” but really could care less. He was surprised, as the vast majority of the time Demi seemed to care about everyone’s problems and tried to help. She volunteered at “Habitat for Humanity” and fostered orphan dogs and cats for the Humane Society.
He said; “Albuquerque is now drinking that crap.”
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Same response. He guessed that it was one of those days when at 9AM, three people had already laid all their “crap” on her. And here he came with his.
He also guessed that today, he didn’t really care either. He was always under the impression that it looked compassionate and made you be seen as a nice person, when you register concern. He felt comfortable with Demi as they were able to skip this façade, when they were in a “Hate thy neighbor” state of mind.
He didn’t trust the people who never act that way, because he knew that they were merely competent actors, not the real thing.
Demi likes Daisy and stooped slightly to pet her. In a somewhat childish voice, she said; “Have you been in the water?”
presumably speaking to Daisy.
He answered for her; “Whenever it’s over forty degrees.”
“She always goes in over there,” Demi said, pointing back toward Romero Road.
“That’s the first stop. She’s goes in the river, too.”
Demi again sounded a bit child-like, looked at Daisy and said;
“She goes in the river?”
Cy didn't know if this was cutesy conversation directed at Daisy, or if she thinks it a dangerous stunt, softly chastising
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me for allowing it. He gave Daisy a few seconds to come up with some response. He thought; “Come on girl. Come to my defense.”
She failed to. He didn’t want to appear overly defensive, so he made no reply. Instead, he got on his knees to try to say a close up hello to her dog, Murphy Brown. He again rebuffs Cy.
Demi has told me that now she is the only person he trusts.
He got back up and asked; “Have you been doing any writing lately?”
Her body movements indicated yes and no. She said; “Not one public word; though I’m still keeping my private journal.”
“Could you expand it and make it into essays?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I usually just write what happens, but if I added color and scenery .....”
“What would be the story line?”
“Nothing; tell a story without telling a story. Be humorous when writing about seriousness and be serious when writing with humor. Neither here nor there.”
Cy was impressed as it seemed to him that you can’t do better than that. She had read a lot of David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Franzen and D.H. Lawrence. Her dog was now about fifty feet ahead of us and moving quickly, so we had to do likewise. As we
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walk I said a few innocuous things about my trifling annoyances since I saw her last and she laughed at each.
She said; “Oh, yeah, have you seen the dead raccoon over there?”
pointing back south on the levee path, probably remembering that he told her that Daisy eats everything she can get to, often resulting in worms or diarrhea.
“No, where is it?”
She said nothing, but again pointed.
As she walked away, he wanted the conversation to continue, so he said; “Can you tell if there’s some kind of higher message behind all this stuff?”
“No,” she said without breaking stride. She’s a lawyer.
Contour is always subjective.
Washington’s Birthday – The Year of The Turner Diaries Washington’s Birthday – Monday – February 20th - as substituted for Friday – February 22nd – The Year of The Turner Diaries - Rural Trumbull, New Jersey
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She was worth a stare. She was trouble. She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise lounge with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest of silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at. They were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond. The knees were dimpled, not bony and sharp.
The calves were beautiful, the ankles long and slim and with enough melodic line for a tone poem. She was tall and rangy and strong looking. Her head was against an ivory satin cushion. Her hair was black and wiry and parted in the middle and she had the hot black eyes of the portrait in the hall. She had a good mouth and chin. There was a sulky droop in her lips and the lower lip was full.
Within a period of three months everything that could go wrong did. A brain tumor, breathing difficulties, job losses, and investment setbacks resulted in circumstances too pathetic to further detail necessitated Cyrus and Mona leaving expensive New Jersey for the lesser expense of New Mexico. The “necessity” was declared by Mona unilaterally. Her citing of breathing difficulties in congested New Jersey, which shortly and seemingly miraculously abated, was the unsurmountable deciding factor which obliged Cy to leave his dream home. The completely secluded early nineteenth century, white painted clapboard dwelling, which sat on six acres, four of them densely wooded,
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which afforded a year round pleasant privacy, and bisected by a year round stream was sold to people who intended to board horses.
Local property records showed that the original house was built on one hundred acres by a French man named Ferdinand Shrope.
Shrope served in the 1775 - 1783 US Revolutionary Army, for which it is seldom known that soldiers could decline wages in favor of a one hundred acre land grant if their side won. Win they did, and Ferdinand stayed in the US where he ostensibly became proficient in the art of construction. One minor dichotomy forever lost in time was the mystery of where Ferdinand was staying between 1783 and the implied date of MDCCCXII (1812) scratch carved on the attic stairs. Perhaps Shrope waited to see if the new government would live up to its promises, in direct contrast to what Cyrus could see, with the benefit of 20-20 future sight, as the impending, politically expedient, “modern” usage of particularly empty, duplicitous, re-written and redacted words, which the dumbed down find a platformed source of “cool,” with which to be happily cheated and stolen from.
Ten years prior, the house was also Mona’s gushing dream; love at first sight; the prior home of a reclusive mistress of a Wall Street Journal noted venture capitalist. It would soon become
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the object of her “I’m going to fix up my house,” fidgety fixation.
She had made the arrangement with the movers. At the last minute, and with the new owners present, Cy discovered that Mona had no intention of doing a complete move to the pure air of New Mexico. The van had no space for half of Cy’s books and antique, early American furniture. The new owners graciously said that they didn’t mind being left with the items.
Cy was moving west with only remnants of his favorite things which he had spent twenty years acquiring. There would be no more library room for him.
National Cocoa Day – The Year of the Worm Virus National Cocoa Day – Tuesday – December 13th – The Year of the Worm Virus – Los Angeles
The world has been broken. The cannibals left live only to feed on everything else. Walking through this horror is the killer.
His name is X, the same as the brand on the back of his neck.
Killer Supreme. They should've brought more to the fight against him.
We begin.
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I killed my first gangsta spade when I was an old sixteen. It happened in a fight at a punk party in an old brick apartment house in downtown LA. It was not the first fight I'd been in that had gotten out of hand, and it was sure as hell not the last guy I killed. But that first kill? It's the one that changes you. You are surprised that you feel nothing other than a fear of being caught or somehow ratted out to the cops as part of a garbage drug plea bargain deal. It sets you off on the road to the wild. Or maybe it's the dark road to the abyss. Or maybe they’re the same road. Who can say for sure?
It was in the run down converted mansion called The DuPont on Fourth and South La Cienega. Crazy Kike Mikey was fucked up on juice at the top of the stairs that night and was trying to keep some spade gangstas, dressed all in red, out of the party. Mikey was having a badly outnumbered, bad time. He was a spike-haired punk with a bad temper who would start up with anyone, but he was also a lightweight and these red spade gangsta types were as big as NBA guards and there were four of them.
Some punks and young skins milled about behind Mikey on the landing, but they looked less than eager to get involved in any shit. The old school skins would have been all over these bastards, but they were back in the apartment doing their best to surround the keg.
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Why these uninvited spades wanted to crash a white punk party at The DuPont I had no idea; but it wasn’t unusual. Things were getting wound up tight and I thought that there would be swinging fists any second, and it was just a matter of who swung first. One of the little punk chicks slipped through the crowd headed back for the party, but I thought fuck that shit. I had a six inch blue fin and a spiked leather jacket and I figured if anyone was going to start a fucking fight that night it was going to be me.
Beyond the C
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Beyond the C
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White riot and “White Riot” by Mellor John, Jones Michael Geoffrey, Headon Nicholas Bowen, Simonon Paul Gustave; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
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The biggest one of the spades was broad across the shoulders and only three inches or so taller than me; no big thing. He was an old fucker up in his twenties and he wore a tam over his dreadlocks. He was smoking one of those cheap ass, thin cigars you get at the convenience store near the register. He pushed past Mikey and blew cigar smoke into a Goth chick’s face forcing her to wince and close her eyes. That was it for me. I cracked him in the mouth with a two-step straight right and the whole place exploded like a Molotov firecracker. Beer bottles and fists went flying. There was grunting, rude epithets, and the thud of knuckles on flesh. The screams of the punk chicks rang out like banshees in the night sky.
Tam came back at me swinging. I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him in the head with my fist as hard as I could. We traded head shots for what seemed like a full minute before I beat him down. But, when I went to stomp my boot on his face he reared back up and drove his shoulder into me and tackled me into the banister at the top of the stairs. The banister was an ornate wooden thing, thin and delicate as a sissy fag, and as dried out as drift wood. When we plowed into the spindles they held for an instant, then cracked, and gave way. It wasn’t, but it seemed like it was a thirty foot drop to the floor below.
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Crazy Mikey made a feeble attempt to reach out for my hand at the last second but it was too little and too late. I went over backwards and Tam went over with me. We fell in a backflip which I was able to maneuver into a situation in which I landed back first on the floor with Tam beneath me. We, mostly he, did a dead cat bounce and we wound up facing each other on our feet.
His eyes were glazed over. I thought that it would take only a mild zephyr to put him back on his ass for the count, and I foolishly relaxed. Tam’s helpless ploy worked on me, and I paid for it, as Tam’s left fist crashed my nose.
What also has always surprised me is how bystanders always think that punches hurt much more than they actually do. In actuality, you kind of go numb. You know you’ve been hit, but it feels like it was an indirect, glancing blow; the only concern of some fighters that they are looking pathetic. You think that any blood dripping on the floor is coming from somewhere on the other guy.
As it was an unexpected punch, the element of surprise, more than anything else, knocked me into the wall. He punched me several more times before I figured out what was going on. When I did I grabbed him by his Obama Dumbo ears and kicked his feet out from under him and drove him to the floor and stomped him in
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the face again and again. By that time Mikey and a big bad Nazi named Herman pounded down the stairs after the three remaining spades with a dozen other skins and punks behind them. Tam took advantage of the distraction to jump up and run. But, he must have been disoriented, didn’t know the terrain, or both; as though he ran away from the stairs he ran into a dead end in the rear of the place. When he saw his mistake, he tried to run back past me but could not. I caught him with a shot to the head that knocked him off course and with all the punks and skins down there now he could not make it back to the stairs at all. Tam, his dread hat still in place, kicked in a first floor apartment door and ran inside. But a second later he ran back out with a blonde chick in her panties screaming her head off and blasting pepper spray right behind his head.
I tackled him when he came out and I dragged him down to the floor. In truth, we all did. One of the skins, a lanky psycho called “Tex,” thought it was funny to pull a fire extinguisher off the wall and squirt Tam’s face with it. It was. “Turn you white, boy.” I took the extinguisher from “Tex” and smashed it on Tam's head.
Tam screamed and grabbed his ears. I brought it down on his head again and he quit moving. I hit him a third time and felt something give in his skull and I stepped back to admire my
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work, with a couple of the skins staring at me with their mouths open. I dropped the extinguisher. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder and turned around. I thought for a crazy second it was the Grim Reaper had come to thank me for bringing him a soul, but it was not. It was a friend of mine from high school named Jim who I had not seen for over a year. He was a tall, thin, face-pierced punk with thick frame glasses and a plaid button down under his duffle coat. He was two years older than me and had started that fall at the state college sixty miles up the road from the city. He motioned with his right hand that we should get out of there, and I figured he was right. The place was so chaotic that not more than a few people had seen me smash the spade dude, but still, one cheese eater would be enough. I knew I had better be gone before the cops showed and started throwing people in jail. I took a last look at Tam. He was just lying there finally looking cool.
The ride to College Town was an hour up the state highway and Jim’s old Volkswagen Beetle had no working heater. It sputtered no better than a spearchucker wallowing in the heap of the public dole. The driver’s side window didn’t close right and the cold breeze whipped around the compartment to hit me. Halfway there I started to feel my injuries in the sub-freezing wind chill. My face throbbed and I could feel the bruises rising on
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it. I touched around it and felt the crusted blood and then I pinched the bridge of my nose. When I wiggled it, it felt like it was just swollen, but not broken. I could not say the same for my hands. They were both scraped and sore and starting to swell, and my right hand had deep tooth cuts on two of the knuckles and one of my fingers was likely cracked just above the knuckle bone. My ankle was starting to swell against the inside of my boot and I played the fall from the stairs over in my mind and then getting punched after it and I pushed what happened next out of my head altogether.
"You okay?" said Jim.
"Do I look okay to you? ....... Got any liquor in here?" I said.
He nodded at the glove compartment. I took out a pint of Jack Daniels and cracked the seal. I offered him first drink but he shook me off and said that I needed it more than him and I figured he was right. Booze or pain killers were in order. The Jack warmed me in a way that beer never did, and I settled back into the seat of the bug and drank the rest. Jim looked over at me a few times but didn't say anything else. As mentioned, he had a couple years on me and we had first met up my freshman year in geometry class. He was the cool junior from California and I was just barely coming up in the punk world. He played me
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some badass records that were just about impossible to locate back then and he told me all about the punk scenes where we both lived and the even cooler one on the east coast. That year he was old enough to drive and we started going to shows out at the Slaughter House and the Clown Tears downtown. We had Algebra II together the next year and then he left for college and that was when things kind of went off the rails for me in a wild way.
We were about ten miles outside College Town when Jim exited the highway and stopped for gas. I got out to use the payphone. The place was deserted; everything closed for the night but the pumps. Snowflakes had begun to fall and the wind howled under the bridge on the server road and across the state highway.
The phone rang five times and I was just about to hang up when a rough voice answered on the other end.
"Yeah?" It was Crazy Kikey Mikey.
"Hey," I said. "You know who this is?"
"What?"
"Do you know who ...... "
"Don't fuck with me, asshole. Wait. Is this ...... “
"Don't say it."
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There was a long silence before I went on. "Cops show?"
"Yeah. Spade's dead. They're here now."
"Anyone talk?"
"They had Tex in the car for half an hour. Said he didn't say shit. But what else is he gonna say? That girl, though ... the one in the panties."
"What about her?"
"You ever get with her? She knows your name?"
"No."
"Lucky. She talked to the pigs too. Then she came around and started asking the guys about you. Said she wanted to thank you for saving her."
"Yeah. Right."
"I know. You best lay low, boy. Maybe leave town."
"Good idea."
I clicked off.
I got back in the car and Jim pulled back out on the state highway and ten minutes later we took the exit to the College.
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The liquor had relaxed me enough to be hungry, so we went to an all night diner set up like the 1950's where the waitresses were on roller skates and came to your car. We ate hamburgers and drank coke floats. After that, I got Jim to drop me off at the end of the block in a quiet little neighborhood next to the campus. It was freezing outside and Jim kept trying to talk me back into the car to come stay at his dorm because it was clear he thought that I had nowhere to go. Then he tried to give me fifty bucks, which was a wad of money back then, but I didn’t take it. He got out of the car and we shook hands and I told him I would meet him the next day for breakfast, but we both knew it was bullshit. Not that I didn't like the guy. The thing he didn't realize though was that I had to stay away from him to keep him out of trouble. At least until things cooled down. If they ever did.
He drove off and I walked half a block to a big old house with a porch full of wind chimes and peace symbols nailed to the trees.
I climbed one of the trees to the second story and tapped on the window as quietly as I could. A big silk wall hanger with a Misfits skull served as a curtain, and it was pulled aside by a big-eyed chick with a porcelain-pale face and red liberty spikes who looked out the window. She saw me out there and I heard her moan. Like me, she disdained the process of being over-studied.
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Her father was some egghead professor at the college and her mother owned a granola and incense shop on the outdoor mall downtown. They had named her River-Flower Moon-Beam or some stupid shit like that, but she went by Ava; as in Adolph's Ava; just to piss them off.
I came into town every now and again and we went straight up to her room and turned up the music and her folks just had to know I was banging away on their daughter's fourteen year old twat. I was betting her hippy slut mom would have fucked me if she'd had half the chance herself. Maybe even her dad, too, the fucking bearded homo. I pushed that sick thought out of my head and didn't have any others lying around.
Ava opened the window and said "What's happened?"
I shrugged and said nothing.
"Did you kill someone?" she said.
This girl knew me too well.
Christmas Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo Christmas Day – Saturday – December 25th – The Year of the Gripe Echo
Beyond the C
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HST Quarterly: - Winter - The Year of the Gripe Echo horror, adj. inspiring or creating loathing, aversion, etc.
sleaze, adj. contemptibly low, mean, or disreputable trash, n. literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality
Welcome to HSTQ: Winter, The Year of the Gripe Echo, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash, edited and assembled by Artful Ham!
Featuring poetry by Artful Ham, Justin Tooballs, Donna Duz Dallas, Bent Wood, Paul Tanbutt, Debbie S. Dick, James
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Reittpull, Wet Willie Taylor Jr., Catlin Jenner, J.B. Polacki, Rugless D. Bockle, and Renee Kizzerweinie.
Get your FREE e-book here!
11 likes · Like o 32 comments o flag Published on April 29, The Year of the Gripe Echo, 11:55 o Tags: horror, poetry, sleaze, trash
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message 1: by Timex (last edited May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 09:41AM)
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 09:40AM
Let's show some empathy and be WOKE here.
N word. N word. N word. N word. N word .N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word .N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word. N word.
N word. N word. N word. N word.
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MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word. MF word.
Join the Progressive call for proper behavior and complete inclusion.
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message 2: by Artful
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 10:03AM
Timex wrote: "Let's show some empathy and be WOKE here."
If you had any real empathy, you'd kindly go CROAK instead.
reply | flag *
message 3: by Timex
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 11:40AM
You are so articulate. Attend white schools?
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message 4: by Artful
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 11:51AM
Timex wrote: "You are so articulate. Attend white schools?"
ATTEND YO MAMA
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message 5: by Timex
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 12:26PM
I've been playing free on-line games. Some are challenging, and if you don't mind the lack of state-of-the-art graphics, can be fun. In one called "Lootem" the object is for the looter to break in and get as much stuff out as he can before something falls on his head and crushes him. The creator tried to be politically correct, even to a ridiculous extreme, by making the looter white. But still, the MFin word N words must have bitched, as the site took down the game. Fun gone, I'm going to try to read "Criminal Racial Theory: Math is Racist." It sounds like a comedy.
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message 6: by Timex
Page 236
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 01:18PM
Yay! Before I could get to the stupid book, the free game site came up with a new one; "Bomber." The object is for the Diaper-head to throw bombs at groups of Jews; disintegrating or dismembering as many as possible while the Hitler led progressive libtards prevent the Jews from defending themselves or striking back. The game gets more competitive after the Jews poison Hitler's progressive libtards.
These low end game developers are so creative. One can only wonder where they get their ideas. ....... Staying off GoofReads must help.
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message 7: by Rugless
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 02:57PM
Timex wrote: "Yay! Before I could get to the stupid book, the free game site came up with a new one; "Bomber." The object is for the Diaper-head to throw bombs at groups of Jews; disintegrating or dismembering a .... "
Get outta here, ya BASE, rip van winkle-lookin' VILLAIN!
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message 8: by Timex
May 19, The Year of the Gripe Echo 05:54PM
Woolly-nosed, bald headed, commie bassid.
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message 9: by Timex
May 21, The Year of the Gripe Echo 07:40AM
Artful wrote: "Timex wrote: ‘Let's show some empathy and be WOKE
here.’
If you had any real empathy, you'd kindly go CROAK instead."
Who cares, smut peddler?
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message 10: by Timex (last edited May 21, The Year of the Gripe Echo 08:57AM)
May 21, The Year of the Gripe Echo 08:21AM
Hamas won. They realized that like BLM they can do more damage to their betters through "legitimate" protest than they can with rockets.
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message 11: by Rugless
May 21, The Year of the Gripe Echo 08:51AM
droolin'-ass, cacklin'-ass, racist, Danny DeVito-lookin'
mothereffer
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message 12: by Timex (last edited May 21, The Year of the Gripe Echo 10:52AM)
May 21, The Year of the Gripe Echo 10:40AM
Click on the url provided to hear Steely Dan’s “Third World Man.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGQtq...
For Imamu Amiri Bazooka, the bullshit artist F/K/A Rugless D.
Bockle.
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message 13: by Artful
May 22, The Year of the Gripe Echo 12:36PM
Timex wrote: "Who cares, smut peddler?
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That's not very kind of you, Timex. Why, I'd say you're being downright uncivil, you unkind, untoward, uncouth, uncivil MEAN
MAN. Humph!
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message 14: by Timex
May 22, The Year of the Gripe Echo 01:09PM
Well, all right already. I won't replace the deleted movie trailer.
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message 15: by Timex (last edited May 22, The Year of the Gripe Echo 05:36PM)
May 22, The Year of the Gripe Echo 05:35PM
A Polack walks up to the counter and orders a Polish sausage, fries and a coke. The man behind the counter asks him if he is Polish. Indignant, he responds by asking him if he would ask him if he was Mexican if he ordered a taco, or if he were Italian if he ordered a slice of pizza. The man responds "no." "So why are you asking me if I'm Polish?" asks the Polack. The man behind the counter tells him "this is a hardware store, sir."
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message 16: by Artful
May 22, The Year of the Gripe Echo 06:03PM
Timex wrote: "A Polack walks up to the counter and orders a Polish sausage, fries and a coke. The man behind the counter asks him if he is Polish. Indignant, he responds by asking him if he would ask him if he was Mexican if he ordered a taco, or if he were Italian if he ordered a slice of pizza. The man responds "no." "So why are you asking me if I'm Polish?" asks the Polack. The man behind the counter tells him "this is a hardware store, sir."
Ah, yes, the perennial Polack - the one ethnic group it's apparently still safe to poke fun at.
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message 17: by Timex (last edited May 23, The Year of the Gripe Echo 09:07AM)
May 23, The Year of the Gripe Echo 08:49AM
On Brexit at the Relatively Naïve Outset You know, it's time to admit that this whole thing is just a righteous reaction of a well-mannered people being uncontrollably and illegally infiltrated by a group of
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objectionable people; who first messed up their native home and now are attempting to export the damage elsewhere.
Yes, I'm talking about the Polocks. Since I am one I have a right to use that word, just like a black comedian is allowed to say the "N" word; and just as Obama graced a non-comedian with its use right in his face, with a nod and a smile. The only
"legitimate" objection could come from another Polock and to them I repeat part of Poland's national anthem; "Don't tell me what to do."
Hokey dokey; preliminaries out of the way, despite some recent Goodreads drivel about white people being all the same and priviliged, one would have to enter the worlds of matter and anti-matter to find two groups more diametrically opposed than Brits and Polocks.
For a few examples;
1) Polocks are much better looking; and that becomes a problem for the Brits when the Polocks start getting all the women. You know, it's not like we're even trying. We already have more than we can handle, and we literally have to beat the English birds off with sticks.
2) We're really good workers as long as you don't give complicated instructions like; "Do this if ..............."
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We're either going to do it or we ain't. Damn. Make up your mind.
3) We don't recognize unwritten rules. Subtleties are concocted to confuse nerdy intellectuals.
4) Daily showers cause skin rashes in those with fair skin.
But there is hope. We do share one trait with the Brits. We like our rye. So far the comradery gained through the sharing of liquor has been marred by a Polock belief in the concept of "If one is good, two is better." Hence, we kind of keep going until we're kissing the porcelain ass holder. We can work it out. Your dainty linens can be saved with public access to barf bags every ten feet.
Bottom, line. We ain't goin' back where we came from. So, deal with it. Only jobs back home are minimum wage, trying to clean up all the nuclear waste the goddam Russkies left. Fuck that.
I hope that wasn't interpreted as rude, contentious, or low class, though the latter term is too obviously applied by those who don't know which end is up to have any real significance, other than its "meta" nuances seemingly of relevance to "meta"
people. What Brexit has brought forth is a physical issue, apparently seen by Brits as sufficiently momentous to leave in its wake newsworthy examinations of indicated, as opposed to
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proper and contemporary attitudes toward integration and migration insofar as that applies to the yet to be determined actions of the twenty first century world of terrorism; on all its levels.
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message 18: by Timex
May 23, The Year of the Gripe Echo 09:14AM
5-23-21 update.
Go ahead. Say that P-word. I want you to, because I'll sue your ass off after my Polack brothers throw rocks and puke all over Walmart.
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message 19: by Timex
May 23, The Year of the Gripe Echo 09:23AM
Soon at your bookstores;
"Lencz' Adventures with Cats and Dogs" by David Foster Wallace
"Raparations; a Mathematical Study of How Much the Perennially and Ungratefully Subsidized Owe their Beneficiaries" by Cotton Picker
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"A Guide to the Safe Use of Fentanyl Suppositories" by George Floyd
"Walking After Midnight" by Jacob Blake
"I Shot the Sheriff ..... Whoops" by Breanna Taylor reply | edit | delete | flag *
message 20: by Artful
May 25, The Year of the Gripe Echo 11:23PM
Timex wrote: "Bottom, line. We ain't goin' back where we came from. So, deal with it. Only jobs back home are minimum wage, trying to clean up all the nuclear waste the goddam Russkies left. Fuck that."
Everyone's always blaming Russia for everything these days. Fake news witch hunt, most definitely.
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message 21: by Timex
May 26, The Year of the Gripe Echo 07:52AM
If Russia didn't leave all the shit there, who else could have; fuckin' Hitler?
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message 22: by Timex (last edited May 31, The Year of the Gripe Echo 03:01PM)
May 31, The Year of the Gripe Echo 02:57PM
Click on the url provided to hear the latest gripe from the NBA multi-millionaires. https://www.msn.com/en-us/sports/nba/...
Fuck the pole-eese. Bomb these candy-assed basketball whiners.
They suck. Team USA can't even best the fucking Netherlands.
Incompetent pathetic shits expect to be a protected lack-of-class forever in the US.
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message 23: by Artful
Jun 02, The Year of the Gripe Echo 11:14PM
Timex wrote: "Fuck the pole-eese. Bomb these candy-assed whiners. They suck."
Whining/sucking is becoming a bit of a lost art these days, isn't it?
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message 24: by Timex
Page 246
Jun 03, The Year of the Gripe Echo 09:01AM
Yes, in the sense that it has become the banal SOP for every loser jerk, like Bockle.
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message 25: by Rugless
Jun 04, The Year of the Gripe Echo 07:18AM
Timex wrote: "Yes, in the sense that it has become the banal SOP
for every loser jerk, like Bockle."
Come say that to my face, bitch. I'll feed your old, droolin', cacklin' ass to the floor.
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message 26: by Timex
Jun 04, The Year of the Gripe Echo 08:10AM
Get some couth, monkey ass.
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message 27: by Timex
Jun 04, The Year of the Gripe Echo 02:18PM
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Click on the url provided to hear about the baseball announcer’s
‘racist” mention of the pitcher’s durag. https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/crime/...
Is it racist to say "same old" when it is "same old" and to say durag, ostensibly not being allowed to make note of the lettuce thing on the mf word n word’s head. Hehe. Anyone still taking this shit seriously?
Idaho.
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message 28: by Timex
Jun 08, The Year of the Gripe Echo 12:18
Does your recent Hawaiian diversion have anything to do with the Honolulu cops suddenly shooting n words? Are you dumb enough to answer honestly?
Keep up the good work.
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message 29: by Rugless
Jun 09, The Year of the Gripe Echo 01:27PM
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Ah, summer! And yet another year has passed where NOT ONE PERSON
ON EARTH has read 'Prince; Part Two' or any other book written by Edward Dumbass. And to think that a year from now-and the year after that-the previous statement will continue to hold true, its veracity unchallenged into perpetuity. And like the terrible, unreadable, unread text of the book itself, that stupid, misused semicolon in the title will always be there: a symbol of the moron's entire dogshit 200-book oeuvre as it slips away into eternity, just as terrible, unread and unreadable today as it will be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…
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message 30: by Timex
Jun 09, The Year of the Gripe Echo 02:07PM
That guy's just an infinite pest, huh?
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message 31: by Timex
Jun 10, The Year of the Gripe Echo 12:16PM
You can play Bockle's head like a fine guitar. It has five strings.
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message 32: by Petra Kelly
Jun 10, The Year of the Gripe Echo 12:20PM
:-D
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National Ear Muff Day – The Year of the Knee National Ear Muff Day – Friday - March 13th – The Year of the Knee - Seattle
Reuters. CHAZ, CHOP, CHIT, CHUD
We have been informed of yet another name change to Seattle’s
“autonomous district.” The fourth entry is CHUD. Since no one has been shot in the “peaceful” district for the first time in seven days, and there has been no further looting or arson, though the vandalism the occupiers describe as “art” has persisted, the attention seekers seek to remain in the news with this. It would be deemed “racist” to take no note; so here is the obligatory.
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A “normal” evening in CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT-CHUD; property of the author.
A “normal” afternoon in CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT-CHUD. White person being beaten senseless by eight brave, ostensibly similarly senseless black people; property of the author.
Depending on which resident “revolutionary” one speaks with, the latest acronym utilized for the zone may stand for; 1) Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers 2) Claptrap Humid Underpants Demonstration 3) Crackpot Homeless Unpopular Derelicts
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4) Capitol Hill Undesirable District
5) Clinton Hooey Underwritten by the Deepstate 6) Communist Hogwash of the Unprincipled Democrats 7) Creepy Hooligan Unwanted Development 8) Curdled Herrgårdsost Undeserving Dips 9) Chordal Harshness for Uppity Discordance 10) Chocolate Hoodlums in the Ugly Dump 11) Comrade Ho’s Unmasked Disaster
12) Chaotic Hoonies Underpinning Destruction 13) Choppa Hoodie Urban Dudes
Whichever is the “correct” term, a myriad of mixes are also utilized. It has quickly become popular among non-occupiers seeking to insult someone to say; “You’re a CHUD.” Fakebook reports that Joe Biden is the most frequent recipient of the moniker on their site; apparently #5 the current rank in Johannesburg Joe’s case.
By way of op-ed background, this writer believes that #1 is the true rating, as the words would seem to be appealing to marginally educated, “cool” humanoid “youth,” still living with
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and trying to shock mom and dad. Ostensibly, this is the totes humongous thrill enjoyed by thirty-eight year old, protesting and rebellious fries managers, demanding social justice.
The CHUD story began with reports of a woman walking her dog down an empty darkened CHIT city street. As she passed by a manhole, a creature jumped out and attacked, dragging her and her dog into the sewers, neither ever to be seen again.
Razberry Simon, more or less; mostly less a once semi-marginal rapper, now and then disputed Warlord of “peaceful” CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT-CHUD, had been photographing the homeless population, specifically those known as "under-grounders," or people who have taken up residence within the six square, police “free”
blocks, previously called Capitol Hill among other things in
“normal” times.
Seattle’s Police Captain Botsch had a personal interest in the recent flood of missing persons being reported, as Candida (Candy), his thirteen year old daughter, remained missing for the second week. Botsch interviewed “Sleepy Joe,” a surreptitious police co-operative informant. “Sleepy Joe” was a subordinate of untouchable billionaire, popular povertician extraordinaire, the “Reverend” Alphonse Sharpie. He was not
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considered totally reliable, but could sometimes be accidentally so.
Le Grande Orange and Alphonse Sharpie; property of the author.
Le Grande Orange was a real estate developer continually on the edge of the law. His political ambitions had been recently realized when he won the race for Seattle’s Mayor. He was thereby able to freely extract variances from his appointed
“Planning Board,” as well as obtain approvals from town building inspectors for chump change. His supporters said; “So, big wet raspberry. What’s new? So, the building is 42 floors instead of 30, and a few of the all too many BS building codes are rendered mute. Fazool.” Though he had run as a Republican in the heavily Democratic city, he won by a landslide as the Democrats ran a female Muslim communist with a platform of “governmental confiscation of all property.” It is rumored that the parents of 42 year old Kashama al-Khondakar, sometimes still known as Barbie Millicent Roberts, with whom she has resided and bickered with her entire life, voted for Le Grande Orange.
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Sharpie was still currently running his Democrat supported, multi-faceted money laundering business through his heavily militia guarded, waterfront mansion. The tax free property was this year’s uptown Seattle headquarters for his increasingly popular money magnet, “The BLM Foundation.” A “Newsday” article contended that Sharpie was an FBI, Deepstate informant, displaying specialties in organized crime, public figures, and black civic leaders. He was once charged with 67 felony counts of tax evasion, larceny and fraud. He was acquitted on all counts and plead guilty to one misdemeanor charge of failure to file state income taxes. This man is as connected as Siamese twins eating cheese.
On the other hand, “Sleepy Joe” was very reachable either in his basement, in the Ukraine boardroom of Burisma, or with his lips lovingly planted on Obama’s badonkadonk. It had become obvious that he had acquired dementia a few years back, and because of that was liable to blurt out anything, no matter the implications. Accessible and potentially useful to Botsch, the need to fact check whatever he would say was the only issue.
Making things just the least bit difficult in the sense of overbearing annoyance, “Sleepy Joe” seemed to really believe that he had served time in jail with Nelson Mandela in Johannesburg, Delaware decades prior; and that it had some sort
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of importance now. Smiling and congratulatory back pats worked for as long as the smiley-back patter could tolerate the process. It is reasonably well-known that judicial “success” has always had the pre-requisites of a high tolerance for boredom married to both patience and the ability to use an acquired taste which not necessarily suspends reality, but the gagging instinct. Lacking that, things can get as messy as another overpaid basketballer’s rendition of which lesser talent messed up at crunch time.
For his part, Botsch believed that the recent events were part of a massive Democrat Deepstate operation, but had no evidence to prove it beyond the discredited information posted and quickly removed from Fakebook. Botsch's superiors seemed to know more than they were letting on, but Botsch also knew that this was a common tactic of all clueless “superiors.” They did seem to be taking their cues from a Sharpie subordinate named Watson, who did black ops for the CHUD accommodating Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC.)
For decades, the EEOC had openly investigated breaches of their toxic directives, enforcing them through co-operation with the Deepstate segment of the federal Justice Department. All private business entities and governmental tentacles had been required to employ CHUDs, at the very rock bottom, at least at their
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overstated percentage of the humanoid population. Further, they were given preferences for government jobs by having extra points added to their tests, the tests regularly so easy that a low-functioning retard could get 100; the job thereby going to the CHUD through a 20 point CHUD bonus, resulting in a non-CHUD
reachable score of 120. They were also given a rotted leg up on the receipt of government contracts. Thereby, CHUD governmental representation became disproportionate to their numbers and abilities. However, if a non-CHUD used the same proportionate rationales to decry grossly deficient under-representation in the NBA and other forms of entertainment, that was ipso facto considered punishable racist hate speech.
From his dark basement, “Sleepy Joe” told Botsch that monsters were lurking in Seattle. They were once humanoid, but had been mutated by toxic EEOC directives, engineered by Watson, falsely rumored to have been under the direction of Le Grande Orange.
Watson was actually a rogue operator with his own agenda, that with a goal of uniting the world under an equal zombie apocalypse. Sharpie didn’t know that for a fact, but periodically found Watson’s services useful, and knew that the cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers (CHUD) exist and allegedly along with Le Grande Orange, was trying to use them for undisclosed political gain. While they formerly roamed all
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of Seattle, for some reason “Sleepy Joe” didn’t know, the CHUD
were now centered in the six square, police “free” blocks, formerly called Capitol Hill, now semi-established as a
“permanent” protest against racism, poverty, discrimination, capitalism, and the heartbreak of psoriasis, until the Proud Boys pay the area a visit on Independence Day.
The CHUD are nocturnal, hideous, flesh eating creatures that primarily prey on the easiest target; the homeless. With the consistent homeless population declines registered, no humanoids were doing any complaining, attributing the improvement to their state subsidized, electrified tent program. Experts theorized that the homeless were aesthetically appalled at the sameness excepting color, like that in an “affordable” suburban housing development, which compelled residents to rather than mope and dwell, gave them an incentive to move out as soon as possible.
But with the decline in the CHUDs food source, the creatures had expanded their culinary tastes to those demonstrably diligent and mentally balanced; those who had been living in more or less normal Republican homes and were only visiting Capitol Hill in a last ditch, desperate attempt to get their promised mail-in voting ballots, only to be told that they were already in the mail.
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A CHUD; property of the author.
Although “Sleepy Joe’s testimony proved spotty and uncomfortably reminiscent of one who has been glued to the Horror channel since before the infectious disease was officially recognized, Botsch found that the EEOC was directly involved in the slaughter that has been going on, through chatty Deepstate plants loosely affiliated with Watson. Although the political bureaucracy has forbidden the EEOC to impose further “toxic”
edicts in or around the “free” CHUD zone, dumbed down Millennial teens have found it “cool” to volunteer themselves for EEOC
toxicity, thereby becoming CHUD food or monsters, depending on their personal rapidity of decline. Antifa (Annoying Nits Tethered in Fallacious Anti-arcadianism, for one anti-acronym)
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population growth had become exponential, though it is recognized that is not all that difficult to do when starting with a base of less than 500.
Pre-“Sleepy Joe” fact checking, Botsch wore plain clothes to explore the CHUD “free” zone. He wasn’t there long when his daughter came running and jumped into his arms, saying; “I’ve seen enough of the cannibal bums, daddy. It was a serious mistake.” Overwhelmingly happy, Botsch carried her out with a loaded revolver openly displayed in his right hand. He drove her home, fully intent upon concluding his investigation right there, in fear of being dismissed from the force and charged with wrongful intimidation of marauding killers, at least until the cowardly powers that be gave some indication of paying some attention to obvious truth.
Later that evening at a CHUD diner, two police officers and a waitress were killed and carried off by the deranged mutants.
The viral Fakebook post of the filmed event may have finally drawn the public's attention to the situation, though the pro-CHUD contingent filled the social media sites with claims that this was fake news, authorized by Le Grande Orange, utilizing a doctored tape.
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The world is besieged by organized, vicious and internet proficient enemies who are doing whatever the techie nerds can to destroy everything in the name of One World Communism.
They’ve been able to dupe many people who are fools into supporting their fake-kindly policies. No matter the dumb excuse, these people are traitors. They are aiding and abetting the enemy, and no form of punishment is too harsh for them. Le Grande Orange talks tough, but has accomplished nothing more than one tiny finger in the dike would have. In the absence of Joe McCarthy, we need someone else who will stop the nonsense detrimental to the vast majority. All it takes is a few head shots. But, for now CHUD thugs walking with impunity is what it is.
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In a nutshell; no pun intended; what has happened here is that the violent, angry, stupid losers have been allowed to get out of hand by their Democrat enabling beneficiaries, with the help of the lock-step, main stream media monopolies. This reporter is stopping here, both in disgust as well as in fear of being dismissed from his job by the lily-livered, CHUD accommodating vampires.
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POWER IS THEREBY “DEMOCRATICALLY” TRANSFERRED TO THE CHUDS.
National Save Your Photos Day – The Year of the Knee National Save Your Photos Day – Friday – September 25th
– The Year of the Knee – White Township, NJ
Cinco de Mayo – The Year of the Gripe Echo Cinco de Mayo – Wednesday - May 5th – The Year of the Gripe Echo - Madame Hatter Broadcast - Greetings
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Preliminary Memes Subjected to Assorted Impolite Errata As television canon dictated, the camera view was retrospectively chosen by the eight members of the editing team from eight photographically and digitally spawned possibilities.
Their honored participation in the “creative” process allowed them to be sequestered in their very own soundproof conference room replete with private half bath. An irregular and thereby uncalculated degree of room-length plasticized, teal-shaded glass separated them from other company employees; those grunts burdened with the lesser and un-artistic tasks of keeping and updating records. The editors were uniformed in the non-uniform manner instilled and distilled after the “revolutionary”
renunciation of the archaic, un-creative, and severely limiting requirements induced through the un-written but clear pre The Year of the Kennedy Half Dollar B.S. stipulation of matching
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suits which magnanimously deferred to gender considerate optional tie.
By The Year of the Gripe Echo, even one not attuned to contemporary office fashion could easily find guidance from Wikipedia which said; “Appropriate business casual dress typically includes slacks or khakis, dress shirt or blouse, open-collar or polo shirt, optional tie or seasonal sport coat, a dress or skirt at knee-length or below, a tailored blazer, knit shirt or sweater, and loafers or dress shoes that cover all or most of the foot,” which almost succinctly provided a useful synopsis of what is considered appropriately casual and in correctly un-stated “rebellion” against the standardized suits fascistically dictated in the ignorant past. Only the haplessly inept, the dismissible rude, or the criminally insane would directly dare suggest otherwise; at the guaranty of the intolerable, self-induced, face-saving pronouncement of toddy time renunciation. Of course there are the dexterous indirect.
However they are either dead, the subject of the camera, or both.
The suitably un-suited arbiters, uniformed in their full, stoic regalia which primarily consisted of Chinese polyester fabrications of the increasingly dear and elusive cotton, thereby proudly displaying subtle allusions to their unique
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natures, never committed the faux pas of saying anything which might be interpreted as having even gently hinted at a homogeneity as crass as “The McDonaldization of the Outré.” The chronically re-purgative and camel-intending-horse committee
“selected” the least-likely-to-be viewed as a controversial opening, once again flirting with their mercenary conception of the most avant of gardes; thereby daringly displaying a man sitting at an un-propped TV prop desk.
The desk was finished in faux wood grain plastic, no doubt to affordably and otherwise efficiently partner effectively into the camera’s visually imperfect notion and display of unprocessed arboreal warmth suitable the non-discriminating; much as that of the expected infectious cheer generated through old Ma or Pa Bell, just as reflected in the discount store electric fireplace plugged in during the holidays of unbridled celebration; referring back a bit to that which had been blended with easy-to-maintain practicality. The desk had nothing in its drawers and its viewing cameras changed periodically. The less-screen-occupational man professionally played with his management rationed papers as always in calculated but still imprecise expectation of voila’s predestined notice; in that mirthlessly filmed requirement, at least un-evocative of most
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any viewer inducement to consider the possibility of a condescending farce.
The audience filed into the showroom. Their expressions seemed to indicate a fashionably dour, low expectation or a restrained communal need to un-sociably issue a likely malodorous, mid-range zephyr. This, ultimately enlightened with a relentless further information scenario could have effortlessly resulted in a confusing multi-range of possibilities, which may have been the case on this un-particular day, as the audience’ tickets were handed out freely on Newbury Street, right next to the Goodwill facility. The un-backstage-TV-initiated, remorseless in their semi-rigidity, severely grim, lack-of-cushion not provided by the resident discount-store-folding chair accommodations which may have nonplussed the freeloaders unable to see themselves as such, as it or them appeared to more resemble the facilities utilized to amenitize the costumed house meetings held in rural Forsyth County, Georgia than that which was expected at a topnotch TV show, the likes of “Evan’s Book of the Week Club,” and/or in Occam approved simplicity, a “merely” to the truly disinterested congregation, while concurrently a
“mucho significativo” to those so afflicted with a commonly undiagnosed syndrome referred to acronyminally as IBS or the more generally accepted as severe manifestation called “Crohn’s
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Disease.” For those sufficiently fortunate to have been unfamiliar with those terms, suffice to say; “It’s yo ass.”
So as not to be seen as painting with too broad a brush or wand, it is noted that the audience did have substantial differences: 1) A large segment was big-city-vacationers from the outskirts of places like Lubbock, Texas;
2) Some were local codgers, many in denial as to having been three times over legally inebriated, who were primarily interested in having an experience which would flawlessly enable them to tell the supposedly or affected literate cohorts in their domain a story of profound personal adventure, which if properly worded was intended to camouflage being an attempt to border on a cheeky individual swagger; 3) Some were Millennials currently enrolled in the Boston University MFA program assigned to write a neither mid-term nor end-term paper, no more than two pages in length, about this show, DFW, post-modernism, the state of the literature industry with nods to quality, innovation, and the effects of Amazon on publishing, and concluding with a well-reasoned position regarding the place of literature in the larger world of art; 4) A few were sophisticated and surreptitiously cruel purveyors of alleged litblogs, and;
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5) The overlapping majority consisted of sundry victims of a wide variety of an arguably overwhelming level of abysmal misfortune.
Out of the perimeters and onto the stage subjected to film, the man with the pronounced widow’s peak coupled with graying, medium length hair, who was fashionably coiffed in controlled disarray and was on occasion, politely referred to as middle aged; although he was mathematically well past that until the day science brings the average male life expectancy to 122, was at the aforementioned desk. Utilizing the most rudimentary and thereby also the most useful expectations of the expectations he had learned to assign to the many with an as yet un-acquired taste for a reaction contrary to his desired and outwardly well-liked manifestation of a deeply furrowed brow adjusted for camera-produced, inaccurate shadows, he had once more, consciously chosen to appear as being studious or scholarly as he shuffled the same desk-bound papers he had mastered shuffling on countless previous occasions, much like an experienced card player who is blessed with the deal depicts the mixing of his deck as a skilled, synchronous harmonization, most impressive to the cash holding neophytes in the immediate tiny real and Nielsen calculated cyber vicinity.
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The man pretended not to notice the camera clusters moving as one might expect of a replica of a huge Kafa-esque, craning insect’s unhurried, confident, routine accomplishment. Possibly seen as ominous to the most squeamish of TV and web-based habitués, these large headed bugs, through their apparently well-concerted dance routine, once again, gave every indication that they are most comfortable when they work in packs. No doubt that view was fortified by their sporadic off-hours observance of the minimal effects produced by the one-issue wolf packs pathetically endemic to the below-Nielsen-radar “resplendent” in the acceptable-to-the-politically-correct drones who dominate
“social” media. In fact, that aspect of their existence is ridiculously funny to some and perfectly understandable to others, if not foolishly misunderstood to be an irrationally persisting remnant of “The Chorus Line” sans the cool fishnet stockings, as they are well paid union beings; on double time with the movement of a clock hand; triple on weekends; and off the charts on officially recognized holidays.
The “studious” man continued with his patented shuffling, as if he hadn’t previously observed the fading papers or glimpsed the flash “luster” of the one-size-fits-all bugs, fleetingly seen in inadvertent overlaps. As the only possible means of differentiation, the eight creatures were said to be
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theoretically supplementable with alternative lenses, manufacturer warrantied as opposed to guaranteed, in the standardized, economy classy cases wherein the flash storage based model was equipped with a standard optical prism block behind the discernably present lens.
Primarily in an effort to combine an image of personal nonchalance with one also consistent with that which was fitting to the nuances of lens; personally unknown regarding DSLR vs.
SLR, and even the more widely viewed as egregious implication of its un-caring as to techie technicality, and obviously inclusive of and the “nuance” inherent and dependent upon the black-white, zero-one technique, flagrantly and sublimely tranquil in the long standing comfort provided by the bi-weekly credits; here and there foolishly considered as a possibly un-ambitious appearance of falsified contentment or even worse, unknown as to the more simplified though combined ultra-wide angle vs. close up macro considerations, further imbued with the presently positive, but at the end of the day transitory consideration bestowed by the self-crowned-and-unchallenged-intellectually-astute segment of the audience because of their tendency to vocalize their opinions through undetected sarcastic request; his perception of acceptance and place, if not the calculated bliss engendered by the dynamic of the measured, restrained
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endearment of appropriately named specialization of Nielsen acquired Arbitron, was most likely the beneficiary of a popularly sheltered and dependable view which was always suggestive of an assessable quasi-torpor, not unknown, even to the Bard himself, much less the dregs of life attendant today.
Evan DeGrazia, a Spanish ex-patriate, with a thereby seductive accent in the US, had made a top 1% living for himself and his family through hosting this talk show, and he now, pastiches of past prickly pasted papers in hand, ersatz patiently awaited his thousandth guest. He was certain that he had been successful in manifesting the facial condition which hides being actually surreptitious in his delirious happiness, as prior to other occasions he usually felt as if it was to be the hundred thousandth; but this time he was more interested as the guest was said to be the never-dead or resurrected David Foster Wallace. Evan had determined through long, tedious experience that other shows have been nowhere near as lively as this one might potentially be. After all, Evan always was quite the optimistic fellow.
The Opening Gripe
Purposely unburdened by the previously stated, on the willful radio, the crackling, poor reception was only exceeded by the
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inevitably lulling, dulcet tones evoked by the calm, invisible, and carefree Madame Hatter’s weekly pronouncements. Though none but the few technicians at the scene could see it, the broadcast booth was occupied by a hooded figure which suggested a femininity in the most simple of past and present tenses. In an unhurried, possibly measured monotone, she spoke.
“Hi. – Yeah.
Hello. – Mmmyellow.
Greetings. – The draft ended in like “The Year of National Reform Criminal Legislation.”
(Name.) – They left.
I hope that I find you well. - That’s not possible.
Good morning/afternoon/evening. – Used to be.
Allow me to introduce myself. – Why should I?
How are you? – Broke and terminally ill.
I hope your week is going smoothly. – It was.
I’m e-mailing you to ... – Glad we don’t have to meet in person.
I’m hoping to get your input on ... – Why ask me?
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It’s great to see you. – Just makes your little day. Doesn’t it?
Thank you for the quick response. – I said no.
Thanks for getting in touch. – I did no such thing.
Just checking in. – Just checking out.
I wanted to follow up with you. – You’ve confused me with someone else.
As promised. – I hoped you were lying.
Could you provide me with an update? – I still can’t stand you.
Are you still interested? – As much as ever.
How are the kids? – Mexican fentanyl complacent.
I was just thinking about you. – You must have lots on your mind.
(Contact) suggested I get in touch with you. – Kill (contact).
Sorry it took me a while to get back to you. – My pleasure.
Yep, it’s me again. – Oh, happy day.
Don’t worry, I’ll keep this brief. – Brief time has expired.
Hopefully, you’ve had your coffee this morning. – No. Please excuse me as I do.
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Are you surviving yet another workweek? – Very, very dumb opening, hereby closed.
I hope you’re sitting down. – I hope you’re shutting down.
Hey (nickname)! – Hey yourself, Dorkey!
To whom it may concern. – Wrong address.
How ya doon? – Doon buggy.
How ya doon today? – Doon buggy today. Duh.
Allow Me to Introduce Myself – Why should I? That was rhetorical.
Good afternoon – Sigh.
Good morning – Sigh.
How are you? – None of your business.
Hope this email finds you well. – Hope you don’t ‘find’ me.
I hope you enjoyed your weekend. – Don’t go away mad.
I hope you're doing well. – Don’t go away sad.
I hope you're having a great week. – Just go away.
I hope you're having a wonderful day. – Your sarcasm is not ironic.
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It's great to hear from you. – That wasn’t me.
I'm eager to get your advice on ... – Drink fish tank cleanser.
I'm reaching out about ... – Keep those things to yourself, Medusa.
Thank you for your help. – Please show your appreciation by leaving.
Thank you for the update. – A pox on your house.
As promised, I'm ... – Leaving?
As we discussed on our call ... – You’re leaving. Okay.
Can you provide me with an update on ... – Hydrochloraquine is the elixir of eternal youth. Ingest much.
I'm checking in on ... – Tell your social worker.
I'm getting back to you about ... – That’s dead.
To follow up on our meeting ... – You got ADD or something?
Congratulations on [recent accomplishment]. – Don’t push your luck, dirt bag.
How did your recent project turn out? – The privacy aspect failed miserably.
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I hope you enjoyed your [event or vacation]. – I hope you enjoyed being a nuisance.
I loved your recent [photo/article/social media post]. – Then push the like button and flake off.
I was just laughing the other day about [inside joke]. – Is this some sort of ransomware attack?
I was just thinking about you and [shared memory]. – Don’t let me ruin your false memories.
It was great to see you at [event]. – Wish the feeling was mutual.
This [article/video/GIF] made me think of you. – What it isn’t.
[Mutual Contact] recommended I get in touch with you. – They promised to get even with me.
Happy ‘Not Monday.’ – Happy not you.
Hello from the other side. – Please stay there.
Here's the good news: Only [number] more days until Friday. –
Here’s more good news: The fence will be finished, razor-wired, and electrified by Thursday.
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Hope you're surviving another workweek. – No; no need to write again.
I hope you've had your coffee already. – I hope you’ve had your Hydrochlorothiazide already.
It's me again. – I’ve got a gun.
I'll keep this short. – Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.
I'm sorry if this message sabotaged ‘inbox zero’ for you. – I’m sorry your face came out like that. ..... Hehe. Loser.
Just what you want: another email! – Just what you want: another face.
(Non-verbal) Smile and wave. – (Non-verbal, sarcastic) Smile and wave.
Most are glad to receive my valuable greetings. – Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly.”
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Blue Red and “Most Likely You Go Your way and I’ll Go mine” by Bob Dylan; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
Bodhi Day AM – The Backward Year of the Ziggin and the Zaggan
Bodhi Day AM – Wednesday - December 8th – The Backward Year of the Ziggin and the Zaggan – Alt Bear Park Alt Bear Park
Maureeen and Cy entered bordering Alt Bear Park. It seemed empty just prior to daybreak, but that would also have made it a very
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good hiding place for someone who wanted not to be found. They went through an opening in the densely packed trees and down a gradually dropping fifty foot hill. They came upon open land with a smattering of mature trees; early winter or late autumnal in appearance. They were completely devoid of branch leaves.
There was no longer any meaningful dissimilarity between the substantially dry and still clinging hopefuls with the faint and dying juveniles showing remnants of red, gold, or purple. They all congregated in undistinguished clusters on the ground which continued to lead bit by bit, gently down.
Maureeen and Cy followed the downward slope into the unfenced field with increasing ease as the sun appeared behind them and started to illuminate the area. The half-moon remained visible in the sky in a showing that could fairly be characterized to a westerner as a generally un-noticed eastern mysticism or esotericism; through simultaneously being both the expected original and the unexpected, magical invention.
At some point their trek slowed, as it was underwritten by the brittle, bothersome, tan blades they had to tolerate underfoot and sometimes overhead. In season, the natural beauty of the common grass was not ever mowed. Off season, some of it now extended two feet skyward; making their walk both plodding and short sighted, if not blinding.
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Then they saw it. This had to be the unmistakable “one story ranch” they had heard of. Then, plop, plop, and a rude bottom bonk. Maureeen and Cy no longer saw the ranch, as they had fallen through some sort of grassy covering over a well disguised excavation in the earth. Both on their feet and unharmed by the tumble; Maureeen said; “The rabbits are getting bigger and more considerate these days.”
Cy said; “We can hop back out easily.”
Maureeen said; “Why not try this a while. It looks like a good hiding spot.”
Cy nodded and they walked. The light was filtered, but sufficiently floodlit as if the underground shelter had been fitted with watermarked skylights. They interspersed their concerns for sound footing with a curiosity about what might be splitting the darkness over their heads. Neither saw anything but dirt, apparently illuminated from some source undetectable to them.
In looking up they caught each other’s eye, and Cy shrugged.
Maureeen shrugged too, but added; “Glad it’s there; whatever it is.”
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They turned a sharp bend and heard; “I do that all the time.” In a dark spot, they saw a dog sitting at a series of wheels. As he turned the crank the wheels went around, producing paper money.
Near him was a gigantic stack of hundred dollar bills.
Dog on wheels; property of the author.
The wheel-dog called out; “Come on over here. I’ll show you something much more interesting than any immaterial mystery.”
Maureeen and Cy walked over to the elderly, well-groomed caller.
Cy said; “You’re right. I’ve never seen such a big pile of that green stuff.”
Maureeen said; “I may be being overly picky here; but I wouldn’t use the word interesting. It seems more like an ........ like a
....... peculiar aberration. Please pardon my lack of precise eloquence.”
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The wheel-dog indicated no interest in addressing Maureeen’s attempt at fine tuning. With an air of boredom mixed with confidence, he looked directly into her eyes and said; “I’m Mark and I can give you all you can carry out.”
Maureeen was confused, but wanted to remain polite. She said;
“That’s very tempting, but I’m not trying to get out of here yet. Tell me, have you seen any strangers?”
Mark said; “Wow. Present company of course excepted, that doesn’t happen all that often. Sure. Sometimes. Many. Many. You name it. ....... All shapes and sizes.“ He slyly chuckled as if he had just heard a candidate for the dumbest of all possible questions, and at the same time wanted to stifle that possible interpretation, in a business-like recognition that some questioners require some sort of indirect justification for their own ignorant questions. Mark tangentially continued; “Be assured that it is quite the socially acceptable rage. Always was and always will be. It has withstood the test of time, as it never goes out of style and never will. Do you have any idea of how much you can carry out of here? You could fill your pockets, hands and mouths.” Mark gestured toward Cy with his head and said; “Him too.”
Cy said; “I don’t have any empty pockets, hands, or mouths.”
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Maureeen added; “And I don’t want to risk choking. The two strangers I was talking about go by the names of Billy and Jack; and they’re something like cops.”
Mark said; “I never catch any names; and hey, I’m protected here. Cops can’t touch me.”
Cy asked; “How long have you been down here?”
Mark said; “Since Alexander Hamilton was President. Great man.
Don’t make them like that anymore.”
Maureeen said; “That’s for sure. Now they’re grinning juice heads. ....... After all this time, can’t you just take the money and run?”
Mark said; “Sure, I could. I think. But I want more. Guys like you keep coming through here and taking piles of it.”
Maureeen said; “Then why do you give the ‘piles’ to them?”
Incredulous, Mark said; “It’s my job,” as if it should have been understood without asking.
Maureeen and Cy looked at each other. Each interpreted the other’s facial expression perfectly. They simultaneously said;
“Thank you,” and walked on.
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Mark shrugged and once again got the wheels moving. He said;
“You’ll be back; more contrite next time.”
Maureeen and Cy were getting in deeper. The ground underfoot became increasingly moist, making slides common. They actually enjoyed it as an entertaining diversion. They began to play in tandem. They’d get a running start and then slide; often coming to a stop after a complete 180 left them facing where they had come from.
A fork in the path demanded their attention. To their left it looked it would be more of the same. But, to their right was something quite different. It was bar-gated; the spaces visibly containing other creatures. Cy tried the gate and it opened easily. He shut it back tight when he saw five black, growling and salivating Dobermans, each with lots of big teeth, start toward Maureeen and him. The black Dobermans were sufficiently impeded only by the lack of traction their paws could find on a muddy surface.
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Toothesome dobermans; property of the author.
Maureeen said; “I think left might be a better choice.”
Cy said; “You’ve convinced me. Would you look at that?”
Maureeen said; “Keep looking. It gets worse.”
Within the gated quarters, three two foot long, black and white hawks circled the air in an unsettled, agitated way, confined and hungry. The edges of their beaks flashed intermittent, lurid replicas of what there was of light in their area of habitation, as their beaks were made of dulled, but still ominous looking razors.
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Three hawks; property of the author.
The two grounded lions scared Cy the most. Their faces showed no emotion whatsoever. They were merely ready to do business; the business of killing. Their roars came from elsewhere and their manes were tinted with the pink of fading blood.
Lions; property of the author.
Maureeen and Cy knew that it was best to leave, but were compelled to take another look into the area. She said; “It’s weird how we find these horrors fascinating?”
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Cy said; “Not to me. If it wasn’t fascinating it wouldn’t be all over movies and books.”
Maureeen said; “This isn’t a movie or a book. ..... Not yet anyway.”
They looked and saw about a hundred inch long black and red ants on the floor. Some were fighting, and some were already dead from it. Toward the back was a three-headed, four-legged creature devoid of color. It looked something like a dog born both albino and freakishly deformed. It must have also been devoid of blood, as its veins were rather obvious on the surface, yet they must have been ornamentally devised, as they were monochromatically uniform. The awkward being stood atop a black pedestal, which coincided with a wall, and contained gold letters saying “Cerberus.” It was clear that this beast was the one in charge, as it did nothing, but made an easily detectable charade of being fierce, while barking out contradictory commands which confounded those condemned to listen to them; much like any senior politician.
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Cerberus; property of the author.
Head one said; “Take positions at the back door.”
Head two said; “Go to the front door and take them as soon as they come in.”
Head three said; “Lions to the front; Dobermans to the back; everyone else in the center.”
The beasts were confused. They no longer paid any attention to Maureeen and Cy, stopped in their tracks and looked at Cerberus for clarification.
It was now or never. Cy took his hands off the gate, and ushered Maureeen to the left fork. He looked around, wary of having to encounter an escaped nemesis.
“Whooooooo,” she declared in a surprised, but not disparaging voice.
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“Sorry,” he said. I thought it was best to get out of there before they regrouped and got their act together.”
Maureeen said; “I’m sure that you were right. Now, we’ll see what’s on this side.”
They walked for a bit, in time completely forgetting about Cerberus, the lions, the vicious dogs, and the whole caged scenario. They resumed their play, sliding in the mud underfoot; this time bumping into each other and laughing as they fell down in the muck Their shake-offs always sprayed their uncomplaining companion.
After a slight bend in their leftward path, they saw something which wasn’t as initially disturbing as the gated slaughterers or their incomprehensible and confused, sham “master.”
He was in the lotus position in the middle of the leftward doglegged path. He appeared to be an aged, Indian man. His long, white hair was tied back in a pigtail, which protruded only slightly from the back of his plain Jamaican tam. His beard was also white and had been cut no time in recent history, thereby reaching his emaciated stomach. His bones were to a certain extent covered with a dirty blue outfit of matching pants and cummerbund, seemingly denim. He had bare feet and was looking down at a large open book on the floor in front of him. Perhaps
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most significantly, he didn’t look exactly like someone who was all that thrilled with the world or his place in it.
Holy man; property of the author.
Maureeen and Cy could have hopped the squatting human roadblock if they wanted to. But, they had come here for information, and it was possible for him to have some.
Cy nervously decided to venture a friendly opening and said;
“Good book?”
The ersatz holy man impassively responded; “I’ve read better.
The unknown author of this one seems to think that everything boils down to fate. He never uses the word, but there is a strong suggestion of predestination.”
Cy said; “Beckett?”
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The holy man said; “Maybe Pynchon. You can see that it’s a goddam big book despite someone having ripped off the cover and the first one hundred pages, and it still just goes on forever.
......... Christ, in some respects it’s worse than all the Vedas and Upanishads put together.”
Maureeen said; “You don’t believe in predestination, I take it.”
The holy man said; “I don’t believe and I don’t not believe.
However, if predestination is the case, one doesn’t have to write a nine hundred page book about it, as it doesn’t matter.”
Maureeen said; “Why?”
The holy man said; “If you have no effect on anything and no matter what you do, you get the same outcome; the logic suggests that you should do whatever you want all the time. What kind of pre-destination-ally disposed nut wants to spend their limited time writing long stupid books?”
Maureen said; “You might feel differently had you access to the beginning.”
Almost one off, quietly offended because of his love for books, Cy said; “Right. I’d rather sit down here in the dark in my drawers. Who are you and what do you know?”
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The holy man said; “My name is Sadhu Calabrese and I know all the stories of life on earth. You may have correctly guessed that my father was Italian.”
Cy said; “Do you know mine?”
Sadhu said; “No, your father never got down here.”
Cy said; “No, I men my life story.”
Sadhu said; “Up until now.”
Cy said; “Then you knew I’d get here!”
Sadhu said; “Only when you did. You made a mistake, but it was relatively small and didn’t do any harm. I can give you all the knowledge of the world. Stay here.”
Cy said; “What was my mistake?”
Sadhu said; “Monsters are figments of your imagination. They only exist on the mental plane and therefore can only hurt you on the mental plane.”
Maureeen said; “Well, if we might stay here a short time; we were looking for a few strangers who may go by the names of Billy and Jack. Where might they be?”
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Sadhu seemed amused when he said; “Your specificity is indicative of a low rate of sensitivity. Sensitivity enables one to identify the true positive rate of the beings and their placement while specificity is merely indicative of the true negative rate which is everywhere but the correct placement.
Tsk. Tsk. If you would merely reverse yourself you would know exactly where they are.”
Maureeen bristled; “Well, I never. The perception of one is only considered necessitating of a discredited zero-sum-game tradeoff against the other by those lacking in experience and with the most rudimentary of book ‘knowledge.’ I’ll have you know that I am not the least bit insensitive.”
Sadhu sighed and said; “I didn’t say you were. This sensitivity and specificity is math. Your personal sensitivity is another issue. ......... I think.”
Cy said; “Umm, Maureeen; all the books aren’t quite that bad.
Take my word on that one. Sadhu, how long were you out in the world?”
Sadhu sighed as he said; “I was born in this room and I will die in it.”
Cy said; “Have it your way. Have you seen any strangers?”
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Sadhu said; “With full knowledge of all stories, that is not possible. ......... Does not compute. ....... I’ll have to refer to my notes. ...... My notes! ...... Where did I put my notes?
....... Have you seen them? ........ Have you taken them?”
It was Maureeen and Cy’s turn to sigh; which they did in unison.
Maureeen looked at Cy and said; ”Ready to hop?”
Cy said; “Yeah,” and together they cleared the road obstruction which had called itself Sadhu.
As they made their way, they faintly heard Sadhu in the distance. He called out; “Can either of you direct me out of here? Maybe somewhere near a Burger King.” His sound increasingly faded with each step they took.
Maureeen said; “What’s a Burger King?”
Cy said; “I really don’t know. Sounds like the deceptively tasty manifestation of a gastronomic assault wearing a crown.”
They again commenced their sliding mud play; oblivious to the blank darkness which seemed to be getting more extensive in scope due to skylights clouded and murky, boldly brush resistant.
They encountered a rabbit; a large rabbit; a large silly rabbit; a large silly rabbit who’s ears reached the ceiling. She wore a
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dress, a lavender blazer, and sported two big buck teeth which protruded from her mouth and finally came to a kindhearted end somewhere near her chin. She seemed to be smiling, but said;
“You’ve reached the end of the line.”
Last big bunny; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
Maureeen said; “What? There’s no Billy and Jack here?” quickly adding; “They’re two strangers.”
The rabbit said; “No. You’re the only ones who have made it this far. ........ Well, besides me and Red; and he’s been long gone.
....... I’m Hawa, the last big bunny. ..... Some used to call me Mo.”
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Maureeen and Cy introduced themselves, and then drew a bit of a blank. Eventually, Cy said; “So, there’s no way for us to get out ahead.”
Hawa said; “No. You’ll have to go back the way you came. If you’re tired you can rest here for a while.”
Maureeen first checked with Cy, and then said; “No thank you.
We’ll leave.”
Hawa nodded and watched them walk away slowly.
In too short a time the couple re-engaged Sadhu, who was still sitting in the middle of the road, this time with his back to them. Cy said; “You scoot right and I’ll scoot left.”
Maureeen said; “Fine.”
Sadhu wasn’t startled, as if it was time indeterminate expected by him. As they passed him, he said; “Boy, can she move.”
Cy wasn’t sure if that was a question or not. He stopped and thought a bit, not wanting to appear ignorant and finally said;
“You say you know all the stories. Why ask me?”
Maureeen said; “Would you please just keep moving. That guy can equivocate all day.”
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Cy said; “Okay, okay. It’s just that ...... “ and at that point decided it was best to just shut up and keep moving.
They came to the fork again. Maureeen said; “Do you want to take another look at the monsters?”
Cy said; “No, not really. Do you?”
Maureeen said; “No. Just checking.”
They glided in tandem, much like ice skaters.
Old Mark was pretending to be too busy cranking the wheels to take any notice of them, as he did, secure in his time tested information that they would be back.
Cy and Maureen found the hole in the roof, held hands, and jumped out, the sun now directly on them.
Sunrise; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.
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The sun was directly in Maureeen’s face as she awoke beneath her wicker headboard. She groaned just a bit as she saw the light of the new day, not wanting to discourage it; an unforced instinctive murmur, perhaps a combination of noncommittal happiness to see the new day, coupled with a sadness that her dream had ended. As quickly as possible, Maureeen went through her morning routine. She was anxious to get to Cy’s and get off to an early start.
When she got to his door he was ready to go. Now all they had to do was decide where.
Maureeen said; “Let’s walk to the corner. Maybe one of us will get an idea along the way.”
Halloween – The Year of the Politically Correct Requirement
Halloween – Friday – October 31st - The Year of the Politically Correct Requirement – Corrales, NM
Without any prior notice, while Cy was out for three hours walking his Dalmatian Daisy, Mona got rid of almost the entirety of his books. Gone were;
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“In Search of Lost Time” by Marcel Proust
“Ulysses” by James Joyce
“Don Quixote” by Miguel de Cervantes
“One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald
“Moby Dick” by Herman Melville
“War and Peace” by Leo Tolstoy
“Hamlet” by William Shakespeare
“Mr. Bouncery Bounce Goes to the Board Meeting” by David Foster Wallace
“The Social Cinema of Jean Renoir” by Phillippe Petain
“The Odyssey” by Homer
“Madame Bovary” by Gustave Flaubert
“The Divine Comedy” by Dante Alighieri
“Our Town” by Thornton Wilder
“Lolita” by Vladimir Nabokov
“The Brothers Karamazov” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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“Crime and Punishment” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
“Wuthering Heights” by Emily Brontë
“Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen
“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain
“Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy
“Alice's Adventures in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll
“The Invisible Man” by H.G. Wells
“The Iliad” by Homer
“To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf
“Catch-22” by Joseph Heller
“Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad
“The Sound and the Fury” by William Faulkner
“Pinch Me When the Incessantly Terminal Gravity Subsides” by Incognito
“Social Proprieties Analyzed as Deferences to the Insistently Vulgar” by Incognito
“Middle Aged Lolita in Therapy” by Incognito
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“The Thinker Assumed the Defecatory Position” by Incognito
“Atlas Stoned in the Defecatory Position” by Incognito
“Frosty’s Refrigerated Survival Trip; for Children of All Ages”
by Incognito
“Youth is Wasted on the Senile” by Incognito
“Remembrances of a Future Long Passed” by Incognito
“The Twenty-Seventh Letter of the Alphabet” by Incognito
“Infinite Scams” by Incognito
“Green; a Short Story Collection in Braille” by Incognito
“Nineteen Eighty Four” by George Orwell
“Great Expectations” by Charles Dickens
“A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens
“A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens
“One Thousand and One Nights”
“The Grapes of Wrath” by John Steinbeck
“Absalom, Absalom!” by William Faulkner
“Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift
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“Mrs. Dalloway” by Virginia Woolf
“The Stories of Anton Chekhov” by Anton Chekhov
“The Plague” by Albert Camus
“The Stranger” by Albert Camus
“Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte
“The Aeneid” by Virgil
“Collected Fiction” by Jorge Luis Borges
“The Sun Also Rises” by Ernest Hemingway
“David Copperfield” by Charles Dickens
“Tristram Shandy” by Laurence Sterne
“Leaves of Grass” by Walt Whitman
“The Magic Mountain” by Thomas Mann
“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce
“The Arabian Nights” by Anonymous
“Faust” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“The Man Without Qualities” by Robert Musil
“Zorba the Greek” by Nikos Kazantzakis
Page 305
“The Old Man and the Sea” by Ernest Hemingway
“Gargantua and Pantagruel” by François Rabelais
“The Book of Disquiet” by Fernando Pessoa
“The 42nd Parallel” by John Dos Passos
“1919” by John Dos Passos
“The Big Money” by John Dos Passos
“Journey to the End of the Night” by Louis-Ferdinand Céline
“King Lear” by William Shakespeare
“The Good Earth” by Pearl Buck
“Love in the Time of Cholera” by Gabriel García Márquez
“The Complete Fairy Tales” by Hans Christian Andersen
“The Canterbury Tales” by Geoffrey Chaucer
“Jacques the Fatalist” by Denis Diderot
“Oedipus Rex (The Theban Plays, #1)” by Sophocles
“The Sound and the Fury” by William Faulkner
“The Idiot” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
“Hunger” by Knut Hamsun
Page 306
“The Collected Tales of Edgar Allan Poe” by Edgar Allan Poe
“Pippi Longstocking” by Astrid Lindgren
“Blindness” by José Saramago
“The Death of Ivan Ilych” by Leo Tolstoy
“Dead Souls” by Nikolai Gogol
“Midnight's Children” by Salman Rushdie
“Diary of a Madman and Other Stories” by Lu Xun
“The Epic of Gilgamesh” by Anonymous
“A Doll's House” by Henrik Ibse
“Molloy” by Samuel Beckett
“The Unnamable” by Samuel Beckett
“The Decameron” by Giovanni Boccaccio
“Père Goriot” by Honoré de Balzac
“The Aeneid” by Virgil
“The Castle” by Franz Kafka
“Metamorphoses” by Ovid
“Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” by David Foster Wallace
Page 307
“The Pale King” by David Foster Wallace
“The Complete Stories” by Franz Kafka
“Medea” by Euripides
“The Tin Drum” by Günter Grass
“Mahabharata” by Anonymous
“Memoirs of Hadrian” by Marguerite Yourcenar
“The Master and Margarita” by Mikhail Bulgakov
“The Nag Hammadi Library”
“Ancient Esoteric Texts”
“The Egyptian Book of the Dead”
“The Bible”
“Charlotte’s Web” by E.B. White
“The Three Musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas
“Ivanhoe” by Walter Scott
“The Count of Monte Cristo” by Alexandre Dumas
“The Last of the Mohicans” by James Fennimore Cooper
Page 308
“The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire” by Howard Pyle
“Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo
“Robinson Crusoe” by Daniel Defoe
“Rip Van Winkle” by Washington Irving
“The Headless Horseman” by Washington Irving
“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” by the Disney Company
“The Ugly Duckling” by Hans Christian Anderson
“Cinderella” by the Disney Company
“Woolgathering” by Patti Smith
“The Big Sleep” by Raymond Chandler
“The Long Goodbye” by Raymond Chandler
“Pietr the Latvian” by Georges Simenon
“Maigret and the Wine Merchant” by Georges Simenon
“The Late Monsieur Gallet” by Georges Simenon
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin” by Harriet Beecher Stowe
“Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family” by Thomas Mann
Page 309
“Demons” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
“Sons and Lovers” by D.H. Lawrence
“Lady Chatterly’s Lover” by D.H. Lawrence
“Ramayana” by Vālmīki
“The Complete Essays” by Michel de Montaigne
“The Lives of the Hunted” by Ernest Thompson Seton
“The Conspirators’ by Alexandre Dumas
“The Octopus” by Frank Norris
“The Food of the Gods” by H.G. Wells
“Cleopatra” by H. Rider Haggard
“Robur the Conqueror” by Jules Verne
“The Master of the World” by Jules Verne
“The Cossack Chief” by Nikolai Gogol
“The Queen’s Necklace” by Alexandre Dumas
“Tigers and Traitors” by Jules Verne
“In Freedom’s cause” by G.A. Henty
“Jack and the Beanstalk” by Anonymous
Page 310
“Goldilocks and the Three Bears” by Anonymous
“Beauty and the Beast” by Anonymous
“Little Red Riding Hood” by Anonymous
“Puss-In-Boots” by Anonymous
“Rumplestiltskin” by Anonymous
“Pinocchio” by the Disney Company
“The Steadfast Tin Soldier” by Hans Christian Andersen
“Johnny Appleseed” by Anonymous
“Aladdin and his Lamp” by Anonymous
“The Emperor’s New Clothes” by Hans Christian Andersen
“The Golden Goose” by Anonymous
“Paul Bunyan” by Anonymous
“Thumbelina” by Hans Christian Andersen
“The King of the Golden River” by John Ruskin
“The Nightingale” by Hans Christian Andersen
“The Gallant Tailor” by Anonymous
“The Wild Swans” by Hans Christian Andersen
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“The Little Mermaid” by Anonymous
“The Frog Prince” by Anonymous
“The Golden Haired Giant” by Anonymous
“The Penny Prince” by Anonymous
“The Magic Servants” by Anonymous
“The Golden Bird” by Anonymous
“Rapunzel” by Anonymous
“The Dancing Princesses” by Anonymous
“The Magic Fountain” by Anonymous
“The Golden Touch” by Anonymous
“The Wizard of Oz” by L. Frank Baum
“The Chimney Sweep” by Hans Christian Andersen
“The Three Fairies” by Anonymous
“Silly Hans” by Anonymous
“The Enchanted Fish” by Anonymous
“The Tinder Box” by Hans Christian Andersen
“Snow White and Rose Red” by Anonymous
Page 312
“The Donkey’s Tale” by Anonymous
“The House in the Woods” by Anonymous
“The Golden Fleece” by Anonymous
“The Glass Mountain” by Anonymous
“The Elves and the Shoemaker” by Anonymous
“The Wishing Table” by Anonymous
“The Magic Pitcher” by Anonymous
“Simple Kate” by Anonymous
“The Singing Donkey” by Anonymous
“The Queen Bee” by Anonymous
“The Three Little Dwarfs” by Anonymous
“King Thrushbeard” by Anonymous
“The Enchanted Deer” by Anonymous
“The Three Golden Apples” by Nathaniel Hawthorne
“The Elf Mound” by Hans Christian Andersen
“Silly Willy” by Anonymous
“Pedro Páramo” by Juan Rulfo
Page 313
“The Golden Notebook” by Doris Lessing
“The Season of Migration to the North” by Tayeb Salih”
“The Book of Job” by Anonymous
“Southland Tales” by Richard Kelly
“The Illuminated” by Rumi
“The Tale of Genji” by Murasaki Shikibu
“Sentimental Education” by Gustave Flaubert
“Independent People” by Halldór Laxness
“Nostromo” by Joseph Conrad
“Romancero Gitano” by Federico García Lorca
“The Sound of the Mountain” by Yasunari Kawabata
“Zeno's Conscience” by Italo Svevo
“The Orchard: The Bostan Of Saadi Of Shiraz” by Saadi
“Poems of Paul Celan” by Paul Celan
“Berlin Alexanderplatz” by Alfred Döblin
“Gravity's Rainbow” by Thomas Pynchon
“House of Leaves” by Mark Z. Danielewski
Page 314
“White Noise” by Don DeLillo
“The New York Trilogy: City of Glass / Ghosts / The Locked Room”
by Paul Auster
“The French Lieutenant's Woman” by John Fowles
“If on a Winter's Night a Traveler” by Italo Calvino
“The Complete Maus” by Art Spiegelman
“Pale Fire” by Vladimir Nabokov
“White Teeth” by Zadie Smith
“Libra” by Don DeLillo
“The Crying of Lot 49” by Thomas Pynchon
“Motherless Brooklyn” by Jonathan Lethem
“Omensetter's Luck” by William H. Gass
“Time's Arrow” by Martin Amis
“Double Indemnity” by James M. Cain
“The Postman Always Rings Twice” by James M. Cain
“Women and Men” by Joseph McElroy
“The Tunnel” by William H. Gass
Page 315
“Darconville's Cat” by Alexander Theroux
“Wittgenstein's Mistress” by David Markson
“Gerald's Party” by Robert Coover
“The Waves” by Virginia Woolf
“Invisible Cities” by Italo Calvino
“The Savage Detectives” by Roberto Bolano
“Middle C” by William H. Gass
“Monsieur Pain” by Roberto Bolaño
“The White Album” by Joan Didion
“Njal's Saga” by Unknown
“Frankenstein” by Mary Shelley
“Dracula” by Bram Stoker
“The Hunchback of Notre Dame” by Victor Hugo
“Radical Chic and Mau Mauing the Flak Catchers” by Tom Wolfe
“Working” by Studs Terkel
“The Electric Cool Aid Acid Test” by Tom Wolfe
“The Painted Word” by Tom Wolfe
Page 316
“The Adventures of Augie March” by Saul Bellow
“Rex” by D.H. Lawrence
“Studs Lonigan” by James Farrell
“The Babe Ruth Story” by Babe Ruth and Bob Considine
“Babe” by Robert Creamer
“Babel” by Patti Smith
“On the Road” by Jack Kerouac
“Main Street” by Sinclair Lewis
“God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater” by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
“The Swiss Family Robinson” by Johann David Wyss
“Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson “Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley
“The Homecoming” by Harold Pinter
“Turtle Diary” by Harold Pinter
“A Clockwork Orange” by Anthony Burgess
“Atlas Shrugged” by Ayn Rand
“The Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand
Beyond the C
Page 317
“The Passing of the Great Race” by Madison Grant
“Gattaca” by Frederic P. Miller
“Billy Jack” by Tom Laughlin
“The Born Losers” by Tom Laughlin
“The Trial of Billy Jack” by Tom Laughlin
“The Return of Billy Jack” by Tom Laughlin
“El Topo” by Alejandro Jodorowsky
Beyond the C
Page 318
“Fahrenheit 451” by Ray Bradbury
“Animal Farm” by George Orwell
“The Glass Bead Game” by Herman Hesse
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” by Ken Kesey
“The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
“The Picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde
“The Hobbit, or There and Back Again” by J.R.R. Tolkien
“The Stranger” by Albert Camus
“Lord of the Flies” by William Golding
“Trainspotting” by Irvine Welsh
Page 319
“The Elephant Tree” by R.D. Ronald
“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” by Hunter S. Thompson
“Requiem for a Dream” by Hubert Selby Jr.
“The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath
“Westward Ho!” by Charles Kingsley
“Aesop’s Fables” by Aesop
“Gulliver’s Travels” by Jonathan Swift
“The Deerslayer” by James Fennimore Cooper
“Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain
“The Corsican Brothers” by Alexandre Dumas
“The Pathfinder” by James Fennimore Cooper
“A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” by Mark Twain
“Two Years Before the Mast” by R.H. Dana Jr.
“The Adventures of Marco Polo” by Marco Polo
“Michael Strogoff” by Jules Verne
“The Prince and the Pauper” by Mark Twain
“The Moonstone” by William Wilkie Collins
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“The Black Arrow” by Robert Louis Stevenson
“Lorna Doone” by R.D. Blackmore
“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” by Arthur Conan Doyle
“Mysterious Island” by Jules Verne
“The Last Days of Pompeii” by Edward Bulwer-Lytton
“Farewell, My Lovely” by Raymond Chandler
“The Lady in the Lake” by Raymond Chandler
“Dante Unearthed at the Center” by Inarticulate
“The Pale Prince Proffers a Preference for the Onanistic Arts”
by Inarticulate
"Jay Gatsby Ponders Religion and Name Changes" by Inarticulate
“The Turn of the Screw” by Henry James
“Washington Square” by Henry James
“The Heiress” by Henry James
Sequel to ‘The White Album’” by Inarticulate
“Magical Mystery Con; a sequel to ‘Norwegian Wood’” by Inarticulate
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“Truman Evokes a Dream and Then Drops It” by Inarticulate
“Fifty Shades of Dowager Porn” by Inarticulate
“What Seuss Might Have Said to Rothfuss and Other One Sided Confrontations” by Inarticulate
“Victoria” by Henry James
“The Wings of the Dove” by Henry James
“The Bostonians” by Henry James
“Daisy Miller” by Henry James
“The Sense of the Past” by Henry James
"The Roth All Night Diner" by Inarticulate
“Ellis in a Dior Rejected Dress” by Inarticulate
“Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Old Farts Club; A
“All About Lilith” by Inarticulate
“A Bitch in the Crowd” by Inarticulate
“No Little Shit Indie Critic is an Island” by Inarticulate
“The High Window” by Raymond Chandler
“Maigret and Monsieur Charles” by Georges Simenon
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“Maigret and the Informer” by Georges Simenon
“A Man's Head” by Georges Simenon
“Typee” by Herman Melville
“The Pioneers’ by James Fennimore Cooper
“Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte
“Twenty Years After” by Alexandre Dumas
“Mysteries of Paris” by Eugene Sue
“Tom Brown’s School Days” by Thomas Hughes
“Kidnapped” by Robert Louis Stevenson
“Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” by Jules Verne
“David Copperfield”: by Charles Dickens
“Tom Sawyer” by Mark Twain
“The Spy” by James Fennimore Cooper
“The Dark Frigate” by Charles Boardman Hawes
“Romeo and Juliet” by William Shakespeare
“Waterloo” by Chatrian Erckmann
“Lord Jim” by Joseph Conrad
Page 323
“The Little Savage’ by Frederick Marryat
“A Journey to the Center of the Earth” by Jules Verne
“Reign of Terror” by G.A. Henty
“On Jungle Trails” by Frank Buck
“Castle Dangerous” by Walter Scott
“Abraham Lincoln” by Anonymous
“Kim” by Rudyard Kipling
“First Men in the Moon” by H.G. Wells
“The Crisis” by Winston Churchill
“With Fire and Sword” by Henry K Sienkiewicz
“Ben Hur” by Lew Wallace
“Cheri” by Colette
“Buccaneer” by Anonymous
“Off on a Comet” by Jules Verne
“The Virginian” by Owen Wister
“Won by the Sword” by G.A. Henty
“Wild Animals I Have Known” by Ernest Thompson Seton
Page 324
“The Invisible man” by H.G. Wells
“The Conspiracy of Pontiac” by Francis Parkman
“The Lion of the North” by G.A. Henty
“The Conquest of Mexico” by Bernal Diaz Del Castillo
“The Magic Dish” by Anonymous
“The Japanese Lantern” by Anonymous
“The Tendrils of the Vine” by Colette
“The Doll Princess” by Anonymous
“Hans Humdrum” by Anonymous
“The Ambassadors” by Henry James
“The Portrait of a Lady” by Henry James
“The Enchanted Pony” by Anonymous
“Brightboots” by Anonymous
“The Fearless Prince” by Anonymous
“Gigi” by Colette
“The Princess Who Saw Everything” by Anonymous
“The Runaway Dumpling” by Anonymous
Page 325
“The House of the Seven Gables” by Nathaniel Hawthorne
“The Man in the Iron Mask” by Alexandre Dumas
“Silas Marner” by George Eliot
“Toilers of the Sea” by Victor Hugo
“Song of Hiawatha” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“The Prairie” by James Fennimore Cooper
“Wuthering Heights” by Emily Bronte
“Black Beauty” by Anna Sewell
“The Little Sister” by Raymond Chandler
“Trouble Is My Business” by Raymond Chandler
“Playback” by Raymond Chandler
“The Simple Art of Murder” by Raymond Chandler
“Maigret in New York” by Georges Simenon
“Mitch Screwed Me; a Coming Out Tail” by Barack Hussein Obama
“Forty Cosmetic Uses of Gorilla Glue” by Michelle Obama
“The American” by Henry James
“What Maisie Knew” by Henry James
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“The Golden Bowl” by Henry James
“Debilitating Racism at a Million per Week” by LeBrown James
“Seditious Murder at the Capitol; a Victim’s Remembrance” by Anastasia Ocasio Cotex
“Fear and Loathing in Libtard DC” by Donald Trump
“If Life Gives You Fertilizer, Make a Bomb” by Nashville Katz
“Hymie is Prosecutable Hate Speech, and Might get You Banned” by Marked Hebe
“Kiss N Ass and be POTUS” by Kiev Jobo
“I Suppose It’s Best to Appear as if you had Some Sort of Respect for the Mongoloids” by Donald Trump
“Eighty-one Does Not Mean Senile” by Nasty Pillosi
“Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is” by Chucky Spazzface
“Lencz’ Adventures with Cats and Dogs” by David Foster Wallace
“Raparations; a Mathematical Study of How Much the Perennially and Ungratefully Subsidized Owe their Beneficiaries” by Cotton Picker
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“A Guide to the Safe Use of Fentanyl Suppositories” by George Floyd
“Walking After Midnight” by Jacob Blake
“I Shot the Sheriff ..... Whoops” by Breanna Taylor
“My Mother, the Crackhead” by Tupac Shakur
“Niggas Wids Attitudes” by Dead Dre
“Hippity Hop” by Flatfoot
“Proud of My Sissy Boy” by Magic Johnson
“A Walk in the Winter Woods” by David Mack
“My Spartacus Moment” by Corey Booker
“Thank Heaven for Little Boys” by Lincoln Project
“The Clod Squad” by A.O. Cotex
“Forty Contagious Chinese Recipes for Bat” by Ling Ching Chong
“My Friend Maigret” by Georges Simenon
“The Grand Banks Café” by Georges Simenon
“The Woman in White” by Wilkie Collins
“Western Stories” by Bret Harte
Page 328
“The Man Without a Country” by Edward Everett Hale
“Benjamin Franklin” by Benjamin Franklin
“Cloister and the Hearth” by Charles Reade
“The Scottish Chiefs” by Jane Porter
“Julius Caesar” by William Shakespeare
“Around the World in Eighty Days” by Jules Verne
“The Pilot” by James Fennimore Cooper
“The Man Who Laughs” by Victor Hugo
“The Oregon Trail’ by Francis Parkman
“The Black Tulip” by Alexandre Dumas
“Mr. Midshipman Easy” by Frederick Marryat
“The Lady of the Lake” by Walter Scott
“Maigret and the Loner” by Georges Simenon
“The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin” by Georges Simenon
“Madame Maigret's Friend” by Georges Simenon
“The Night at the Crossroads” by Georges Simenon
“The Prisoner of Zenda” by Anthony Hope
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“Joan of Arc” by Mark Twain
“Cyrano de Bergerac” by Edmond Rostan
“The Master of Ballantrae” by Robert Louis Stevenson
“The Wasp Factory” by Iain Banks
“Siddhartha” by Hermann Hesse
“The Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s” by Truman Capote
“The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
“Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Blade Runner, #1)” by Philip K. Dick
“The Shining” by Stephen King
“Cat's Cradle” by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
“A Wrinkle in Time” by Madeleine L'Engle
“And Then There Were None” by Agatha Christie
“The Time Machine” by H.G. Wells
“The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone” by J.K. Rowling
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“Where the Wild Things Are” by Maurice Sendak
“Breakfast of Champions” by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
“Naked Lunch” by William S. Burroughs
“Stranger in a Strange Land” by Robert A. Heinlein
“Tropic of Cancer” by Henry Miller
“Of Mice and Men” by John Steinbeck
“Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett
“Valley of the Dolls” by Jacqueline Susann
“Beowulf” by Unknown
“The Call of the Wild” by Jack London
“White Fang” by Jack London”
“The Jungle Book” by Rudyard Kipling
“The Gold Bug” by Edgar Allan Poe
“The Sea Wolf” by Jack London
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by William Shakespeare
“Men of Iron” by Howard Pyle
“The Adventures of Kit Carson” by Anonymous
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“The Forty Five Guardsmen” by Alexandre Dumas
“The Red Rover” by James Fennimore Cooper
“How I Found Livingstone” by Henry M. Stanley
“The Bottle Imp” by Robert Louis Stevenson
“Captains Courageous” by Rudyard Kipling
“Rob Roy” by Walter Scott
“Soldiers of fortune” by Richard Harding Davis
“Wild Bill Hickok by Anonymous
“The Mutineers” by Charles Boardman Hawes
“Fang and Claw” by Frank Buck
“The War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells
“The Ox-Bow Incident” by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
“The Downfall” by Emile Zola
“The King of the Mountains” by Edmond About
“Macbeth” by William Shakespeare
“Davy Crockett” by Anonymous
“Caesar’s Conquests” by Julius Caesar
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“The Covered Wagon” by Emerson Hough
“The Pied Piper” by Anonymous
“The Sleeping Beauty” by Anonymous
“The Three Little Pigs” by Anonymous
“Green Mansions” by W.H. Hudson
“100 New Recipes for Cannibals” by Libby Perversion
“Monty Still Can’t Get Over It, But Has Learned to Use It For Personal Advantage; a Sequel to Lemonade” by Libby Perversion
“Mesmerized by the Dark” by Libby Perversion
“Fitty Charades of Abu Guraib” by Libby Perversion
“Remedial Sex Education for ‘Special’ Students” by Libby Perversion
“One Hundred New and Inexpensive Roadkill Recipes for Geeks” by Libby Perversion
“The Six Five People Who Could Not Have Possibly Killed JFK” by Libby Perversion
“Henry Kissinger Differentiates Boring Depression from Joyous Infinite Wisdom” by Libby Perversion
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“A Comprehensive List of People and Animals Alleged to Have Been Assassinated by the CIA - a Five Volume Set with Updates Available Annually” by Libby Perversion
“The Truth Finally Revealed #1; Shrimp are Microwavable” by Libby Perversion
“Lyricism in Contemporary Fantasy Literature; an Extremely Brief Essay” by Libby Perversion
“The Rebellious Deviant and the Outlaw Lobotomist” by Libby Perversion
“Benny P’s U” by Libby Perversion
“The Incredible Lightness of Overcooked Tomatoes” by Libby Perversion
“More Dilettantish Musings from Benny the Dip” by Libby Perversion
“The Truth Finally Revealed #2; The Sabers did IT!” by Libby Perversion
“You Wanna See a Real Bomb?” by Libby Perversion
“A Tediously Extended Version of a Petite Masked Ball, Drearily Chronicled Within the Bounds of the Mischaracterized Non-Framework of Finnegan’s Wake” by Libby Perversion
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“They Didn’t Catch IT in the Rye” by Libby Perversion
“Miles Standish” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Pudd’nhead Wilson” by Samuel L Clemens
“David Balfour” by Robert Louis Stevenson
“All Quiet on the Western Front” by Erich Maria Remarque
“Daniel Boone” by John Bakeless
“King Solomon’s Mines” by H. Rider Haggard
“Maigret's Madwoman” by Georges Simenon
“Maigret in Vichy” by Georges Simenon
“Maigret's Dead Man” by Georges Simenon
“The Red Badge of Courage” by Stephen Crane
“Hamlet” by William Shakespeare
“Mutiny on the Bounty” by Nordhoff, Charles Bernard, and Hall
“William Tell” by Frederick Schiller
“The White Company” by Arthur Conan Doyle
“Bring ‘Em Back Alive” by Frank Buck
“From the Earth to the Moon” by Jules Verne
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“The Wishing Well” by Anonymous
“The Salt Mountain” by Anonymous
“No Country for Old Men” by Cormac McCarthy
“The Silly Princess” by Anonymous
“Clumsy Hans” by Anonymous
“The Bearskin Soldier” by Anonymous
“The Happy hedgehog” by Anonymous
“The Three giants’ by Anonymous
“The Rosie Project” by Don Tillman
“The Pearl Princess” by Anonymous
“How Fire Came to the Indians” by Anonymous
“The Drummer Boy” by Anonymous
“The Crystal Ball” by Anonymous
“King of the Khyber Rifles” by Talbot Mundy
“A Study in Scarlet” by Arthur Conan Doyle
“The Talisman” by Walter Scott
“A Crime in Holland” by Georges Simenon
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“If Ocular Observation Produced Perfect Vision and Other Futile Speculations” by Embarrassed
“A Portrait of the Artist as a Crotchety Codger” by Embarrassed
“Confusing Anger with Amused Disgust; Beyond Semantics and Sophistry” by Embarrassed
“Tender is the Knife” by Embarrassed
“In Pursuit of J.R.’s Elusive Tertiary Aspects” by Embarrassed
“thethingysnotworkingright; The Importance of Being Capitalized, Spaced, and Punctuated” by Embarrassed
“Absurdity Trying to Hide a Fundamental Lack of Talent” by Embarrassed
“Less than Affected Dullness” by Embarrassed
“Futile American Closet Case Cover” by Embarrassed
“Divergent from Zero” by Embarrassed
“Dickin’ Jane in Less Than Three Syllables” by Embarrassed
“Bart’ll Be the Scribbler” by Embarrassed
“Homer’s ‘The Oddity’” by Embarrassed
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“Just Look What Happens When You Name Your Boy Joyce” by Embarrassed
‘Maigret at Picratt's” by Georges Simenon
“The War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells
“Oliver Twist” by Charles Dickens
“The Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac
“The Pit and the Pendulum” by Edgar Allan Poe
“The Catcher in the Rye” by JD Salinger was miraculously spared; likely Mona made an inattentive error. Long and short term, it was as if Mona was trying to erase him and his things. Cy recalled his sometimes prophetic mother telling him; “Someday you’re going to marry a girl you feel sorry for; and you will live to regret it.”
Saint Valentine’s Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo Saint Valentine’s Day – Monday – February 14th – The Year of the Gripe Echo
In the safety of his home, Cy kind of stumbled, but caught himself after a brief sway. His voice was kind of in an out,
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like the tone of a squeaky stop made by a 1954 Chevy with the original footbrakes. He said; “You know; it’s a lot of things.
It’s not as if anything happens in a vacuum. All things are related and they kind of merge. Some of them aren’t good. If somebody doesn’t stop the bad ones from following their natural courses they get worse. I mean like these things are not permitted as evidence in courtrooms. They say it’s irrelevant.
The jury is told to ignore it and it is stricken from the record. Sergeant Friday says; ‘Just the facts; only the facts.’
But, what does he know of ‘facts?’ There are no accurately calibrated instruments with which to gauge events in the softest of ‘soft’ sciences. And if you make analogies intended to explain a matter of nuance or parlance which could well be a bridge between the dictated disciplines of physics to the newer, but already dictated disciplines of metaphysical philosophy, they find you incomprehensible at best, psychotic at their
‘norms,’ and subject to; ‘I already knew that’ at their pretenses. I’ve always been tempted to counter with; ‘If you knew that is there some date at which you plan on beginning to act as if you did?’ but that is unproductive and likely viewed as contentious.
But, let me get off this general view and just relate the story as I experienced it myself. I have these dreams sometimes, you
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know. .......... They’re nice dreams. But, I wish they’d go away. Like a week ago there was this new one about recurrent Linda. She was a cheerleader, so different from me. I saw her for the first time freshman year in high school. We were pups then and I couldn’t wait until I was grown enough to have my own place, away from my parents. There was so much time and energy every day; so much time. I used to look at her constantly, trying not to be noticed. I really wanted to know her, but I was too shy to say anything. She was beautiful. I was scared to approach her as she was just too good for me. I always figured that tomorrow would be a better day. You know, tomorrow; when the big pimple was off my nose; when my coat was better combed; when we would just ‘accidentally’ meet at the door; just a natural event, as opposed to her possible perception of a concocted one with ulterior motives on my part. ......... “ Cy snorted out kind of a stifled laugh; “Not that they weren’t there; mind you. They just weren’t the primary thing. I liked her in every way.
And at the time there seemed to be an infinite supply of tomorrows left. I’d see her every day. You see she was in my sophomore, junior and senior, high school reg class. I knew that was to be the case in our sophomore year as the system was
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designed that way. For some reason they switched you after freshman year, but kept it the same after that.
Anyway, by the time I had noticed that time was getting short, halfway through senior year, she disappeared. Must have moved away. She’s not even in the graduation yearbook. ......... Well, recently, this darn dream came along and in it I was high school age and having my usual squabbles with mom and dad; this time he the infrequent leader of some stupid nonsense. I walked away from them, into the next room and Linda was there. She was at the top of one of those small ladders; working on the wall just below the ceiling. She had medium length white hair, puffed up in a cute way. Linda said ‘hi’ to me as if we were old pals, though we had never previously spoken and she certainly had not been in my house prior to that. For some strange reason I was able to act the same way I am now in the dream; and told her that I was really depressed over this parent stuff. I never spoke about stuff like that to anyone in real life, yet here in the dream I just blurted it out without being asked. Not the usual response to someone who says ‘hi.’” Cy smiled at Coulter and then made the slightest of giggles. She smiled and nodded approval.
“I always thought that this exuberant, cheerleader type joyfulness Linda constantly showed was a cover for some sadness
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she wanted to forget and kindly not inflict on anybody else.
Before Linda could respond to my depression stuff; and frankly I don’t even know what the term exactly means; I nervously asked her if she’d like to see a movie.
She said; ‘Yes, what’s on TV?’
I said; ‘No, like at a real movie theatre. Let’s get out of here.’
She enthusiastically said she’d like that; and that there was a cowboy movie playing that she’d like to see. She asked if I liked cowboy movies and I said yes. She took a newspaper and looked for the playing times. Next thing I knew we were outside on the streets of our mutual town of birth. There were some packaged things which I just knew that my parents had left in the wrong place; on top of something like a perforated sewer cover.
Linda said that I should gather them and take them to the post office. I considered doing that only because Linda had said so.
If not for her saying that I’d have figured that if my parents had left them in the wrong place that it wasn’t my job to fix things. Besides, they never admitted making any mistakes to me; so most likely, at least according to them, this was exactly where they wanted their packages to be.
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If it was solely up to me I’d have just left the packages where my parents had chosen to leave them and go to Linda. But, most of all I wanted not to offend her. So, I tried to pick them up.
Not only were there much too many of them for me to handle; but they were soggy, corroded, or something; unstable for sure; and the two or three of an uncounted multitude of packages that I could at first cradle in my arms quickly proceeded to break apart and fall back into the pile. Each one became two. Given their size, I pictured that if I picked them up again the two would just break up into a four and beyond. The most simple of points was that there was no way I was going to be able to carry this stuff to the post office; and also catch up with Linda, who kept moving. I mean, I thought that carrying the packages could possibly be done, but it would take like all day and a million trips; and it would be like trying to carry a school of dead and decayed fish. And I’d lose sight of Linda for sure. As they fell off my arms I looked up to see her.”
Coulter smiled when she interjected; “You could have made good use of a cart. That’s what I thought we were talking about at the beginning.”
Cy also smiled and said; “I’m getting there. I’m getting there.
You have to put the horses before the cart. So, where was I? Oh yeah. So, I had the decayed residue of some of the packages on
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my front paws, and I looked up. Linda was running in the street toward the parked cars a block ahead. I was frightened that she might be running away. In desperation I called out; ‘No, no. I understand that no means no. I’m not a pillager.’ She called back; ‘I know that, silly. I’m just running because I’m excited.’ She opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat of one of the cars which was parked that block ahead; a red Volkswagen Beetle. ........ You don’t see them much anymore.
Just once in a while an antique collector takes one out for a spin. But, they were very popular with young people when I was young.”
Coulter covered Cy’s pause with her own comment, and said; “Oh yeah. I remember. They were great little cars. They didn’t cost much and you could leave them parked for months; and with one turn of the key they’d start right up. Wonder why they disappeared.”
Cy said; “I’m not sure. But, I think they started to disappear when they started to bring in all that Japanese stuff. My dream kind of ended there. I was still uninterestedly fumbling around a bit with my parent’s stuff when I woke up. It was time to get up but I wanted to go back to sleep and continue this dream. I got half my wish as I got back to sleep and I dreamed that I was in my old high school walking through the halls at a class
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break. I was alone, which was weird, but I knew that if I kept on going through the connecting bridge to the adjoining building that Linda would be there and that everything would be all right. Then I woke up again. My high school had four buildings.
The two that were used for the college preparatory courses were connected at the second of three floors by an enclosed ‘bridge’
from one to the other. You had to go outside to get to the other two buildings. One was for technical stuff like auto body shop and machine tool classes. And I don’t know what the fourth one was for. Might have never been in it. Probably was management and administration. I know that the Vice Principal had his office there. Nobody knew his real name. Everybody used to call him ‘The Axe,’ as it seemed that his only job was to come into the class and get students out when they were suspended. A fat bureaucrat enforcer. Can you picture that? .......... I’m exhausted. Let me just sit here quietly for a while.”
Coulter registered no objection as she too was feeling more than a bit tired.
Dia de los Muertos - The Year of the Knee Dia de los Muertos - Easter Island – Sunday and Monday
– November 1st and 2nd – The Year of the Knee
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A Brief History of Easter Island
Easter Island A/K/A Rapa Nui and Isla de Pascua (Easter in Spanish) is an island in the southeastern Pacific Ocean, at the southeastern-most point of the Polynesian Triangle in Oceania known for its remote beauty and excellent climate.
The island is most famous for its nearly 1,000 monumental statues, called moai, which were originally created by the early people to commemorate their ancestors.
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Later stoneworkers depicted not only their ancestors; but also their invaders. The latter sculptures were much more dark, flat-faced, and difficult to distinguish from one another.
Easter Island was first settled by a two canoe expedition of four white Irish emigres. The island was scouted after Princess Kelly had dreamed of such a far off country, which prompted Prince Shane to deem it a worthwhile place to flee from a neighboring chief; one to whom he had already lost two small fortunes through giving in to well fabricated hard luck stories.
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Also in canoe attendance was their friends; Francis and Eugenie (Jeannie).
At their time of Tetrad’s arrival, the island had one lone inhabitant; Nga Tavake 'a Te Rona (Rona). She primarily kept to herself, but when engaged spoke rather ramblingly and disjointedly about her lost tribe who came from the sky, leaving her here. She exhibited her four moai to the newcomers, and showed them how she had made them. Only one depiction, a tinted wood etching, of Rona is known to exist.
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After a brief stay on the beach, the Tetrads settled in different parts of the island and proliferated. Some contend that Rona was an integral part of this process. According to oral traditions recorded by missionaries in the 1860s, the island originally had a strong class system. A High Chief wielded great power over other clans and their respective Chiefs. The High Chief was the eldest descendant through first-born lines of the island's Tetrad “founders.” The most currently visible element of the culture was the production of massive moai statues that represented deified ancestors. Most scholars suspect that “the moai were created to honor ancestors, chiefs, or other important personages, that suspicion not a great leap of faith. However, no written and scant little oral history exists on the current island, so it’s impossible to be certain.”
Agrarian sustenance, peace, and prosperity prevailed. The Tetrad/Rona decendent population reached 15,000 by the early 16th century, though by 1662, about 99.9% of the population perished or emigrated, after the arrival of Interloper Cortez’
Moore/Berber expedition and their subsequent followers to the
“Easy Land of Plenty.” The island’s original Tetrad/Rona descended inhabitants were victimized by blackbirding, resulting in abductions or killings, with 1,500 working locally as
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indentured servants to the increasingly growing and demanding
“Schvatsa Drek,” of which dark moai were fashioned by decree.
Undisturbed after their field time by their lazy, Moore, violent leeches, and after making canoes in their native huts, off to the sea in ships they went, looking for a place where the Gods had not dumped criminal, devil burdens. After six months of wondering where everyone went, the Schvatsa Drek – Moore/Berbers too left. Unable and/or unwilling to farm, they sought a place where they could force others to do it for them.
Easter Island was thereafter devoid of inhabitants. Or was it?
Statue toppling, huri mo'ai, commenced. This is best explained by it being an attempt by competing groups to destroy the socio-spiritual power, or mana, represented by statues, making sure to break them in the fall to ensure they were dead and without power. None were left standing by the time of the arrival of the French missionaries in the 1860s.
It was believed that the living had a symbiotic relationship with the dead in which the dead provided everything that the living needed; health, fertility of land and animals, fortune; and the living, through offerings, provided the dead with a better place in the spirit world. Most settlements were located on the coast, and most moai were erected along the coastline,
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watching over their descendants in the settlements, with their backs toward the evil spirit world in the sea.
Extinction of multiple plant species was accomplished by African rats, which had stowed away on arriving ships. This cat sized sort of rat moves in groups of dozens only, and undermines the reproduction of any vegetation. If kept to smaller groupings, their bravery markedly diminishes, resulting in impounded, anti-social, familial, cannibalistic activities, until the last one dies of sequestered starvation.
Easter Island is one of the world's most isolated inhabited islands. Its closest inhabited neighbors are the Chilean Juan Fernandez Islands, 1,150 miles to the east, with approximately 850 inhabitants. The location exposes it to winds which help to keep the temperature fairly cool. Precipitation averages 44
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inches per year. There is significant temperature moderation due to its isolated position in the middle of the ocean.
The Rapa Nui Palm trees were once dominant on Easter Island. It took them close to one hundred years to reach adult height. The African rat, which the “Schvatsa Drek” had brought with them, played an integral role in its disappearance, just as they played a major role in the degradation of the forest in general.
The clearance of the palms led to their extinction three hundred years ago. The toromiro tree (Sophora toromiro) was prehistorically present on Easter Island, but is now extinct in the wild. The Royal Botanic Garden is leading a program to reintroduce the toromiro to Easter Island. With the Rapa Nui
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Palm and the toromiro virtually gone, there is considerably less rainfall as a result of less condensation.
Before the arrival of humans, Easter Island had vast seabird colonies containing more than thirty resident species, perhaps the world's richest. Such colonies are no longer found on the island. Fossil evidence indicates six species of land birds; two rails, two parrots, one owl, and one heron; all of which have become extinct.
Independence Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo Independence Day – Monday – July 4th – The Year of the Gripe Echo - American Pie
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Old pickup truck in the desert and “American Pie” by Don McLean; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
Easter Sunday – The Year of the Annunciation Easter Sunday – March 27th – The Year of the Annunciation – Corrales, New Mexico
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Sleeping at home, for the first time Cyrus dreamed of the houseboat, stocked with his lost books, music, furnishings, and little gone friends. It was poetic; and despite that uplifting.
“The Angel” by William Blake
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!
And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.
So he took his wings, and fled;
Then the morn blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten-thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.
William Wordsworth
“Daffodils”, or “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
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When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
The Lucy Poems
Lucy I
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover’s ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved look’d every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reach’d the orchard-plot;
And, as we climb’d the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot
Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
In Nature’s gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
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My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopp’d:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropp’d.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover’s head!
‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried,
‘If Lucy should be dead!’
Lucy II
He dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
Lucy III
Travell’d among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
‘Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among the mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherish’d turn’d her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings show’d, thy nights conceal’d,
The bowers where Lucy play’d;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy’s eyes survey’d.
Lucy IV
Three years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower
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On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
‘Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
‘She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
‘The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form
By silent sympathy.
‘The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
‘And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.’
Thus Nature spake — The work was done —
How soon my Lucy’s race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
Lucy V
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seem’d a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
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No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
“Expostulation and Reply”
“Why William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
“Where are your books? that light bequeath’d
To beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath’d
From dead men to their kind.
You look round on your mother earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!”
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply.
“The eye it cannot choose but see,
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where’er they be,
Against, or with our will.
“Nor less I deem that there are powers,
Which of themselves our minds impress,
That we can feed this mind of ours,
In a wise passiveness.
“Think you, mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
“—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away.”
“The Tables Turned; An Evening Scene, on the Same Subject”
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you’ll grow double.
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The sun above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow,
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife,
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music; on my life
There’s more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man;
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things;
—We murder to dissect.
Enough of science and of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
‘Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.’
Hart-Leap Well
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley moor
With the slow motion of a summers cloud;
He turn’d aside towards a Vassal’s door,
And, “Bring another Horse!” he cried aloud.
“Another Horse!”—That shout the Vassal heard,
And saddled his best steed, a comely Grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser’s eyes;
The horse and horsemen are a happy pair;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
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There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter’s Hall,
That as they gallop’d made the echoes roar;
But horse and man are vanish’d, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Brach, Swift and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and weary up the mountain strain.
The Knight halloo’d, he chid and cheered them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eye-sight fail, and, one by one,
The dogs are stretch’d among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the chase?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
—This race it looks not like an earthly race;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he lean’d against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither smack’d his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gaz’d upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean’d
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean’d,
And foaming like a mountain cataract.
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch’d:
His nose half-touch’d a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch’d
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
Was never man in such a joyful case,
Sir Walter walk’d all round, north, south and west,
And gaz’d, and gaz’d upon that darling place.
And turning up the hill, it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found
Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast
Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, “Till now
Such sight was never seen by living eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
I’ll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small Arbour, made for rural joy;
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‘Twill be the traveller’s shed, the pilgrim’s cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
A cunning Artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell;
And they, who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well.
And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be rais’d;
Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have graz’d.
And in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour,
And with the dancers, and the minstrel’s song,
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;
—The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure.”
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
With breathless nostrils stretch’d above the spring.
And soon the Knight perform’d what he had said,
The fame whereof through many a land did ring.
Ere thrice the moon into her port bad steer’d,
A cup of stone receiv’d the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear’d,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwin’d,
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter journey’d with his paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel’s song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.