Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Tidbits (Quotes In Aspic)

"Either I've been missing something or nothing has been going on." — Karen Elizabeth Gordon

"Nothing is impossible for the man who doesn't have to do it himself." — A. H. Weiler

"Middle age is when you've met so many people that every new person you meet reminds you of someone else." — Ogden Nash

Monday, August 29, 2005

A Beautiful Poem Stolen From Loren’s Site

[I’m not exactly back to blogging, but I couldn’t let this one pass.]

At In A Dark Time Loren has a wonderful short article about the poet Mary Oliver and features this poem. I’d never heard of her, but that doesn’t matter. An English teacher friend has since informed me it's one of her favorite poets, so I guess I wasn't awake. Anyway, if Loren can steal it, so can I, therefore I’m printing the poem below to inflict on all I know! Most of you who have ever liked poetry will probably like this one! It’s really fine.


It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves -
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness -
and that's when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree -
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing -
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky - all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then - open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Shutting Down For A While

I’ve been sick and may continue to be so for a while. It seems like forever to me, but in fact has been but a few days. There’s nothing funny about it and so it isn’t very good fodder for my kind of blog post. Anyway, I can’t focus or concentrate on writing until I’ve had more tests and more medicine. You’ll have to forgive me if I say that I’m too sick and too depressed to give a damn about anyone or anything but myself, and I don’t even like me.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005


I will probably not be writing for a few days more. Maybe not until next week.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Read Me, Read Me (Blarg, Blarg, Blarg!)

I sometimes wonder how many of you read my blog every day (approximately, anyway). And then I wonder how many read it two or three times a week. If the latter, do you “catch up” with as much as possible or do you skim and select the most interesting to actually real? If you’re reluctant to answer directly, claim that you have “this friend” who does this or that and likes it that way. I don’t mind an evasion—you can make up the person, just not the behavior. (What the hell am I talking about? Except for Rhodent and L, I doubt any of you personally know someone else who reads all this blarg.)

Oh, er, if you’re curious, I read most of my favorites every day and seldom miss a day. I’ve got a stick up my ass about it, I guess. Not that that’s good for me, I guess.

With a Little Help from My Friends

A little help from my friends
What would you think if I sang out of tune,
Would you stand up and walk out on me.
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song,
And I’ll try not to sing out of key.
I get by with a little help from my friends,
I get high with a little help from my friends,
Going to try with a little help from my friends.
What do I do when my love is away.
(does it worry you to be alone)
How do I feel by the end of the day
(are you sad because you’re on your own)
No I get by with a little help from my friends,
Do you need anybody,
I need somebody to love.
Could it be anybody
I want somebody to love.
Would you believe in a love at first sight,
Yes I’m certain that it happens all the time.
What do you see when you turn out the light,
I can’t tell you, but I know it’s mine.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
Do you need anybody,
I just need someone to love,
Could it be anybody,
I want somebody to love.
I get by with a little help from my friends,
Yes I get by with a little help from my friends,
With a little help from my friends.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Paint It Black

by the Rolling Stones

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens ev’ry day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facin’ up when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the settin’ sun
My love will laugh with me before the mornin’ comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
Hmm, hmm, hmm,...
I wanna see it painted, painted black
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Other People’s Vomit

The Car Cleanup

You’ve heard me mention my cousin JW, who lives near me. He and I are cousins on my mother’s side. He has another cousin on his mother’s side called JP. Back when we were in high school, JP and I sometimes worked at our uncle’s (JW’s dad) service station, though usually not at the same time—the station wasn’t that busy. But because of that connection, an opportunity came along to work together at a gas station which the franchisee had abandoned but which the company wanted to keep open. I don’t remember why. We ran the place without adult supervision and JP handled the books.

I do remember, though, that two guys came in and dropped off a car to be cleaned up. JP made a deal to wash and deodorize the puked-in car for about three times the regular price. He didn’t charge enough, though. That son of a bitch car had to be deodorized first just to be able to approach it and start cleaning. We sluiced and scrubbed and wiped 2 or 3 times, then deodorized again. Yes, we did use mops and a high-pressure water hose to the extent that it was feasible, but eventually we had to climb into the car. As far as I’m concerned, we wuz robbed and mistreated!

I never could imagine why the two guys had barfed in their nice car and rolled around in it to that extent. Why hadn’t they rolled out in the dirt instead of soaking the carpet and upholstery? You don’t have to clean up dirt—at any rate, nothing a shovel couldn’t handle, as if you were burying the dead. They left the car with us for half a day, and that’s about how long it took the two of us to clean it, in between the regular business of the gas station. The twenty bucks or so we got at the time was a lot, but not nearly enough! Be careful what you agree to, there may be a lot more vomit than you know.

It's Saturday
And I don't care
If I do die, do die, do die!

Friday, August 19, 2005

A Few Vulgarities by Randy Newman


Last night I saw Lester Maddox on a TV show
With some smart-ass New York Jew
And the Jew laughed at Lester Maddox
And the audience laughed at Lester Maddox too
Well, he may be a fool but he's our fool
If they think they're better than him they're wrong
So I went to the park and I took some paper along
And that's where I made this song

We talk real funny down here
We drink too much and we laugh too loud
We're too dumb to make it in no Northern town
And we're keepin' the niggers down
We got no-necked oilmen from Texas
And good ol' boys from Tennessee
And college men from LSU
Went in dumb - come out dumb too
Hustlin' 'round Atlanta in their alligator shoes
Gettin' drunk every weekend at the barbecues
And they're keepin' the niggers down

We're rednecks, rednecks
And we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground
We're rednecks, we're rednecks
And we're keeping the niggers down

Now your northern nigger's a Negro
You see he's got his dignity
Down here we're too ignorant to realize
That the North has set the nigger free
Yes he's free to be put in a cage
In Harlem in New York City
And he's free to be put in a cage in the South-Side of Chicago
And the West-Side
And he's free to be put in a cage in Hough in Cleveland
And he's free to be put in a cage in East St. Louis
And he's free to be put in a cage in Fillmore in San Francisco
And he's free to be put in a cage in Roxbury in Boston
They're gatherin' 'em up from miles around
Keepin' the niggers down

We're rednecks, we're rednecks
We don't know our ass from a hole in the ground
We're rednecks, we're rednecks
And we're keeping the niggers down
We are keeping the niggers down

Another song from the Newman album, "Good Old Boys"

Thursday, August 18, 2005


"There is no passion in the world greater than the passion to alter someone else's draft." — H.G. Wells

"The passion for setting people right is in itself an afflictive disease." — Marianne Moore, American Poet

Stats About New Blog Posts

Check this info, you only need to peruse it.
This is post #485 on my blog today.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Get Out Of My Way, I’m Inspired!

Because God is on my side, because God sent me here (me above all others), because God gave me this land and gave me all permissions, I am at liberty to kill everyone in my own defense and even just for my religion. I am permitted to kill my enemies. I am permitted to kill my kin. I blow people up with bombs. I throw acid in the face of soldiers in my own country’s service. If my leaders oppose the secret desires of God, I strike them down. I kick, scream, scratch, and bellow like a sick cow. Nothing in me yields to the powers that oppose my God and God is always on my side and there is always someone in contention with God. I never have to give up my violent opposition. I am permitted to kill your baby and to kill my baby in order to support the God who supports me. I am a fierce true believer, believing in God and believing in me, but believing even more in your evil. Because I was sent by God and yet some like you fail to recognize that fact, I must oppose and obliterate the evil ones, no matter who they are. When I’m not fighting Satan, I’m fighting people of other races and people of other Parties who have embraced Satan. You’d be amazed how damn hard it is to please or get along with me, considering the propaganda you might hear elsewhere about my eternal loving God.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Randy Newman Lyrics


Yes, baby, I been drinkin'
And I shouldn't come by I know
But I found myself in trouble, darlin'
And I had nowhere else to go
Got some whisky from the barman
Got some cocaine from a friend
I just had to keep on movin'
Til I was back in your arms again
I'm guilty, baby I'm guilty
And I'll be guilty all the rest of my life
How come I never do what I'm supposed to do
How come nothin' that I try to do ever turns out right?
You know, you know how it is with me baby
You know, you know I just can't stand myself
And it takes a whole lot of medicine
For me to pretend that I'm somebody else.

[From the Randy Newman album, "Good Old Boys".]

Monday, August 15, 2005

I Don't Seem

I don't seem to be here today. Not all here, anyway.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Visiting Cassie

Cassie And Kathryn In The Bedroom

I heard the women say, “I love you,” as they disappeared into the master bedroom, and, after that, repeatedly, if only in imagination, I heard the sound of soft wet kisses. They weren’t too far away, just a door or two away while I took a bath and meditated—I was hip, but I wasn’t normally this hip. Jesus, how hip was I supposed to be under these circumstances? I wasn’t certain.

I was being a “nice guy”, I thought, while I tried not paying them any mind. But when the bath water wasn’t running it was hard to ignore them, hard to pretend. I heard just enough; their laughter as they opened and shut the closet door made me wince. I had no excuse for acting jealous; Cassie was just an old friend by now. Well, but of course it was jealousy; it just wasn’t sexual.

Her husband was playing basketball somewhere until two, I was told. A proper fool, but no worse than me, an unwilling witness and co-conspirator. I knew what they planned to do. They wanted to touch, as we all do. They hadn't been able to spend any time alone together. Cassie's in-laws had been in town all last week, and now I was in the way this week, So I had to hold my water, dawdle in the tub, mislead myself, and let them play as they will. When it was over, I blocked it all out, though I knew it was factually true. I remember it as if it had importance, though hundreds of things have since happened to Cassie and to me. The past should be buried deep, but it isn’t always…

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Mark Twain and Dorothy Parker Quotes

"Good breeding consists of concealing how much we think of ourselves and how little we think of the other person." — Mark Twain

"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to." — Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)

Friday, August 12, 2005

Good Heavens!

"When I gave food to the poor, they called me a saint. When I asked why the poor were hungry, they called me a communist." — Dom Helder Camara, Brazilian Bishop, Nobel Peace Prize nominee

About prostitutes: "...The Lord is not here to tot up unfortunate sisters’ sins. They are the victims. We churchmen frequently make too much of women's sins and sexual sins in general as if sexual sins were graver than sins against compassion. Good Heavens!" — Dom Helder Camara

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Burning-Barrel Ashes

Sometimes, like now, I end up with a barrel full of mud. You may have heard me refer at times to the “burning barrel” in the back yard, in which leaves, pine straw, pinecones, and limbs go up in smoke until the ash grows thick. Then I ease the barrel over and shovel out its contents (mostly ash) and give it to the garbage truck. This usually works nicely, except times like this, when rain occurs several times during the time I’d planned to get the barrel dry, only the barrel never quite dries!

So I have a barrel with a sort of multi-layer built up in it, with dry and wet levels of matter, some materials burnt to ash and other places only black. Not to mention that once shoveled into a black plastic bag, this crap is quite heavy. This time around is the worst I’ve ever done; I really shouldn’t have loaded so much weight! The garbage crew may hate me, I always think. Worse, they may refuse to remove what may seem to them to have a couple of dead bodies in it!

But, for now, I’m going to not think too much about it. I’m going to rely on the fact that most men, especially young working men, are stronger than I am and may pick up the heavy bag with one arm and say nothing more than “damn” about it as they sling it into the truck and go on their merry way down the street.

"Now and then an innocent man is sent to the legislature." — Kin Hubbard

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Backyard Bird List

1. blue jay
2. bluebird, eastern
3. cardinal
4. catbird, gray
5. chickadee
6. crow
7. flicker
8. grackle
9. hummingbird
10. mockingbird
11. robin
12. sparrow, house
13. titmouse
14. vulture, turkey
15. woodpecker, downy
16. woodpecker, pileated
17. woodpecker, red-bellied
18. wren, Carolina

The fact that I never go to the beach or pass through a town near the beach should explain to you much of the lack of variety in my list. I could, but I don't. I've also become a very lazy birdwatcher; I'm sure some good ones nest in my trees at times that I'm too comfortable in the air-conditioning to see anything!

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

More Holes

Good God, I’ve got another hole in another section of the well hose! Almost as good as a hole in the head. More digging, unless I don’t fix it at all.

I’m inclined to get enraged and not attempt to fix the hose, but since the hole is nowhere near the other one, I’m not sure what I should do. There might be no other leaks that spring forth for a long while, never can tell. So I’m just letting it slide for now, even though I’ve sworn that it’s gone too far, the system’s too old, I can’t stand to work on it again, and so forth. Really, I don’t know.

The other time took a long time to repair because I’m a fool; also, I exxagerated it a little, trying to get every drop of humor out of the situation. It’s too depressing this time around. I’ll think about it all for a while before I jump in the river again. Or maybe I’ll actually jump in the river.

"I have long been of the opinion that if work were such a splendid thing the rich would have kept more of it for themselves." — Bruce Grocott

Monday, August 08, 2005

Help Find Alisa's Missing Father

I've added a link in the sidebar today to a "Missing Person" listing. Fellow blogger Alisa, who writes at "Random Postings" (one of the links in my sidebar among my "Intelligent Blogs", is worried about her father and has asked for everybody's help. Just click on the sidebar link and glance at the photos. It's a slim chance, perhaps, but it'll only take a couple of seconds of your time.

New Silver Flashlight

It’s been a few weeks now, but I replaced my old black pocket flashlight and it is very enjoyable. Both are Mini Maglites, the same size, all the same, just different colors. But the new silver one is so fine! I guess after 15-plus years, I may not recall what the old one was like when it was new, but the new one sure is superior now! It turns on so easily; it’s a wonderful thing. The old one still turns on brightly, but it’s more work. I guess when things get old in daily service after years and years, it’s just been too gradual for us to realize how “bad” old things really are! This new one is like being Reborn!

My only gripe about the new one is this: that the first mini Maglite I ever owned came with a very handy pocket clip. If you’ve never seen one, it’s a sort of larger version of the pencil clips you see sometimes that secures a pencil to your shirt pocket or pocket protector. Evidently they were not popular in the flashlight world, for this is my third mini Maglite, but I’m still using the same pocket clip I started out with. The clip isn’t rusty, so I guess it was high quality and may last me the life of this third flashlight or the rest of my life, whichever ends first.

The Maglite comes these days with a fabric holder that straps to one’s belt. That’s not a bad idea; I’d use it if that’s all I had. But I tell you and I tell the stupid company, the clip works as well and better.

In passing let me mention that I recently bought new rechargeable batteries for the flashlight, so I can’t testify to their longevity, but in my previous experience the batteries lasted so long that by the time they couldn’t charge any more, I couldn’t remember when I’d bought them or the flashlight! I’m sure there’s other great flashlights in this world, but this is a great one at its small and convenient size. If you’re a cop, firefighter, or other emergency worker, you might need more light, but the mini is pretty good for us civilians. And the price, of course, is right for a tightwad like me—less than $10, with regular batteries. I already owned 2 chargers, so the only extra cost was the rechargeable batteries. You may think I make too much of it, but if they last as well as the previous setup did, I may never have a chance to talk about it again!

Saturday, August 06, 2005

A Poem In The Dark

In The Dark

Now you've traveled along alone so far,
No heartfelt human voice to hear except your own
Or else some dim recall caught briefly on the march
Where some spoke soft and some with starch,
Forestalling for a time this dogged trouble with your heart.

The cops, the doctors, must have known or sensed
Some awful bloody offness in the memories you've made
Of voices that cry behind you in past tense
Or whisper faintly from inside—
How must they have despised all that your speech must hide!

You speak to no one in the end,
Hearing women's voices weakly in your head
That used to spark the hardness even of your self-brazed heart.
You've traveled alone a long time now and far,
No semblance of a voice beside you in the dark,
Unless you count the chaos, and the chaos seldom counts.

Count the stars instead, so far away, apart,
And what a long way now would it not go
Toward being home at last
If only someone in the dark had said—but what? Said what?
Time is so far along and all except your art is at heart's end
At last, where all that human voices ever said is soon forgot.


8th draft: 09/27/04
©2001 Ronald C. Southern

Friday, August 05, 2005

Robert Browning

My Last Duchess


That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace — all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked
Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Hopkins Poem About Christ

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is—
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Even without completely understanding it, I have always found something interesting about Christ and Beauty and other immutables in this poem to be immediately apparent and very vivid. It's like a song whose words you may not yet comprehend, but the music's not hard to hear. Hopkins is one of my favorite poets because he made such music often and I seldom can.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Another Damn Not-Love Poem

What Love Is

What was love
if not this pulse that skipped
when she came in the room?

What was love
if not life's energy spent
to make a single moment be still,
be very still?

"What will love be," she asked,
"when time counts our moment out?"
"Best friends," I answered.
"Best friends," without a pause or doubt!

"What would love be," I laughed,
"if we should prove no better than
the lovers of the past?" All this I said,
not thinking what a shroud my love would turn to,
what a shadow love would cast.

"What must love be," now I would ask,
"that tired feet or the price of meat
can so easily confound it,
so easily rebound it?"


5th draft: 07/28/05
©1980 Ronald C. Southern

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

How Can He Be Dead?

Christopher Reeves And Dogger Gatsby

[From typewriter pages inserted in one of Dogger Gatsby’s Notebooks, written before Reeves’ death.]

Dear Sallye:

When the now-defunct Superman — I mean the paralyzed actor Christopher Reeves — was interviewed on TV, Larry King asked him about his sex life and his desire to have another child. Frankly, I was horrified that one of these phonies (the Entertainment Journalists) had asked, but since Reeves seemed eager to answer it, I listened with interest. He said that, though he lacked movement, his “autonomic” responses were intact and that there would be no problem. This was taken by the interviewer as great news, although I found that I only partially understood the explanation. It sounded to me like he was saying, not that he had good sensation there, but that, if stimulated, his penis was capable of performing the ejaculatory act without him. That is excellent news for a man who wants to father a baby, but I caught a hint that it may be a rather dispassionate kind of good news. Only another distant echo of sensation, like a back or leg massage, to the paralyzed man—it isn't fully dead, but it isn't sensitive to life, either. What kind of life was that?

I empathized with Reeves, not on specific grounds, but on the general principle that there’s a paralysis of another sort that besets men, and I thought the description given of his genital dysfunction echoed that of others, even though his is worse. One hears many older men echo it. The sensation is distant, the performance poor, the results minimal. Yet even with the rewards reduced, most men are bound to keep proving it's still there. The forward drive of the sexual engine in them is as rampant, if not as efficacious, as that of a nineteen-year-old, I guess (and despite the dilapidated condition of the transmission)! It may take more time, more effort, more fantasy, more twisting nerve-endings of reality, to achieve increasingly less, but the interest seldom lessens.

And anything will do, for life always yearns to go on and almost always attempts it. Some men have dulled sensation because of prostate trouble or other physical conditions, some may simply have had no one to share any sensation with. Older men may proliferate, but they do not necessarily prosper. As women know, men are often stubborn about going to doctors. And medicines administered to help one thing can sometimes fuck you up for another, so it's an endless battle getting squelched by a world that you would rather kiss, embrace, or fuck. Having no one to share it with, having nothing but distress to share, may be involved only as some sort of rationalization against bothering to seek help. How can the old Dogger know all this? Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? It is hardly the only form of malfunction that I or my friends suffer from.

Maybe I've said something to you along these lines before. I always walk around the edges of all true confessions, even when I only think them. And why do I say it to you? You are the most sympathetic person I know, but you have also always seemed to me to be one of the least erotically based people I know, too. Now that I've read that last sentence a couple of times, I realize that I've answered my own question. Both of those qualities make you the safest person to tell, don't they? I am sorry if my comments seem intrusive or my confidences extreme or vulgar. I might as well say that I'm sorry to be so cold, hadn't I? Yet in my silent trepidation, I am far from cold. I give people the wrong things to respond to most of the time, and don't know why. As I age I find it harder and harder to cry out, perhaps because I’ve done it before and to no avail. I hardly remember the last time I was very confiding. I’ve come to see that one should not do it, no matter than my helpless nature may still wish to. And the others? I understand; sometimes it’s just as embarrassing to be around a weak person when they cry for help as just to be that person. I am dizzy and can sometimes hardly walk straight, much less rut. I don’t think this can go on long, old friend. I know that you will weep for me, if so.

Dogger G.

[When I sent the original of these notes to their intended recipient, she wrote back and said, "I did weep, and I weep even now, seeing his terrrible words. But what can one do when one has already missed the chance. What can one do when it didn't make sense then and still doesn't? I can’t pull him back, nor can you! Things happen. Oh God damn it, how can we be alive and he be dead?"

Monday, August 01, 2005

Mr. President, Please Note

To have a right to do a thing is not at all the same as to be right in doing it. G. K. Chesterton (1874 - 1936)

The Beatles [White Album] (1968)

Dear Prudence

Dear Prudence won't you come out to play
Dear Prudence greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It's beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence won't you come out to play?

Dear Prudence open up your eyes
Dear Prudence see the sunny skies
The wind is low the birds will sing
That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence won't you open up your eyes?

Look around round
Look around round round
Look around

Dear Prudence let me see you smile
Dear Prudence like a little child
The clouds will be a daisy chain
So let me see you smile again
Dear Prudence won't you let me see you smile?

Dear Prudence won't you come out to play
Dear Prudence greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It's beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence won't you come out to play?

See this site to hear the tune.