Me and T-Mobile

 I am having seriously irritating problems with the replacement phone that T-Mobile provided.

When I initially struggled through attempts to get the phone set up I had managed to get it to give me an audible alert  when a Gmail (email) came in, or when I got a text message,

Worked for about a week.  Then didn't.

I couldn't restore it so I contacted T-Mobile.  They guided me to change certain settings, and assured me that “that will fix it!”

Didn't.

Additionally, the phone has a problem charging the battery.  

The receptacle for the tethered cable to charge it will not accept the plug for the charging cable that they sold me for $16.  So I turned to a wireless device that they sold me for $50. It is designed to charge the phone by simply placing it on the charging table. The position of the phone must be precise, to the nearest tenth of a millimeter. Else it turns off the charger after ten seconds.

Tonight I finally got it to function.  Didn't dare reposition the phone until the battery was fully charged.

So when I wanted to access YouTube, I set up the T-Franklin mobile hotspot that T-Mobile sold me for $90.  

Then when the phone was fully charged I wanted to retire the T-Franklin device, and run off of the mobile hotspot in the phone.  

Nope.  No access.  The T-Franklin device had displaced the Samsung phone hotspot, and I would have to reprogram it to connect via the phone.

Sounds easy if you say it fast.

An hour later, and with the help of a double shot of vodka I finally established the connection.

Does Ludditte have one or two T's?

Cause and Effect

 The courts recognize temporal proximity as being highly probative of a causal connection.

In Clark County School Dist. v. Breeden, the United States Supreme Court indicated that close temporal proximity alone may be sufficient to establish a prima facie causal connection.

I don't have a definitive summary of the relevant statistics.  But a casual perusal of the news reports seems to show a sharp increase in the number of shootings in our society. 

One might inquire of a possible cause.  Are there any significant changes in recent years that might be responsible?

Let me think … 

Dow Jones was 36,799 last year. This year it has dipped to 32,930. 

For the winter of 2021-2022 the average maximum temperature was 29.9°F .  For 2022-2023 there is a 22 percent change below average.

Fifteen states now allow permitless concealed carry of handguns. At the start of 2022 only six states allowed it.

The House of Representatives is now under control of the Republicans.

Among others Oldsmobile, Pontiac, Mercury, and Plymouth automobiles have been discontinued.

Gun sales are increasing, probably due to lax carry laws:  2016: 16.7 million;  2021: 19.9 million;  2020:  22.8 million …

Is there any suggestion that any of the changes listed above may be related to the increase in shootings?

Anunnaki's Purse of Gold

 

I have enjoyed several hunting trips to the forests of northern New Mexico. I went there with my good friend Stan. But he's quit smoking¹, and won't be able to accompany me again. So this year I ventured forth alone.

On one of my excursions during the first week of my stay on the foot of Mangas Mountain I drove onto a side road running south off of Highway 93.

I left the road to explore a meadow on its east side.

I walked into a stand of trees to the south, and approached a gorge without a bottom. Of course, it had a bottom. But it sure was a long way down.

Across the narrow gorge was a steep vertical cliff. Barren and rocky, no vegetation at all. And there, maybe thirty feet down on the cliff face, was a cave staring at me. The opening was approximately circular, and probably about ten feet in diameter. For some reason it fascinated me.

After some debate I decided to explore that cave.

I returned to the road and drove south, and found a way to access the area, on the south side of the gorge, near the cave. Looking back to the north, I aligned myself with a clump of trees on the north side of the gorge, that I had selected for reference. That guided me to the irregular rock formation on the south side that I had observed directly above the cave.

Using climbing gear I lowered myself to the cave.

The floor was flat, level and uncluttered, I swung in and unhooked my rope. Securing it took some doing, for the walls and floor of the cave were smooth and bare. I took off my gear, and switched on my headlamp. Finally I found a crack into which I wedged some gear with the rope attached.

There was a sharp curve in the cave, less than twenty yards in.

I approached it cautiously, reminding myself that there might be another entrance to this cave, and there could be an animal in residence.

The area beyond the turn was a high domed, spacious room. It was so large that my headlamp seemed feebly inadequate.

I searched for animal tracks in the dusty floor, but there were none.

I did find a clutter of strange fabric. As if discarded clothing, but a fabric unlike any I've ever seen. I found, half buried in the floor of the cave, a leather purse. Approximately four inches square, with carry handles attached. A metallic container inside held a residue of a very fine gold colored dust. Later a jeweler tested the dust, and confirmed that it was pure gold.

In past two years I have been reading about the Anunnaki who arrived on earth in ancient times. They are pictured in numerous carved representations carrying a small square purse which they held by its handles.

And it is interesting that they had great interest in mining gold here in earth.

The Anunnaki are a group of deities of the ancient Sumerians, Akkadians, Assyrians and Babylonians. They are ancient alien gods from Nibiru, a hypothetical Neptune-sized planet that supposdly orbits our Sun in a highly elongated orbit far beyond Pluto.

I feel that I have discovered the purpose of the ubiquitous purses, displayed in so many images in sites on several continents -- carvings representing the Anunnaki.

What if their biological chemistry required some small percentage of gold ?

Perhaps while they are here on earth they have a physical need for gold, much as I might need oxygen if I traveled to a distant planet. The purses so pervasively carried might hold the gold they need.

I have heard of a medical application of gold here on earth — the popular form is “monoatomic gold.” My first reaction to this is to remember the snake oil I used to buy for a dime a bottle, back in the 1860's . . . (see Outlaw Josey Wales)

Then I encountered A Preliminary Study of the Effect of Ingestion of Gold on Blood Chemistry by Dinesh C. Sharma.

That article does not conclude that there is any beneficial medical effect from ingesting gold, but it at least gives it a serious consideration.

Who knows? On the planet Nibiru, gold may be like vitamin B12 is here, for me.

Imagine their frantic searches for gold on Nibiru if suddenly there was not an adequate supply on hand . . . and their local Walmart didn't have any in stock, nor any expectation of receiving any.

Here on earth, people jump onto their car and run to Walmart when there is an urgent need. The inhabitants of Nibiru may pile into their spaceship and cruise to the nearest — My goodness, what if that's US ?

There are legendary accounts of aliens infiltrating Earth, and mining for gold — in South Africa, by some accounts. Interactions with humans are said to have included visiting its women, and altering the genes of humans to create an army of laborers to work in their gold mines. Perhaps the visits to earth's women were an adjunct to their efforts in genetic manipulation.

Steven King, where are you? We need a new movie — “I'm Proud to be a Gold Miner's Daughter” . .

1  Stan said that he would quit smoking when he quit breathing. He did.

Maturity

 It has been said, by a learned philosopher, that “life is a journey to uncover one's self, one's identity.”¹

It is interesting to hear the voices of wisdom by my betters. I seek to learn from them. I am inspired by the rambling expressions and opinions of learned philosophers.

But I don't always agree with them.

With respectful regard for the wisdom of the quote in the first line of this essay — I have noted in myself an ongoing, accelerating evolution in my mentality and perception of reality. And with the conceit and arrogance of one who has accumulated a few knocks, bumps and scars I dare to disagree.

I would revise the quote thusly:

“ . . . life is a journey to mold and develop one's self, one's identity.”

1  Walt Whitman's poem “I Celebrate Myself” is actually about how Whitman celebrates himself. The poem is about finding your identity,

Snooty Purple Bird

 I have been hit with that phrase again --”purple prose” — to insinuate that I affect a pretentious ostentatiousness, to presume to a grandiose manner.

I wrote about a crow that come into my room thru a open window.

"He hopped right in, with lots of flapping his wings, like he thought he owned the place.  Didn't slow down none — acted proud, kinda like them snooty high society couples you see on TV … an he flue up to a high shelf, an he set right down on an old statue I've got up there of a Greek goddess.

An then he jus set there …"

If'n I wanted it t'be purple I'da copied Poe:

"...with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more."

        

                                                                Pallas

Anybody that'd read that kind of stuff — no tellin' how he'll write!

Alec Baldwin on trial for Manslaughter

Alec Baldwin faces a Manslaughter trial for the tragic, unnecessary death in that highly publicized incident on a movie set.

Baldwin attempts to shift the blame to the armorer who presented the gun to him. He insists he was told that the gun was unloaded.

It is arguable that the armorer should have unloaded the gun before presenting it. 

 But that did not relieve Baldwin of the responsibility to verify that it was in fact unloaded.

Defensive driving has been a staple in high schools for years  — because we want to teach the skills and awareness that may save the lives of our children when they drive their cars.

Additionally, I insist that basic firearms safety should be included in every high school curriculum.  Not to encourage the students to take up shooting as a hobby. But, recognizing the need imposed by the fact that there are millions of guns in American society, to instill in our youth the rules and fundamentals of gun safety.

The most important rule is “Treat every gun as if it is loaded.”  A corollary of equal importance is “Never point a gun at anyone.”

When anyone picks up a gun — or is handed a gun — the immediate requirement is to check the gun to see if it is loaded.

In context, these two rules would have prevented the “accident” for which Baldwin is probably going to prison. 

Free TV

 Nothing much going on here, so I'll share the following:

There are many things that I encounter in life that baffle me. Mysterious.  Frustrating.  Beyond my understanding and comprehension.

I rely on TV for entertainment and diversion.  Were it not so pricey I would subscribe to Cable.

My chosen alternative is to use an antenna to receive the over-the-air broadcasts that are federally mandated.  

I bought an antenna for a hundred bucks, and hung it on the bedroom wall in my apartment. A shielded twenty-five foot cable connects to the TV in my living room. This has served me well for seven years. 

A recent very severe thunderstorm, with frighteningly arrogant lightning, prompted me to disconnect TVs, computers, and my microwave from the electrical power to avoid damage by any high voltage spike that may follow a lightning strike.  As an afterthought I disconnected the antenna cable from the TVs.  

The storm passed without any incident.  

For the last few weeks I have been enjoying news broadcasts, football games and movies on the TV.

Yesterday I walked past the antenna in the bedroom, and noticed the antenna cable lying on the floor, disconnected.  I picked it up and looked at it.

Yes, I had left it disconnected. I moved the loose end farther away from the antenna, and turned on the TV.  All channels are displayed without any indication of irregularity.

I continue to watch TV with no antenna connection.

I'm not versed in the intricacies and nuances of the science of transmission and reception of TV signals.  But this all seems contrary to any understanding that I may presume to enjoy.

I shall add this to my unrecorded list of Things that Mystify.  

Life goes on.

Errant Lockset

 

The photograph at left immediately above is of an entrance lockset salvaged from the dumpster.

      The adjacent photograph shows how easy it is to see the device in the repurposed plastic jar in which it has been stored for several years.  

The thrust of this essay is to review events of March 2021.

I found it desirable to change the door knob set on a passage door in my apartment. I removed the previous set, and went to the table in my "shop" where I knew I would find the lockset pictured above.  

I had a clear memory of recently noticing the item in its jar on the table, in an group with several other jars of similar size.  And I will note that these similarly sized jars are grouped, together at one end of the table.  No other jars of that particular size are in use.

I couldn't find the lockset.

I picked up each if the other jars in turn and examined their contents.  The lockset was not there.

I searched diligently in several other areas to which I thought perhaps I had relocated it.  No joy.

 I returned to my project and managed a solution without the desired lockset.- Later, remembering again that I had not long ago noted the presence of the lockset on the table in my shop, I returned to that location. I searched the entire length of the table.

Nope.

A week later I had occasion to approach the table in the shop.

There, plainly visible, was the elusive lockset, clearly visible in its jar.

You tell me —  I don't know.

Here Having Happy Holidays

 

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

Ree—grets

 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 ...

Meaning of Christmas

 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..

Allocated Life Span

 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. 

I still hear your sea winds blowing

 

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 39^th 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 Passing in the Night

 

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.

Dangerous Hammers

 

Excerpts from news:

Hammer-Wielding Stranger Fractures Woman's Skull, Kicks Her Down Stairs in Subway Attack ...

The husband of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, was attacked at the couple's San Francisco home with a hammer...

Woman seen on video attacking Oakland bus driver with 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)

WANDERER

 

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.

Reckoning

 

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

PAMELA

 

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."

My Life

 

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,

I must go on without a wife …

A sad life … a lonely life ... but its’ my life.

Mickey Basden

2018

Mickey in Song

 

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 !

The Craven

 "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!

MICKEY ON OMAR: IN RESPONSE TO The Rubáyáit

                    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

Me, Poet Pretender

  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.

Justification and fulfillment

 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...

Beautiful

 "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!

Flavor of the Seasons

 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

 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)

Whataskier

 

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.