Christmas approaches, and
Came there one who was
Absolutely angelic,
bearing
Gracious gifts
that were
Fantastically favorable
and
Deliciously delectable;
Most important was the
Congenial company!
I am
Greatly grateful …
with awkward phraseology, but
Sincerest sentiments!!!
Merriest Holidays
and
Happiest future
to you from
Mickey
There's a lot of regrets in my awareness —
“Things I did I shoulda didn't;
And things I didn't do I shoulda dood!”
I am occasionally tempted to list them … but good judgment dictates that I do not.
First, it would be such a daunting task …
“continuous as the stars that shine … in a never ending line ...”
(like unto daffodils.)
Second — and perhaps more dissuasive — is that, although I steadfastly maintain that I am not clinically depressed, I am yet given to bouts of sadness, upon reflection of my relationships with those dear ones long gone . . .
Significant is that in the years beginning in 2000 I resisted the urge — the urgent need — to go to California to visit my parents.
I was fighting an agonizing array of personal difficulties, having just walked out on my fifth marriage, agonizing over my perceived worth — or lack thereof — uncertain of any destination, unable to coherently plot a course — I continued to think that there was time — would be enough time — I'd get around to it …
But there was not enough time. Almost suddenly, “before I knew it,” they were both gone.
And I can't undo it ...
She closed her blog with the question:
"What does Christmas mean to you?"
Thought provoking. Prompting a flying investigation through memories of many, over years and years . . .
Impossible to summarize them — but one in particular emerges:
I remember a Christmas — about 1974 — Mom and Pop drove to Victoria from San Antone — Christmas morning, there was much unwrapping and opening of presents, from each to everyone. Through it all my dog Prissy sat Sphinx-like, watching silently and intently.
When
all the “people” presents were dispensed, I took the one
remaining wrapped gift from under the tree and presented it to
Prissy. Without hesitation, and demonstrating absolute, complete
understanding, she unwrapped it and took possession of her gift —
a toy for her pleasure. When she had the gift securely “in hand”
she turned to gaze into my eyes, and silently said “Thank You.”
We mere humans sat in rapt amazement at her behavior — waiting so
patiently for her turn, then proceeding so expertly.
I miss that dog..
Good memories warm my soul as I wade, midway, through my ninth decade. I
expect to live to a ripe old age — purely because of the old adage, oft repeated
among fishermen — that the time spent fishing does not count against your
allocated life span.
In August 2014 I left Utah and drove back to Victoria. Once there it took me several months to move into and furnish a house ( I had returned with all my worldly possessions in the back of my truck ...)
In December I decided to treat myself. On my birthday I drove to Galveston. First thing I did was drive around to view the many significant locations — houses where I had lived, schools I attended. Some no longer there.
Then I had lunch at Gaidos. Walked on the beach. Drove from one end to the other of Seawall Boulevard. Stopped at 39th Street, got out of my truck to sit on the seawall ... and … remember.
Late afternoon saw me homeward …
That brief visit remains in my memory with all my other Galveston history.
Lately I have found myself fantasizing of a return to Galveston — to live there, even perhaps in one of the houses I lived in … and then stark reality reminds me that the town I remember from the 1940s is no more.
Significant is my reaction — I am reminded of Thomas Wolfe's oft quoted “You can't go home again . . . “
“If you try to return to a place from your past it won't be the same as it was.”
So I must reorient myself, to look forward, to face the future … moving on.
Ships that pass in the night: Two people who encounter one another in a transitory,incidental manner, and whose relationship is without significance.
My mind wanders — randomly accessing memories of recent or long ago incidents of varying significance. Triggered by a song playing in the background of my daily existence, or a casual glance at a picture on my wall. Or even without any identifiable trigger. Just happens. Some few recur, without obvious meaning. One of these is my memory of a canary.
Not the bird in a cage — but the singer with the band.
She was a classical beauty. Think Eleanor Parker, the Baroness in Sound of Music. Poised. Blonde. Gorgeous. With a voice that reminded me of Linda Ronstadt. She was the singer with the band that regularly played at the dances we attended at the Country Club
In my ten years with Ann we attended many dances. She had helped me learn how to dance. And dance we could — and did. Thanks to Ann I had quite a reputation as a good dancer.
At a dance at the Country Club at some vaguely unplaceable time (probably about 2008 plus or minus a year or two), Ann wandered away from me to go dance with somebody else. As she was walking away from our table she indicated a woman who was sitting alone at a table at the end of the dance floor, and told me to “go dance with that lady.”
That lady was the singer with the band.
Being the obedient, devoted slave to most of Ann's wishes, I walked to that lady's table. I would not have even thought of asking her to dance, had it not been for Ann's admonition. The woman was beautiful. And I had not — (still haven 't) outgrown my sense of being terribly intimidated by an attractive female.
But approach her I did. I extended my hand — “May I have the honor?”
Without comment she arose and walked with me into the milling cloud of dancers.
By this time in my progression from clumsy, “don't know how to dance,” I had migrated to the level of being rather adept. So much so the Ann's niece Barbara, who with husband Paul often accompanied us to dances, would admonish me:
“I don't want to dance with you if you're gonna do any of your fancy steps.”
So that in the dance with the canary I avoided any “fancy steps.” I simply slowly shuffled around the floor. She generously and competently followed me.
I attempted conversation. “Where did you learn to sing so beautifully?”
“All over Georgia.”
Mercifully, the song ended and I escorted her back to her lonely table.
My next awareness of her was at the last dance that I attended with Ann. Spring of 2012, at the Country Club. We sat at a table with Ann's sister and her boyfriend Gus. I learned from Gus that the name of the canary was Sue, and that she was a classically trained musician.
Ann and I, and several other couples filled one side of a table. I sat next to the dance floor.
Gus loved to sing. And he led us, all of us at our table, in a joyous rendition of “If I Loved You” from Carousel. The key that Gus selected placed it too high for me. And I didn't have the range to sing it down an octave. So I attempted a bass accompaniment. Struggling to imitate Nelson Eddy from Naughty Marietta, I was bouncing around from note to note, trying to fit into some kind of harmony.
The band was taking a break, and walking en masse toward restrooms and refreshments. As they walked past our table I heard the singer, Sue, say “Listen to that harmony!”
I mentally assessed the efforts of our singing group, and found that everyone else was singing the melody. Mine was the harmony of Sue's comment.
A few minutes later, as we were singing another song, the band returned from their break. Sue stopped, lagging behind, and stood facing me. Gazing directly into my eyes she sang a beautiful alto accompaniment to the song we were singing. I was stumbling through an improvised bass.
I was singing a duet with the beautiful band singer!
This insignificant moment in time comes frequently to mind. And I briefly fantasize a developing relationship with that beautiful stranger.
Ships in the night.
I find various philosophies regarding fascination with the past:
Past is experience, present is experiment, future is expectation.
Learn from the past, look to the future, but live in the present.
Accept your past without regrets; Handle your present with confidence; And face your future without fear.
But I will continue to reminisce.
Excerpts from news:
The husband of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, was attacked at the couple's San Francisco home with a hammer...
Police are searching for a Port Huron man accused of attacking a woman with a hammer
A York, S.C. grandmother is speaking out after an intruder attacked her with a hammer in her own home …
The incidents recounted above illustrate the urgent need for legislation to curtail crime by outlawing illegal hammers.
First, I would ask “Did the hammers have a handle longer than ten inches?”
Ten seems to be the magic number for proscriptions.
Nobody needs a hammer with a handle longer than ten inches. Such an item becomes a weapon that could continue to deliver deadly blows without repositioning. The capability to deliver repeated strikes with such a dangerous instrument clearly indicates the need for regulation. Such militaristic designs should be allowed only in the hands of professionals.
If the hammer is built with those dangerous claws that curve down in a threatening manner, it must be outlawed. Else society is in danger.
Brought to you by FOSSIL. (Friends of Safer Society by Illogical Legislation)
I HEAR THE HIGHWAY CALLING ME WHILE SOFT WINDS RULE THE NIGHT;
THE ASPHALT'S WARM AND GENTLE, AND THE STARS AND MOON ARE LIGHT.
THE YELLOW STRIPES ALONG THE ROAD WOULD GUIDE ME TO THE WEST,
WHILE MORNING SUN ENCHANTS ME, AND SAYS THAT EAST IS BEST.
THE NORTHER BLOWS AND CHILLS THE LAND, ITS HARSH WINDS CALL ME FORTH.
THE CONCRETE'S COLD, FORLORN AND HARD IT LEADS ME TO THE NORTH.
THE FREEZING WIND BERATES THE CHOICE, AND BLOWS FROM WINTER'S MOUTH;
IT WHISTLES AND IT WHEEZES, AND IMPLORES ME TO GO SOUTH.
SPRINGTIME FLOWERS IGNITE THE ROADS, THEIR BLOOMS DELIGHT MY WAY.
WHILE SOME SAY GO, EXPLORE THE WORLD, THE OTHERS BEG ME STAY.
FOR I AM JUST A WANDERER, STILL YEARNING TO BE FREE.
BUT I'LL STAY HOME AND DREAM WITH YOU, IF YOU'LL STAY HOME WITH ME.
From this life of strife and pain.
Let me go, nor come again;
Glad did I toast, not drunk in vain __
Then
turned me down an empty glass,
— For my friend ..
Pour out MY glass, and speak this phrase :
"Spread here his ashes, let us gaze ....
Tho' scattered wide, it's near he lays.".
Then turn
for me an empty glass,
— for MY end ..
wmb 20201113
A SOFT BREEZE WANDERED THROUGH YOUR HAIR
AS WE ENJOYED THE EVENING SKY.
A SMILE LIT UP YOUR FACE SO FAIR
AND SPOKE OF LOVE THAT NE'ER WILL DIE.
I TAKE YOUR HAND AND YOU RESPOND
BY LEANING GENTLY INTO ME.
THE LOVE I FEEL IS FAR BEYOND
A MORTALS LOVE WAS MEANT TO BE.
IF ONLY MEN THROUGHOUT THE LAND
COULD KNOW THE LOVE YOU GIVE TO ME,
A HUNDRED MILLION MEN WOULD STAND
AND SAY, "MY LOVE, I'M GLAD TO BE."
When that weekend comes around
It’s for sure, that I’ll be down ...
“Cause the lonely life
It ain't no good life —
but it's my life.
Listen to Miss Ronstadt sing,
Hear the words, how sad they ring.
You pay attention, then you cry,
For the days all long gone by.
Ever’body’s rememb’rin’
Times that cain’t come agin…
Being ‘lone ’s not a happy life;
It’s all I got — an’ it’s my life.
I hear that life is just a dream —
I sometimes have to wake to scream,
A sad life … a lonely life ... but its’ my life.
Mickey Basden
2018
To all the girls I’ve loved before,
Who traveled in and out my door
…. I’m glad they came along …I dedicate this song …
To all the girls I loved before…..
… as sung by Willie Nelson
Whether I’m right – or whether I’m wrong
Whether I find a place in this world or never belong…
I Gotta be me …
What else can I be but what I am?
I want to live, not merely survive.
I won’t give up this dream of life that keeps me alive.
I Gotta be me …
The dream that I see makes me what I am.
I’ll go it alone – that’s how it must be.
I can’t be right for somebody else if I’m not right for me.
I gotta be free …
Daring to try, to do it or die ..
I gotta be me …
… as sung by Sammy Davis Jr
For what is man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has not.
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way!
Regrets, I’ve had a few -
But then again too few to mention …
I did what I had to do,
And saw it through without exemption
To think I’ve done all that
And may I say, not in a shy way -
I did it my way…
… as sung by Frank Sinatra
And all seem relevant to me !
"Ghostly, grinning aged Craven, mumbling distant tales of yore"
Once upon a midnight lonely
I sat here, and I had only
Books and television shows
To push away my nightly woes.
Oh, I must get rid of those.
Mine eyes grow dim — I can't use them
To read my books, so close at hand.
They'd ease my frantic brain's demand.
You know how blurred my vision is — I'm sure you understand.
A different way I'll surely find.
Distraction of another kind
To find surcease for Monkey Mind.
So in my desperate situation
I wander through each TV station.
News from every warring nation
Does not entertain ...
It tires my weary brain —
But who to call?
Old movies all — Along the wall
I've boxes filled with DVDs.
Old friends abide, stacked deep inside
Who'll rescue me by playing these:
John Wayne, Astaire and Bogart there;
And pretty girls to win their heart
Are waiting there to play their part.
Band Wagon. Stagecoach. Casablanca.;
Again I'll take from these their art.
They'll sing and dance, and share romance
That blooms and fades just like real life.
The good guy wins; the bad guy fails.
The hero always wins a wife.
John Wayne prevails in all his tales.
Astaire's quick shoes have magic life.
His partners dance as well as he'll —
And backwards, while they're wearing heels!
My raging brain dispels its pain;
Contentment once again will reign
Within my soul
Forevermore!
I pondered long to know what I may be;
I pierced Your veil; I even found the Key.
Now this I know: though You may e’er endure,
Soon surely there will be No More of Me!
If living here on Earth brings naught but pain;
If striving nets you aught, and never gain;
Be glad to quit this race so poorly run -
Why ever wish to Live your Life again?
Some sail, through life, a Ship of bitter pain; Some
Find peace in God; or Wine; or Woman’s love may come
To set them free from Earthly grief.
I choose first, Love;; last, God; else, Rum.
For God, if such there be, did surely sin
In making such as Me that can NOT win
A Race in which the Obstacles are set
To block the very Goals He chose to pen.1,
If I drink wine it is that It does well
To free me of my mindless fear of Hell;
All Hope of Hea'en drives from my Heart,
And leaves my mind a bless’dly empty Shell.
The Persian poet adjures “Heed not the Morrow;
Or Yesterday, departed hence in Sorrow.”
While Past is not redeemed by sad regret,
Unplanned ‘Morrows leave sad Yesterdays to borrow.
We may have a Year, or two – or ten
To share our new-found love, and then
We, too, must part, if living or if dead;
But all too soon comes unto us the end….
(Note that after exactly ten years, Ruth dismissed me ....)
MickeyBasden
Alice, Texas
July 2003
1 ...O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus? Hath not the potter power over the the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour? Romans 9:20-21
I read “How to Write a Poem” in a blog that I follow:
Only a fool waits for a poem to come to him.
You have to call for it like a proper blind date,
knocking on its door
and seeing beauty in whatever opens it.
Well, opinions are like elbows — ‘most ever’body’s got a couple.
I write when the muse inspires me.
I have yet to decide “I’m gonna write a poem “ — and then set about to write.
I write to respond to an unbidden urge to express a novel thought.
I write the words that flow... and only when I need a specific word to form a rhyme in the context of a particular concept, or a synonym to contain the thought in the construct of the evolving meter — only then do I search for words ...
My product is not the revelation of an unknown, or explanation of a mystery — it is ever a trip through aspects of my own existence.
So it has been also in my excursions into the arena of fiction — I transcribe the thoughts that are supplied to me ... by what, or whom? I have pondered, and cannot say. Some say that
"...automatic writing or psychography is a ... psychic ability allowing a person to produce written words without consciously writing. The words purportedly arise from a subconscious, spiritual or supernatural source."
That’s an interesting analysis — and I have no comment.
But to me it becomes no less than anathema to be challenged to write a poem based on a particular, supplied word.
I respect those who can pull this off -- and I enjoy reading their poems, My comments are only a description of my personal predilections, not a criticism of others -- most of them certainly more capable, and gifted with a talent that I will never have.
I was fearful when Texas made it legal for just about anyone to carry a gun.
There were speculations, by knowledgeable commentators, of increased gun violence — due to the expected proliferation of guns.
It's happening, just as predicted. Seems like every idiot who can get a gun is shooting at somebody.
Too many idiots with guns — I think they should be outlawed...
"For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling ..."
O'Shaughnessy's ODE
Today is October the 8th, 2022. I near my 86th birthday.
With a cup in hand, I take my folding chair to my “front porch” — actually the small area afront my apartment door, an extension from the sidewalk, toward my door, that is shielded from rain by a small roof.
There I ensconce myself, and sit to eagerly greet the morning sun. For it is a conquest of my fate to be so visited. Of those who shared my life here in Victoria during my ten years of living and working here, but a handful, to my awareness, remain.
"For each day is a day that is given,
And one that is gratefully ta'en.
Against the end of life so thrilling,
Nor worth a pence or shilling …"
wmb Oct 2022
I am rebuked by the neighbor's dogs, restrained by their leash, out and about for their morning stroll and evacuation. I am surveyed and assessed by the collection of six resident ducks, wandering from the shores of their pond. Deciding that I am more threat than promise, they retreat to the safety of their water.
A breeze, 65º. refreshing, mild, gently caresses my cheek. Spotty cloud cover partially obscures the sun. Its warmth is variable, but welcome and satisfying.
As was the coffee. The uncovered bottom inside my cup informs me that 'tis time . . . to repair to my recliner, and check the morning news. I despair of any but ongoing aggravation, contentiousness and threats in the headlines. But I must ...
It is a beautiful day!
I early learned to anticipate the arrival of Fall. The formal calendar date of the equinox means nothing to me. Rather I look forward to the first Norther. I will stand, facing and inhaling the cool dry air that has ridden from Canada just for my pleasure.
Soon I will hear the first high, distant cry of the first flight of geese. I feel a keen interest in the appearance of these mighty travelers. There is a fundamental reaction, a visceral response to something ancient in our lineage, an uplifting of the soul that needs no explanation to those who know it – and which cannot be explained to those who do not.
Northers come in flavors. Some tiptoe in gently, almost timid in the way they displace the humid South Texas heat with cool dry air that makes life bearable, and joyous. Others blast their way in like an unwelcome SWAT team breaking down a door. And unlike SWAT teams, which are monotonously black in their garb, Northers may wrap themselves in dark gray, angry clouds – or may adorn with delicate blue clear skies, decorated at times with high ice clouds that echo the sun.
The beauty of the changing seasons restores my soul.
WHY I WRITE
“Better to write for yourself and have no public,
than to write for the public and have no self.”
Cyril Connolly, critic and editor (1903-1974)
One man that I know decided he wanted to be a writer; therefore did he sit at his desk with paper and pen and try to think of something to write.
In contrast I felt that I had something to share, something to say, something to tell other people — and therefore did I take up pen and paper and proceed to write ...
Billy Mitchell, 2017
From the blog of my friend Debbie:
“... I think perhaps another reason, as all blog writers can relate to, is knowing that not many people are actually reading your posts. But then I look at old posts and realize that I'm really writing this for me.”
DH
“So long as I remain alive and well, I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the Earth, and to take pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information.”
George Orwell, "Why I Write"
The thing that drove him (Dickens) forward into a form of art for which he was not really suited was simply the fact that he was a moralist, the consciousness of ‘having something to say’. He is always preaching a sermon, and that is the final secret of his inventiveness. For you can only create if you can care.
George Orwell, "Charles Dickens" (1939)
When I arrived in Denver in the winter of 1964 I was asked “Do you ski?”
“Yeah – on melted snow!”
In 1955 I was enrolled in a Phys Ed class at Del Mar College in Corpus Christi.
Redickle-ous.
I enrolled in college to learn those arcane things that drive science and industry – and here I am in a PE class!
Oh, well — they didn’t ask me, and they were running things — so I complied with their absurd requirements.
The new highway from Portland to the Nueces Bay Causeway was built on a narrow elevated strip of sand dredged from a borrow pit between the newly constructed roadbed and the old Highway 35 — now named Sunset Drive.
The hole in the ground that was created was therefore long and narrow, and created what became known as Sunset Lake.
Its profile made it a natural for waterskiing Conveniently located, sheltered from the wind-driven waves in the bay, it was long enough for the tow boat to pull a skier at speed ...
My Del Mar PE class met at Sunset Lake, The first day found a group of about six of us, plus the instructor gathered at a serviceable wooden pier, where the instructor, arriving early, had tied up a sixteen foot outboard motor boat.
The class began with a lecture on water safety.
“Can all of you swim?”
General assent.
“Good. Then you know how to tread water.”
Sure
“Okay, then we’ll all go out to the middle of the lake, where it’s deepest, and you must all tread water for five minutes.”
Ferried to the center of the lake, we jumped out of the boat and faced the instructor, with her stopwatch.
I looked around at the others, and observed their efforts at keeping themselves afloat. The water was precisely six feet deep. I was six feet five inches tall.
I stood there, casually watching the instructor watching me, until the requisite time had passed.
Then, pronounced “safe”, we began our ski training.
In spite of our inexperience there was only one accident.
One of the girls got her tow rope wrapped around her ankle — and then fell off her skis.
Luckily, she was not injured.
But she did set a new record for the hundred yard douche.
What are all those things you display on the shelves and tables in your living room?
Whatnots, knickknacks, souvenirs, mementoes, keepsakes.
When my gaze settles on one of those “things” my mind wanders to the person, place or time of association.
A happy, sad recollection summons the memory of someone beloved but gone.
WHEN THE WIND's SO HARD THAT THE CRACKS IN THE OLD HOUSE MOAN
LIKE A TIRED OLD GHOST OF A LOVE LONG GONE,
MISERABLY WANDERING ALONE.
WE WILL SIT BEFORE THE FIRE, TOASTING MARSHMALLOWS OVER THE COALS.
HOT CHOCOLATE WARMS OUR BODIES AND SOULS;
POPCORN WAITS IN THE BOWLS.
WE WILL ALWAYS BE TOGETHER, FOREVER HUSBAND AND WIFE.
WALKING HAND IN HAND FOR THE REST OF OUR LIFE
THOUGH THE WORLD WITH PROBLEMS IS RIFE.
August 17, 2021
I was about ten. Already gifted with that arrogant egocentric egotism which usually afflicts teenagers, I listened patiently when Grandpa Smith regarded the gusting winds and driving rain pummeling Sheffield and pronounced “It’s a cyclone.”
Having learned that cyclones occur in tropical waters, in the Pacific Ocean, and not in northern Alabama I felt the smugness and conceit of superior knowledge. No way a cyclone could get that far inland.
As I sit here now in my eighth decade I am one of millions of television viewers watching coverage of Hurricane Fay, now downgraded to a tropical storm. It swept across Florida, then turned west to soak southern Alabama and Mississippi. And I heard one of the television weathermen refer to the storm, as it moved north, as a cyclone.
Can you guess where the northern-most spiral bands of the cyclone’s circulation are .... ??
In northern Alabama, dumping rain on Sheffield.
I guess I’m learning late in life that I didn’t learn much early in life. Like the old German woman said, “We grow too soon old and too late smart.”
Woes of Society
I choose to avoid the network news — the daily reportage of shootings, political chicanery, racial antagonism, and deceit and hypocrisy by those who should be guiding and leading us ... it's just too much for me to bear.
I discuss it with my confidants, and opine that a mass, pervasive insanity afflicts society. What I am seeing certainly isn't what I would regard as normal.
When I was a teenager, frequently reading another science fiction novel each day, I read one that described a mysterious cloud in the solar system which sometimes engulfed the Earth — and caused a strange world-wide insanity.
Comes now a news article of interest:
Our Planet Is Travelling Through The Debris of Ancient Supernovae
MICHELLE STARR
21 APRIL 2021
Radioactive dust deep beneath the ocean waves suggests that Earth is moving through a massive cloud left behind by an exploded star.
Continuously, for the last 33,000 years, space has been seeding Earth with a rare isotope of iron forged in supernovae.
It's not the first time that the isotope, known as iron-60, has dusted our planet. But it does contribute to a growing body of evidence that such dusting is ongoing - we are still moving through an interstellar cloud of dust that could have originated from a supernova millions of years ago.
Iron-60 has been the focus of several studies over the years. It has a half-life of 2.6 million years, which means it completely decays after 15 million years - so any samples found here on Earth must have been deposited from elsewhere, since there's no way any iron-60 could have survived from the formation of the planet 4.6 billion years ago.
And deposits have been found. Nuclear physicist Anton Wallner of the Australian National University previously dated seabed deposits back to 2.6 million and 6 million years ago, suggesting that debris from supernovae had rained down on our planet at these times.
But there's more recent evidence of this stardust - much more recent.
It's been found in the Antarctic snow; according to the evidence, it had to have fallen in the last 20 years.
And, a few years ago, scientists announced that iron-60 had been detected in the space around Earth, measured over a 17-year period by NASA's space-based Advanced Composition Explorer.
In 2020, Wallner found more of the stuff, in five samples of deep-sea sediments from two locations dating back to 33,000 years ago. And the amounts of iron-60 in the samples are pretty consistent over the entire time period. But this finding actually poses more questions than it answers.
Earth, you see, is currently moving through a region called the Local Interstellar Cloud, made up of gas, dust and plasma.
If this cloud was created by exploding stars, then it's reasonable to expect that it's dusting Earth with a very faint rain of iron-60. This is what the Antarctic detection suggested; and this is what Wallner and his team were seeking to validate by examining the ocean sediments.
But if the Local Interstellar Cloud is the source of the iron-60, there should have been a sharp increase when the Solar System entered the cloud - which, according to the team's data, is likely to have occurred within the last 33,000 years. At the very least, the oldest sample should have had significantly lower levels of iron-60, yet it did not.
It's possible, the researchers note in their paper, that the Local Interstellar Cloud and the supernova debris are coincident, rather than one structure, with the debris remaining in the interstellar medium from supernovae that took place millions of years ago. That would suggest that the Local Interstellar Cloud is not a faint supernova remnant.
"There are recent papers that suggest iron-60 trapped in dust particles might bounce around in the interstellar medium,"Wallner said last year.
"So the iron-60 could originate from even older supernovae explosions, and what we measure is some kind of echo."
The best way to find out, the researchers note, is to look for more iron-60, covering the gap between 40,000 years ago and around a million years ago.
If the iron-60 abundance grows greater farther back in time, that would suggest ancient supernovae.
However, a greater abundance more recently would suggest that the Local Interstellar Cloud is the source of the iron-60.
This recent scientific report validates the fiction that I read so long ago. And suggests that my comment of "pervasive insanity" might be literally correct.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Great Doctor and Lawyer and heard much argument …
… here I must divert from the quotation of my friend Omar to reveal a secret long and carefully guarded: I was once an avid reader of Cosmopolitan.
Yes, the WOMEN’S magazine. Perhaps more carefully read in my thirties and forties than Playboy.
The pictures were nearly equal in their stimulating qualities, and the articles – especially the letters from the readers – were much more informative.
And so I became aware of the superior intellect of womankind, as opposed to mere men, and learned a great respect for their willingness to share their exceptional knowledge.
For example, I read one letter complaining of a man’s proclivity for falling asleep immediately after completing the act of sex.
“There is absolutely no biological reason for a man to sleep at this time. It is simply another way of showing maledom’s disrespect for his female companion.”
I was struck by the anger, and the certainty of this declamation.
because …
I myself when young did …
…forgive me, Omar …
… did often at the delicious completion of the sex act have a strong need to sleep.
Not always. And I have been unable to correlate the need to sleep to any of the many variables attached to the situation.
But sometimes, with an urgency approaching that of a narcoleptic, I was compelled to sleep – with no regard for situation or circumstances. To the extent that there was a perception of a physical pressure in the brain, which could be dissipated only by sleep.
Never did I sleep more than just a few minutes – perhaps five at the most – but the need was urgent and certainly biological.
Another forum of great value for the understanding of life in general and more particularly, women, is the TV show “The View”.
Today I heard one of the panelists express the wisdom that “… it is not necessary for a woman to have an orgasm in order to conceive – but the man must …!”
The simple, and obvious refudiation is this:
A man, particularly one in a state of high arousal, may eject a small amount of potent seminal emission well before orgasm.
And, yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus …. Just wait nine months for your gift!
WORDSMITH
I read an article in our local newspaper decrying the improper use of words, usually do to the simularity of the intended word to the one that was used. Its not uncommon for their to be some confusion, since some of the words are spelled a lot a like, By common usage their is a blurred definition for any word that makes it's meaning uncertain.
Ruth offered to loan me her dictionary, but I deferred. I don't want you to think I'm trying to infer to you that I am so smart I don't need one, but I have one of my own hear at home.
The usage of some words is changing. Its a normal evolution, and is examplified by reading the "English" that was used by Chaucer in "The Canterbury Tales".
To some of us the common usages that are seen in newspapers and herd on television great on the nerves, because of the emphasis that was placed on learning the proper meaning and use of the English language in our schooling.
I want to convince you to help me compile a list of the words most often used incorrectly. More importantly I'd like you to count the words in this short essay that are used wrongly; either in form, inflection or word choice. If I can persuade you that there rite I’ll be surprised.
I don't know what affect this will have on you. It doesn't effect me to right it. An heresy testimony is inadmissible, anyway.
And if you contradict the beliefs of my Sunday church sermon I will regard it as heresay, and you as a hearetic.
WRONG END OF THE SNAKE
It was springtime. I was five years old. The morning was yet cool, but not so cool that I couldn’t play in my short pants and a short sleeved shirt. Father was sitting on the porch, sipping an unknown (to me) libation from a Mason jar. Watching me while I wandered about the yard, playing with anything that caught my interest. When a small snake crawled out of the weeds in the adjacent empty lot, I was naturally interested. I poked at it with a stick. It responded by curling up and shaking its tail, which seemed to have some kind of rattle on it. The rattle fascinated me. The more I poked at it the madder the snake got, and the tail set up a steady buzz. I finally deduced that the snake was a danger, an enemy, and began to beat it with my stick. Naturally the end of the snake that got my attention was the end making the noise. My Father watched silently, for a while, as I swung the stick in childish impotence at the noisy tail of the snake.
Finally, he spoke - “Hey, Abe - you’re beating the wrong end of the snake!”
IN AGE THERE IS WISDOM
May 06, 2018
It was springtime. I was five years old. The morning was yet cool, but not so cool that I couldn’t play in my short pants and a short sleeved shirt. Father was sitting on the porch, sipping an unknown (to me) libation from a Mason jar. Watching me while I wandered about the yard, playing with anything that caught my interest. When a small snake crawled out of the weeds in the adjacent empty lot, I was naturally interested. I poked at it with a stick. It responded by curling up and shaking its tail, which seemed to have some kind of rattle on it. The rattle fascinated me. The more I poked at it the madder the snake got, and the tail set up a steady buzz. I finally deduced that the snake was a danger, an enemy, and began to beat it with my stick. Naturally the end of the snake that got my attention was the end making the noise. My Father watched silently, for a while, as I swung the stick in childish impotence at the noisy tail of the snake.
Finally, he spoke - “Hey, Abe - you’re beating the wrong end of the snake!”
DONE DOING
I have ever enjoyed yondering. I delighted in the expanse of the open road, and traveled when I could and as I might.
I reveled in the solitude, comfortable behind the wheel of my truck, surveying the passing scenery.
The roads to the West — U.S. Hwy 290 westward from Austin, melding in time into I-10 — have beckoned, leading me to Arizona, then I-8 to Yuma, where my parents resided — and then on to their later location in El Cajon.
And north from El Cajon on I-15 to Utah, where my daughter and her family took root.
I had a tradition of having alongside in my truck a large package of Fig Newtons— and there was no sense of a need to ration them.
I enjoyed.
I have variously traveled west to California to visit my parents — from Corpus Christi, from Austin, and from Denver — all these trips are recalled as wonderful memories, of holiday or vacation journeys.
Training courses at the NCR schools, in Dayton and in Denver, called out my vehicle to drive from Galveston, Corpus Christi or Alice— for while I would fly on occasion, I preferred to drive.
From Corpus Christi I relocated in 1959 to Austin to attend the University. I went briefly to Tucson, then drove back to Austin. In 1962 I drove to Galveston to work for NCR; then to Alice in 1966. In 1968 I drove my big black 1964 Cadillac to Denver to attend an NCR training school. In 1969 NCR moved me to Victoria.
I bought a 1973 Chevrolet pickup.
I left my job as the manager of the Victoria office of NCR in 1977 to work in law enforcement.
In 1979 I left my job as an Investigator with the Victoria County Sheriff’s Department to go back to Corpus Christi.
In early 1984 I drove a blue 1983 Chevy Suburban to Ft Worth for a Gearhart-Owens school on oil well tools. I lived and worked in Laredo for that company for four months in the summer of 1984, then back to Corpus Christi.
I moved in 1987 to Austin, then drove to Denver in 1990. I drove to a new job in Birmingham in 1998, then back in 2003 to Alice; to Utah in 2013, and finally, in 2014 to Victoria — where I shall remain.
All these treks have been made in whatever vehicle I owned — since 1973 usually in a pickup truck.
From Victoria I have made two brief sojourns — one to Galveston, another to Corpus Christi. The visit to Galveston in December 2014 was a nostalgia trip in the guise of a birthday treat. Gratifying — as a sentimental journey. But I found the traverse to and from Galveston rather tedious.
The later Corpus jaunt was a shopping expedition. Largely a waste of time. And again the road was unusually long for such a short trip, and decidedly unpleasant.
As I sit in my recliner, during my ninth decade, I find my mind wandering along the beckoning highway.
But my body obstinately declines the invitation.
I have decided to accept that I am finally through yondering.
