#the dog was made into the horse for the sake of keeping him hence why max was my main | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thorntonkrell-blog-blog · 5 years

Text

END OF THE BOOK A

URGENT MIRRORS

Hello friends. It’s nice to be back. I’ve been stealing mirrors and seeing men about horses for the last 10 days. I subscribe to the Vonnegutian concept that a mirror is a leak to another, parallel universe. The image that we see when we look into a mirror is the image of ourselves in another realm which is momentarily in synch with our own. We just show up at the same time and take a gander at each other. Thus a mirror is a leak into another world. So whenever someone says “I’ve got to take a leak” what they are literally saying according to Vonnegut is “I’ve got to steal a mirror” I’ve stolen so many mirrors in the last ten days that even my image in the parallel universe is freaking out and looks very tired. I don’t know exactly what’s causing the guy in the mirror to show up 50 or 60 times a day but “I” know why I’m there. I’m stealing mirrors as an after effect of the radiation treatment that I have been receiving for the past sixteen days. I knew beforehand that one of the after effects of radiation is increased, urgent urination. Still you never really know about an after effect until after it affects you after.

I haven’t slept now in five days because of the “urgency”. I go to bed. I’m there for ten minutes then I have to steal a mirror. I come back to the bed and the urgency comes back with me. I tell the urgency “look I know you’re just some spasmic bladder because I just stole a mirror and there’s no way I need to steal another one so soon.” Then the urgency goes away for maybe 10 minutes at which time I try to catch a few winks because I know the urgency will be back and that will wake me up. 10 minutes later, the urgency is back. 10 minutes after that I’m stealing another mirror. And then the whole thing starts all over again

This goes on all day and all of the night. I remember what it used to be like 20 days prior and what I took for granted.

A few times a day I’d get that urgency but the vast majority of the day and the night, the urgency disappeared. I thought nothing of it. We get used to normal until it disappears and then we crave it like we crave yesterday. But yesterday’s gone. The after effect flips the script. Instead of non urgency leading to a mirror steal seven or eight times a day now the urgency is continual with 60 or 70 mirror steals within every 24 hours. Yesterday, my doctor prescribed some new medication. I won’t even tell you all the rare and catastrophic potential effects of the prescription, they are too humiliating and horrifying to even think about.

My pharmacist tells me that they have to put those warnings on the label if it comes to their knowledge that any one at any time had ever come up with the particular after effect. If someone has, then it must be included on the label. This is supposed to be comforting information. Don’t worry about the after effects because they are rare but if you start getting one or more contact your doctor immediately etc.

The new medicine is supposed to reduce the urgency and thus reduce the mirror stealing. However, for some people it has a paradoxical effect which not only reduces the urgency but also makes urination impossible. If that’s the case, contact your doctor immediately becasuse you will need to be catheterized

I really don’t want that. As of this instant, the urgency has lessened. That is why I can stop back here and say hello. But now I’m kinda worried about my flow. I want no more after effects, that, my friends is for goddamn sure Not cured from what I’m suffering with but suffering from the cure.

THE ART OF GLOVE

A guy named Arthur Gregor walked out of the classroom, apparently on his way to the john. The boy on the way to the john, Arthur Gregor Junior, almost always suspected that he had a sex problem.

The reason Arthur Gregor suspected he had a sex problem was because his father, Arthur Gregor, suspected that he, the father, had a sex problem. Arthur Gregor Junior’s mother Sara knew that her husband had a sex problem but she didn’t know exactly what it was nor how to describe it which led Arthur Gregor Senior to have even greater suspicion about the sex problems of his son etc. So one day when Junior was eight, his parents took him to a psychiatrist named Dr. Schinetzki. Schinetzki suspected that he himself might have an undefined sex problem, that is why he specialized in detecting sex problems in others.

When Junior walked into Schinetzki’s office, he had no suspicion that he might have a problem with sex. He was eight years old. He didn’t have any idea what sex was. So Schinetski started showing Junior some pictures and asked him to identify the pictures. The pictures were very concrete; an apple, a desk, a lamp, a shirt, a dog and then a bra.

Junior nailed the first five and then the trouble began.

Junior hesitated when he saw the bra. He knew what the name of the item was but he didn’t want Dr. Schinetski to know that he knew what it was for fear that Schnitetski would tell his parents that their child knew what a bra was which of course he would have and that would have been considered normal and that might have eased the suspicion that Senior had about Junior which might have eased the suspicion that Senior had about himself which may or may not have dented the wall of certainty that Sara had constructed about her husband and hence her son.

Tragically, Junior chose to overthink the situation. He figured that no “normal” kid his age should know what a bra is or where it goes or what it does.

Junior decided that he either had to continue in silence as he contemplated the picture which he figured would be suspicious or he could mis-identify the picture. Junior chose option two. “Well, Arthur, can you name this picture?” asked the good Doctor with an edge of impatience in his voice. “ Oh yes, Doctor. That’s a glove” “Very good young man” said the doctor and moved on to a picture of a goat, and then a telephone and then a piggy bank all of which Arthur identified. From that day on, the suspicion of Arthur Senior about Arthur Junior began to grow and then one day that suspicion appeared within Arthur Junior and it started to grow. That day was a Sunday in January

The next day, the day after sexual suspicion started within his son, Senior uncomfortably explained the birds and the bees to his boy and Arthur began to believe that bees were having sex with birds and if he got stung by a bee, he could get pregnant. When Senior got the report from Schinetzki, which indeed cast suspicion upon the sexual inclinations of his son, he did what any other father who is suspected of unusual sexual inclinations by his wife would do. He over-reacted. Senior figured that if he could ease his suspicion about his son which would enable him to ease his suspicion about himself which would lessen the infuriating certainty of his wife which somehow had become the deciding vote in every domestic disagreement. Senior bought Junior a pair of gloves. When he gave Junior the gloves, he said “these are gloves, son . Do you understand me? These are gloves. They keep your hands warm. They protect your hands". This was the beginning of Arthur Junior’s compulsive, lifelong search for definition and overstanding. And gloves

It was May. Junior’s hands were already warm. Still, his father insisted that Junior put on the gloves immediately.When Junior put on the gloves he remembered his session with Schinetzki. The gloves made him feel guilty. Eventually that guilt would transform into suspicion of sexual abnormality. Every time Junior put on a glove of any variety, for the rest of his life, the whirlwind of self-doubt reared its furious head and reaped its own devastating harvest. The wearing of the glove would both cause and ease the internal whirlwind. Senior insisted that Junior always have a supply of new gloves. Senior insisted that Junior concentrate on three sports, baseball, hockey and golf. All three sports required a glove. The incidents with the baseball glove were particularly painful. Senior bought Junior the most expensive ball glove that he could find which amounted to three hundred plus dollars. Junior wasn’t any good at baseball but he had the best glove so he made the major leagues in his local Little League. When the manager asked him what position he played Junior said “shortstop” Junior had no idea what a shortstop was or where on the field the shortstop played. He knew the word and he liked the word so that was the word he said when his manager, Otto Dingfeldt, while eyeing the expensive glove asked him what position he played. At the first practice Dingfeldt said “ Okay Junior, You’re my shortstop.” Junior, overcoming the urge to ask his coach to “define shortstop” instead asked Dingfeldt “where do I play” Dingfeldt assumed that Junior was asking a subtle question about shading the hitter toward third or second depending upon whether or not the hitter could get around on the inside fastball. “Shade over towards third” said Otto. Junior walked on to the field and stood right next to the third baseman, a veteran eleven year old named Jake Genovese. “What the hell are you doing here, kid” Genovese asked. “The manager told me to shade towards third” said Junior. “Could you please define ‘shade’ “Well for Christ sake move halfway between third and second and that’s good enough but get the hell away from me before I kick your ass” replied Jake. Arthur moved to the spot indicated. The first three batters hit rockets right at and through Junior. After the third rocket Arthur fell to the ground, faking an injury. When Dingfeldt came out to see ‘what the fuck* is wrong with the ‘fruit with the glove’. Arthur said “Mister Dingfeldt, I don’t like shortstop”. And with that, Junior was benched. He would remain benched for the rest of his Little League career which itself would end later that year. Every moment that he sat on the bench while the others kids played the game, Arthur grew more suspicious of himself. If you added up the price tags of all the gloves on Junior’s team, it’s likely the sum would be less than the one glove on Junior’s hand, uselss on the bench. Bobby Lowmeyer took Junior’s spot at shortstop. Bobby had perhaps the worst glove on the team. Bobby’s glove had been passed on to him by his older brother, Whitey, who gave up baseball while waiting for the bass player in his band to get an amp. Whitey got the glove as a hand me down from his Dad, Norbert who had gotten the glove from his Dad, Karl, whose favorite player wasn’t Babe Ruth but a nobody named named Chuck Klein. To Karl, baseball was the national pasttime.To Whitey,the few times that he thought about it while making noise in the garage, baseball was the national past its time.

All of the other gloves on the team were either hand me downs or K mart ten dollar specials. Arthur and his glove stood out on this team like a sore thumb which everybody on the team had because of their lousy mitts except for Arthur who had the good mitt and the permanent seat on the pine.Arthur Senior told Arthur Junior to never loan out his glove. Senior came to the first few of Junior’s games but lost interest when he realized that Junior was not going to get into the game. Senior stopped showing up. Before Senior stopped showing up, it became clear that the other players on the team hated Junior’s guts because of the glove disparity. Bob Lowmeyer particularly resented Arthur. Bobby had the quickness and coordination to handle the shortstop position but his crappy glove prevented him from cleanly fielding the grounders hit his way. With every error, his antipathy towards Arthur increased. He started calling Arthur “Glove” and pretty soon everybody on the team began to follow suit. The nickname spread from the ball field to the neighborhood to the school. Before long, everywhere he went, Arthur was called Glove. In Arthur’s mind, they might as well have been calling him “Bra” which might as well have been “Oddball,” “Weirdo,” or “ “Dipshit” One day Coach Dingfeldt approached Arthur and said “Glove, if you lend Bobby your mitt for the rest of the season, I’ll give you a new position” Glove, a team player, was always eager to please.He also wanted to stay clear of the rocket shots smashed at the shortstop. Since it was clear that his Father had abandoned the team and wouldn’t know or care one way or the other, Glove decided to lend his mitt to Bobby. Coach Dingfeldt, true to his word, gave Junior his new position…..statstop. As statstop, Junior had the important job of keeping score during the games and then turning his scorecard into a stat sheet. Dingfeldt turned the job of teaching Junior how to keep score over to his assistant coach, an alcoholic named Clyde Starks. Starks taught Junior the numbers for the positions; 1 for pitcher, 2 for catcher, 3 for fist base, 4 for second base, 5 for third base ,6 for shortstop, 7 for left field, 8 for center field and 9 for right field. Any time anyone in those positions touched the ball, it was to be recorded in the “official” scorebook by the team statstop. A ground out to the second baseman was recorded as a 4-3. A flyball caught by the center fielder was recorded as an 8. Et feakin cetera. Arthur caught on quickly. With Bobby at shortstop hoovering anything hit near him and with Arthur at statstop recording every play, the Pirates began a winning streak. After one particularly unbelievable play, Bobby came back to the bench and when the rest of the team congratulated him, Bobby said, “it wasn’t me…it was Art.” For a split second Junior felt like he was getting some credit for the success of the team. Then he realized that Bobby was giving credit not to Junior but to Junior’s glove which was now known as Art. The boy was now named after the glove and the glove was named after the boy. In the mind of the boy, the glove was getting the better deal. With Bobby installed at shortstop with Art installed on his hand and with Glove installed on the bench with a scorecard and pencil in his hand, the Pirates began to win and win big.

Kippy Fiore, the Timpani brothers Sal and Bob, Sandy Granada, Tony Giambrone and Bow Aqualina, despite their mediocre mitts could all field, run and hit. Nick Sellmer could pitch. The only weakness had been shortstop. Bobby and Art took care of that problem. The Pirates reached the championship game. Arthur Junior never breathed a word about the teams success to his father for fear that his father would show up and demand that Arthur a) get his ass on the field and b) get his glove back from the zitface at shortstop. The night before the game, Arthur could imagine the whole house of cards collapsing. He, in fact, did visualize the entire humiliation and when he did so he fell asleep. He slept the sleep of the innocent who somehow suspect that they may not be innocent after all for reasons undetermined. Arthur’s father didn’t show up for the game. The Pirates were playing the Braves. For years, the Braves had been the best team in the League. The guys on the Braves had real good gloves and their gloves were in proportion to their skills. Still, Art, on the hand of Bobby was the best mitt on the field and both teams knew it. Art had become the talk of the league. The pitcher for the Braves was a guy named Chico. Word had it that Chico was at least fifteen years old. Chico threw hard and seemed to enjoy hitting kids. Everybody was afraid of Chico. Nobody wanted to dig in at the plate. The game turned into a pitcher’s battle between Chico and Nick. After a short delay because of threatening weather, the game moved quickly until the sixth inning, with both teams scoreless. In the last at bat of the season, the Pirates dug in. Kippy singled. Sal doubled. Kippy scored. The Pirates took the lead. Sandy hit a fly ball over the barbed wire into the power plant in right field for a two run homer. Mr Jordan, the coach of the Braves argued that the ball was foul. The argument got ugly. Several parents got involved. The umpire held his ground. The parents headed back to their seats. Tony Giambrone struck out for out number two after Chico threw a couple of pitches behind him. Bow, the next batter did exactly the same thing that Sandy did, smashing the ball to nearly the exact same spot over the exact same stretch of barbed wire for yet another debatable homerun. Out came Jordan. Ten more minutes of screaming, finger pointing, , spitting, swearing name-calling and threatening ensued before peace was restored. The home run counted. The score was 4-0 Pirates. Bobby struck out to end the inning. The Pirates needed three more outs. It was nearly nine oclock when the Braves came up to the plate. Darkness Falling An inning is not supposed to start after 8:30. Even with the rain delay, the sixth inning of the Pirates versus Braves championship game began at 8:18. Glove kept meticulous track of such arcana. In this regard Glove was particularly superfluous. Ya don’t need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows and you don’t need a statstop to tell ya that it’s dark. By the time the top of the sixth ended; after the offensive outburst, after the two disputed home runs, after the the near riots that ensued after each home run, after the time spent after the riots clearing the field of debris and derelicts, the time was 8:50

Nick Sellmer took the mound and began his warm-up pitches. Glove consulted his trusty scorebook. Glove noticed that Nick had pitched two innings in the must-win game prior to the championship game. The league had a rule that no pitcher could pitch more than seven inning within the space of a week.When Nick threw his first pitch of the sixth inning, his performance would be against league legislation. Glove figured that the penalty for breaking this rule would be forfeiture. Coach Dingfeldt was not only aware of the rule but also aware of the fact that if he took Nick out of the game now, all the parents would be on his case for the rest of his life, not so much for taking Nick out tonight but for bringing him in a couple of nights before. Coach Dingfeldt decided that he would leave Nick in the game and if the fit hit the shan, he could always blame the little twerp on the end of the bench, the “statstop” named Glove. And if Glove approached him, the coach, he would pretend he was doing something else. Dingfeldt would determine Glove’s honesty by the urgencey of Glove’s interruption. Glove was polite. Glove hated to interrupt anyone, particularly figures of authority. Glove didn’t know if Coach Dingfeldt knew what Glove knew. The inning which defined the entire season might depend upon Glove getting through to Coach. The Pirates did have an alternative, a chinless boy named Steve Kaul who everybody called Froggy. Froggy threw the ball in a combinatin submarine/sidearm style that lost all of it idiosyncracy by the time it reached the plate. This imminently hittable pitch was called “the Swamp Ball”. As the othe Pirates took the field for the last time, Glove walked from the far end of the bench to where Coach Dingfeldt was speaking to Coach Starks. Glove cleared his throat “Ummm, Coach?” Nick had already thrown the first of his allotted six warm-up pitches by the time Glove got to Dingfeldt. “Coach, ummm, I’m afraid that if Nick throws one more pitch to one more batter…….” POP. Warm-up pitch number two. Dingfeldt interrupted Glove.“Are you afraid, Glove ?” Dingfeldt asked as he turned his back to Glove and for the last time rearranged the bats in the bat rack. Looking at Dingfeldt’s back, Glove realized what a gigantic man his Coach was. “Yes, Coach. I am” Dingfeldt turned and faced the boy. Looking at his front instead of his back, Glove realized what a determined man his coach was. SMACK. Warm up pitch number three exploded into the catcher’s mitt on the darkened field. At this stage of the night, the pitches were more audible than visible. “Do you know what courage is Glove?” “Courage is facing your fears, Coach” “Not bad, Glove” PMACK. Warm up pitch number four. “Courage, son, is knowing what not to fear. Do you understand me? ” “But, Coach……” SMAP. Warm up pitch number five. “Listen, Arthur. Go back to the end of the bench. Take out your pencil. Keep a record of the action on the field. You be the statstop. I’ll be the coach. Aside from my advice about courage, forget the rest of this conversation. Know what to fear and what not to fear.Be courageous. Is that clear, Glove. ” “Yes, Coach” For a split second Glove realized what he should do. He should run out to the mound and explain the situation to Nick. Nick could do whatever he wanted to do and at the same time bear witness that Glove had done the right thing. In the next split second, he visualized how absurd that scene would be, how inappropriate to the trappings of the game. The benchwarmer taking over as manager and advising the star pitcher what to do. Nick barely talked to him anyway. That wasn’t going to fly. Glove took his place on the bench. Nick fired his last warm up pitch. The umpire, a Greek guy named Dee who ran a delicatessen in which there was a horrifying barrel of gherkins, yelled “batter up”. By the time Nick threw the first pitch in the last inning, Glove realized there was only one way out. The Pirates, his team, had to lose. Glove started pulling for the Braves even as he felt his heart breaking with the abandonment of loyalty. Meanwhwile in the dark on the bench between the top and the bottom of the sixth inning, Mr Jordan had a few ideas of his own. He hoped that Dingfeldt didn’t know that if Nick pitched one more pitch that action would be in violation of league rules and the outcome of the game would be, after the official protest was filed, either a forfeiture or a disqualification. Either way, the Pirates would be walking the plank. Jordan’s only fear was that someone would clue in the clueless Coach. When Jordan looked over at the bench and noticed some little kid with a too big uniform trying to get the attention of Otto, he thought that Froggy might be coming into the game and the protest win/win plan would be erased. Whatever the kid said to the coach and whatever the coach said to the kid before the little jerk walked back to his place on the bench, Nick had completed his warm up pitches. Dee, the Greek umpire, trying to hurry the game along yelled “batter up”. Before the leadoff batter, Stash Malloy, walked to the plate, Mr Jordan took him aside and revealed idea number two. “Do not take that bat off your shoulder, Stash. Take every pitch. Take, take all the way. Do not swing” Stash nodded and headed for the plate. Jordan’s plan was this, he wasn’t going to protest until after the conclusion of the game. The evening was growing too dark to play ball. The whitest balls in the ball bag were already parked in the power plant somewhere. Whatever balls that Nick pitched would be scuffed from a season of sandlot. They would add an extra level of difficulty not only to the batters but also to the fielders and the umpire. Nick threw hard but he didn’t have great control. Dee’s delicatessen owed the Jordan Trucking Company (whose motto was “we deliver the goods”) a favor or two. The Brave’s fans were all up in arms about the two home runs that they thought were foul balls. Dee owed them a couple of calls as well. If the Braves managed to score five runs in their last at bat, the protest would be moot. Jordan loved his chances. Fourteen pitches later, the bases were loaded with Braves and there were no outs. None of the first three batters had swung at a single pitch. The only reason no runs had been scored was the rule that a run could not be scored as the result of a passed ball. Chico was coming to the plate. In its essence, baseball is a game of catch between two people. While the game of catch is proceeding, a series of other people try to interrupt that game of catch, one at a time, by swinging a piece of wood at the thrown ball and then running home before the game of catch can be resumed. In professional baseball, the game of catch must be played perfectly. If the ball gets by the catcher, blame must be found and assigned. If the blame falls on the catcher,if he should have caught the ball but failed to, the transgression is called a passed ball. If the blame is on the pitcher, if his throw was so errant as to be un-catchable, that transgression is known as a wild pitch. In professional baseball, a penalty exists for passed balls and wild pitches. If, after a third strike, a passed ball occurs; the batter can try to run to first base before the catcher can retrieve the ball and either touch the batter or throw to first base. If humans are on base at the time of the wild pitch or the passed ball, the runners may advance to the next base or bases but they do so at their own risk. Little League baseball is far from professional so some of these penalties are waived depending upon jurisdiction of the league. The East Side Little League, whose championship game was being decided by the Braves and the Pirates, allowed baserunners to advance after wild pitches or passed balls but forbade any runner on third from scoring a run in such a manner. The reason this rule was instituted in the first place was the location of the backstop at the main field. The backstop was only fifteen feet from home plate which meant that a pitched ball could get past the catcher, hit the backstop and bounce right back into play. This factor made the backstop too much “in play”. Several injuries had occurred when the ball bounced off the backstop so randomly that a collision at the plate involved not only the catcher and the runner but also the pitcher, the umpire and the batter who still carried his stick in his hand. So the rule was waived. That’s why, in the bottom of the sixth, the bases were loaded with Braves. Nobody was swinging and there was no base eligible for any runner to advance even though wild pitches/passed balls had been occurring on nearly every pitch. As Chico strode to the plate, the situation was this and had been thus for awhile:the batter couldn’t see the pitch to hit it, the umpire couldn’t glimpse the pitch to call it and the catcher couldn’t track the pitch to catch it. And it was getting darker by the minute. Dingfeldt, like most men, had two matters foremost in his mind….victory and justification. The fact that the kid had confronted him about Nick’s eligibility to pitch the ninth inning irritated his justification module. The fact that the Braves had the bases loaded with nobody out and the best player in the league coming to the plate, threatened his victory module. Otto had to come up with something quick. He decided to take a walk out to the mound. On the way to the mound, Dingfeldt realized that only two of the pitches thrown in the inning had been cleanly caught. Both of those pitches were called strikes by Dee, the delicatessen umpire. Hmmmm. Dee couldn’t see the pitches either. Dee was assuming that if the catcher caught it, it had to be a strike and if it got by the catcher, the pitch must have been out of the strike zone in the first place which resulted in a call of “ball” As fast as he was, Nick was not the easiest pitcher to catch. To make matters worse, the catcher, Skip Mancuso was not the first string catcher on the team. The best catcher on the team happened to be the best player on the team who happened to be the best pitcher on the team who happened to be the guy on the mound that Dingfeldt was heading towards. By the time he got to the mound, Dingfeldt had his mind made up. He was going to make a change. His change was not going to be so much a change of pitchers as it was a change of catchers. “Skip, go on out to right field and bring Frog in from the swamp. Nick, you’re gonna catch the rest of the game. You pitched a helluva game, now I need you to catch one helluva inning.” Frog came in from right field, replaced by Skip. Nick put on the catcher’s gear. Otto gave the ball to Frog with the age old advice “Just throw this godamned thing over the plate. Throw it to Nick” And with the changes made, Dingfeldt headed back to the bench. And it got darker

Six hours earlier Aristotle Legeer had just slapped down his last buck for a scratch off card at Dee’s Delicatessen. Ari had bought the card with four quarters so he chose the Scratch Off called Loose Change. Loose Change is a scratch off card that shows six coins. If you scratch all six coins and they total more than a dollar, then the scratcher wins whatever prize is on the card which must be scratched to be revealed. Ari scratched the first five coins…..96 cents. Then he scratched the prize amount figuring with his luck it would be a buck or two. The prize was $500. Ari felt good about the next scratch. He had certainly lost enough to justify the winning. He took a minute before scratching and then scratched……. A penny. A stinken Lincoln One hundredth of a dollar. One gazillionth of a phantom five hundred dollars. Several bottles of ouzo disappeared from Ari’s brainpan, along with a dozen roses for his patient, long suffering wife Diana and a trip to the Casino to feed Cleopatra’s slot fifteen lines of nickels at a time as the Queen of the Nile whispers "Explore your fantasy. Enjoy your rewards". A rent payment and a tank full of gas also vanished. What appeared was the usual, rage, self-pity and persecution complex. Also appearing was the reality that Ari had no gas in his car, no pay check for two days, no beer in the fridge and maxed out plastic in the wallet. “I just lost five hundred bucks Dee” “How could you lose five hundred bucks on a one dollar scratch off card?” Ari told Dee the whole story. Dee understood, sort of. “When will I ever learn, Dee?” “My friend, what we have to learn to do, we learn by doing” answered the owner of the deli. “Can you lend me twenty bucks for two days?” asked the erstwhile coin scratcher. “I can do better than that” said Dee. “I can pay you twenty five bucks right now if you’ll do a job for me tonight. I need an umpire for a Little league game over at the field” “I wouldn’t call the pitches at that nuthouse for fifty bucks, even as busted as I am” declared Legeer. “I’ll be the one working the plate. I need somebody to ump the bases. You want the job? I’ll even throw in a forty ounce Bud and gyros after the game” Dee’s offer was too good for the desperate, deflated Legeer to refuse. “Why not ?” asked Legeer. Dee reached into the cash register. He grabbed two tens and a five. He slipped the three bills over the counter. The old friends shook hands. They both grabbed gherkins.

Six hundred thirty minutes later, as Dingfeldt was bringing Frog into the game, Mr. Jordan wasn’t exactly whistlin’ Dixie while waiting for the bus. Jordan had ideas of his own, equal and opposite. Jordan was no longer concerned with victory, he had that in the bag. Jordan was concerned with style, a notion that appeals to most men only after victory and justification have been insured.. Jordan knew he had the game wrapped up if he wanted to go the paper tiger forfeit route. He also knew that if he told the rest of the batters (like he had instructed the three already on base) to “take all the way” and never move the bat from their shoulders, the inevitable parade of free passes in the dark would spell passive-aggressive victory. Passive victory was not the style of the Braves. The Braves were not paper tigers. The Braves were a championship team who won the old fashioned way. They ran. They threw. They fielded their positions. They hit. They hit with power. They executed the fundamentals. They sacrificed. They played as a team. They took advantage of opportunities. They had great mitts. They swung their bats. In Jordan’s mind, Little League was, above and beyond anything else, an opportunity for a series of life lessons. If the Braves were going to win and they were going to win, it was important that they won in a fashion that would stay with the young boys for the rest of their lives and help them to become better men. Nobility so often hinges upon guaranteed triumph. Jordan went to every baserunner, all three of them. “On the first pitch that Frog throws, I want you to take off to the next base You got that? As soon as he goes into his windup, you run like hell” The runner at first, Glenn French asked “What if he throws over to first base Coach. I don’ want to get picked off” “Throw to first, Glenn? He can barely see first base and the first basemen can barely see him. Do what you’re told. Run your ass off” With the hit and run in place, Jordan coached Chico. “Chico, You’re gonna swing at the first pitch. It’s gonna be over the plate somewhere. It’s not gonna get any lighter. If we’re gonna swing, we gotta swing now. We’re gonna swing. You’re gonna swing. You’re gonna tie up this ballgame with a grand salami. You got me, son? First pitch. Take a rip. You’re the best hitter in this league. We gotta shine the light where the money is” “Gotcha, Coach” said Chico as he stepped to the plate. Frog toed the rubber. Chico dug in and tapped his bat on the outside corner. Nick got in his crouch behind the plate.He didn’t bother to send a signal to the mound. The signal would have been invisible anyway. Everybody knew what was coming. The Swampball. With the bases loaded, Frog went into his full wind up as there was no need to use the stretch. As he reached back and down to load some nasty swamp shit on his swamp ball, all the runners took off. Five minutes earlier, when Dingfeldt was leaving the mound after replacing Nick with Frog and Skip with Nick, Otto realized he still had a dog in the forfeiture fight and his dog might have some bite if it came to red tape. Since Nick had walked the first three men that he faced in the sixth inning, which means he didn’t get anybody out, he would only be credited with pitching five innings according to the official scoring rules of baseball. Furthermore, the runners on base had all walked and according to the scoring rules of baseball a walk does not count as an offical at bat. In other words the current situation was based on the statistical abnormality of the bases being loaded with three hitters none of whom had officially been at bat who got on base because of the free passes issued to them by a pitcher who had not statistically pitched in the inning. Nick couldn’t lose the game. If the Pirates won, Nick would get the win not because of his pitching in the sixth, he officially had not appeared in that inning, but rather because he had pitched the fifth and was the pitcher of record when the Pirates went ahead in their half of the inning. If the Pirates lost the game, the loss would be charged to Frog because the three runners on the base would be charged to Nick if they scored. Chico was the tying run and he was Frog’s responsibility. Otto had found his justification. If Jordan wanted to argue this one out, Dingfeldt thought to himself, let’s have at it. In some ways, the statstop, the weird little Glove, had got through to the Coach. As he returned to the bench, Dingfeldt fired an appreciative vibe down the bench to Glove, who immersed in loyalty abandonment, contemplation of courage and the difference between resignation and faith, missed the vibe entirely. Glove was occupied in hoping that Chico would come through for the Braves like he always did. Glove had played a whole season for the Pirates and hadn’t made a single friend. The only time that he might have contributed to the team, he was ignored by the Coach who Arthur knew that he would blame for the loss. Arthur had never prayed before, never learned how, but this was getting close. He was trying to make a bargain with somebody or something somewhere. If the Braves won, he would never again play on a team that didn’t respect him or love anyone that didn’t love him or back down from a boss who was cheating. Dingfeldt looked out at the field as Frog delivered the first pitch to Chico. As the pitch left Frog’s hand, Dingfedlt yelled "Courage" to his Pirates who couldn’t see him but could damn well hear him. Nick held out a target that he knew Frog couldn’t see. Bobby at shortstop heard someone yell “Courage”. Aristotle Legeer, the umpire, stood motionless in shallow left field five steps behind Bobby. The runners; Coin Gedman at third, Tony Joy at second and Glenn French at first were all off and running with the invisible pitch. Chico swung. He could feel by the sensation in his hands at contact that if he hadn’t got all of the pitch, he sure got a big chunk of it. He knew what a four bagger felt like. He’d been there before but never in the dark, never in the last inning of the championship game with the bases loaded with Braves. Never on the threshold of neighborhood legend. When the shortstop sensed Joy breaking towards third, Bobby instinctively broke towards second. That’s when he heard the sound of aluminum smashing into cowhide. Then he felt a stinging in his left hand. The ball had found Art. The ball was in Art. All Bobby had to do was hold on to the ball and the moment and the legend. Legeer saw the line drive disappear into the shortstop’s glove. Legeer saw that the kid held on to the ball. One out. As Bobby pocketed the rocket, Tony Joy going from second to third was passing right in front of him. Bobby touched Tony with Art. The touch was so light and so fast that Tony kept right on running, right past Jordan who was coaching third and screaming for Tony to keep on running for home. Legeer saw the touch. Two outs. Double play. French going from first to second had no idea where the ball was so he did the prudent thing. He slid into second base. Glenn’s slide was a thing of beauty although it was beheld only by Legeer and Bobby. Bobby slapped Art on the shoulder of French. Legeer saw the slap. Three outs. Triple play. Unassisted. Game over. Championship for the Pirates. There was no doubt in Ari’s mind. He had clearly seen the whole play. Dee got to Ari before Jordan did. Ari explained his ruling to Dee. Dee said that from his place behind the plate he hadn’t seen anything other than hearing Chico hit the pitch. Ari assured Dee that he had seen it all. The game was over, regardless of what Jordan might say, think or do.. Dee yelled out “Thank God for Aristotle” Bobby was the second person within fifteen feet to realize that an unassisted triple play had ended the game. Bobby was the first person to realize that aside from tagging the two runners, he had very little to do with the play. Chico’s line smash had simply gone into his glove. Bobby never saw the drive. He barely felt it when the shot smacked into his pocket just below the webbing. Even before the rest of the team knew what had happened, Bobby was already jumping up and down and yelling "Art, Art, Art.“ The leaping and the crying of ” ART ART ART" had worked its way through the infield half of the Pirates by the time Dee made it official by yelling “Triple Play, Game Over” and started heading for his car next to the power plant. At this point, the whole team started running around the infield screaming ARTARTARTARTARTART. In the midst of this sudden outbreak of Art. Mr Jordan got in the face of Ari Legeer. Legeer told Jordan exactly what he had seen. On the bench, Glove, formerly Art had received the news that the game was over. He didn’t know how to record the play in his scorebook whether it was 6 which means the ball was hit to the shortstop and he caught it or whether it was 6 6 6 which meant the ball was hit to the shop and he caught it and he tagged two runners. While wrestling with this administrivia, Art realized that the Pirates the team that from which he had abandoned loyalty only a few minutes earlier were all chanting his name. Except they weren’t. They were chanting the name of his glove. He wrote a six into the scorebook. And then Bobby understood that they wouldn’t be chanting ARTARTART and they wouldn’t be champions and he himself wouldn’t be on the threshold between legend and myth if the statstop hadn’t lent him the glove in the first place. As the whole team reached the bench, Bobby started yelling GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE. The rest of the guys followed suit…even Dingfeldt. They hoisted the statstop on their shoulders and began carrying him around the infield screaming GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE. The scorebook fell to the ground. On their shoulders in the dark, the boy who kept score, the momentary traitor to his own team, felt tears of shame and joy pouring down his face as they took him from base to base. Every time he heard them yell Glove…..he understood that word to mean traitor loser pinerider Nimrod who don’t know a bra from a glove. The Pirates didn’t know the kid on their shoulders was bawling. They were champs and so was he. They couldn’t have done it without Art and that means they couldn’t have won it without Glove. ARTGLOVEARTGLOVEARTGLOVE Good thing it was dark. A passerby would have seen a bunch of boys yelling about art and love in the dark with one small boy on their shoulders. That passerby would have misunderstood. Especially if the passerby was Glove’s father.

WOW INDEED

Thirty years later.

Aaron was our rightfielder. Aaron was a dead ringer for Daniel Day Lewis in the Last of the Mohicans. Tall, lanky, long dark hair, all around attractive hippie, carpenter type guy but not much of a baseball player. Plus on this day, he was on acid.

Aaron had a magnificent German shepherd dog, named Jeremiah who went out to rightfield with Aaron when our team took the field. As you might imagine, this league was pretty damned low key with far more ale than anxiety.

Somewhere in the middle innings, the word got around that Aaron was tripping on acid. This information added to the appreciation of the game that Aaron was playing in the outfield. Let’s face it, most of the time in baseball is spent just standing around and nobody spends more time standing around than a rightfielder in a slow pitch softball game where almost everything is hit to the left side and nobody stands around better than a guy on acid whose got control of his trip and is with his loyal dog in a field of flowers.

As the inning began, Aaron was sitting on his haunches whispering to Jeremiah, seemingly about the dandelions that were growing around them in rightfield. Nobody was paying too much attention, when a left handed batter, the only lefty on the opposing team, smashed a line shot into right.This is when the change began for everyone. Aaron’s hallucination had become so vivid that it started to spread like wildfire and in the spreading convert itself into observable reality.

Time slowed down.

Space altered.

Aaron physically and visually shared his trip with everyone who was paying attention. He was still on his haunches when the ball was struck. The people in the know started laughing and saying…that’s a home run….Aaron’s on acid.

That’s when everything slipped into slow motion.

Aaron rose to his feet.

The ball seemingly over his head.

He started moving back, back, back….

It didn’t look like running….it looked more like flying or pathfinding or deerslaying. Aaron had big feet to begin with but as he flew back…back…back…his size 11 sandals looked like they had become size eighteen. Jeremiah was nipping at Aaron’s fluttering bell bottoms.

The ball which had rocketed over his head, seemed to hesitate as Aaron began to glide, covering more ground with each step than humanly possible. Everybody on the bench suddenly realized that we were seeing things through the altered consciousness of Aaron.

After seven or eight giant steps with the ball still past him, Aaron reached out his now giant sized glove. The ball had seemingly stopped and as the giant glove stretched out a few more inches on is own, the ball gently fell into the seemingly elastic glove.

Aaron caught the ball and went into a slow motion forward roll with Jeremiah who had been at his heels during the whole pursuit, virtually rolling with him in a six legged, barking blur. In the midst of the barking and the blurring, Aaron held on to the ball and waved it in the air.

Everything seemed absolutely right with the planet.

Time regained its composure as Aaron made his way to our bench.

When he got to the bench after making the greatest catch in the history of baseball, Aaron said “Wow”.

Wow indeed

TO SLEEP PERCHANCE TO SNORE

To begin with, I spend more time thinking about sleeping than I spend time thinking about any other subject. Some people might call that process insomnia.I call it another skirmish in the war between the sexes.

Snoring is the battle line. The only person who doesn’t snore is the person who’s awake. I am that person, awake and listening to my wife snore.The secret is to be the second one to sleep.

My wife Julia doesn’t think that she snores.

I didn’t think that I snored until my wife mentioned it to me.

Over time, the mentions grew more frequent and less gentle. Eventually, the mentions turned into motions and the motions turned into pokes and jabs.

Ya know what really sucks? Being fast asleep….getting jabbed into wakefulness and upon awakening hearing this:

“Stop snoring Ovid, God damn it.”

Apparently I start to snore when I’m first falling asleep so when rudely interrupted my defense usually goes like this: “How could I be snoring, I wasn’t even asleep” Even as I’m saying this, I’m coming to the realization that I must have been asleep because the poke woke me up.

“Well, you must have been asleep because you’re snoring your ass off. Stop the goddamned snoring!.”

“Hey, I know the difference between being awake and being asleep. If I were asleep now, this would be a nightmare but because I’m awake, it’s just a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, well the next time you snore and wake me up, you’re going out to the couch.” For some reason, the reward of sleeping comfortably on the couch seems like some kind of punishment that must be resisted. So I try to fall back asleep and realize that I can’t sleep. Furthermore, I must really be not sleeping because nobody is telling me to stop snoring.

Meanwhile, in this embryonic, insomniatic state…..Julia falls asleep and starts to snore. Her snoring is a good sign because that means she’s actually asleep and it is now safe for me to go to sleep and not have to worry about snoring.

So I go through my usual thinking about sleeping and trying to figure out how to bring it on. Most of those methods are unclear to me now because instead of trying to fall asleep, I’m currently trying to stay awake but here are a couple of techniques that I think I use. 1) I recite and re-recite the Presidents of the United States in chronological order and then in reverse order. Madison always surprises me with how quickly he shows up chronologically and Rutherford B. Hayes surprises me with how clearly he arrives at all.2) I try to think of people who I know who couldn’t possibly have been thinking of me during this day. Then I think of the people that I always think of and try to estimate how many times I thought about them during the day. I’ve been told that we have 8 or 80 or 800 billion brain cells. I can’t remember what the figure is (8 billion or 800 billion…what’s the diff?) That’s plenty of room to think about people.

I’m talking about brain cells popping off in nano seconds. I would guess that I think of my daughter Mary about 20,000 times a day, my distant daughter Amanda about 5000. All the way down to the guy who was sitting on the sidewalk in Charlotte a couple of days ago….playing his guitar real good for free. I thought of him maybe 5 times today and pretty soon he will be in the memory cemetery only to be exhumed for a thousandth of a second some night when I’m unable to sleep and am absolutely sure that he has not thought of me which, I’m pretty sure is and always will be the case.

If I’m still awake, I start thinking about stories that I might write. This very story is a story I was thinking about writing last night shortly after I finished thinking about a guy who punched me in the mouth fifty years ago.

By this time, it’s usually about four in the morning. I’ve changed my position in bed at least five times and I’m starting to forget about the pain in my shoulder and then I start to catch a dream and run with it and lose it and re-catch it until I reluctantly wake up in an empty bed. Julia always gets up, a couple hours before me almost exactly at the moment that I start to get control of whatever dream I’m enjoying at the moment.

Usually, I “sleep” for maybe four hours a night.

I come to the kitchen as the daily routine begins and ask Julia how she slept last night.

She says “Fine. How bout you. You didn’t snore.”

A BIG DEAL OUT OF NOTHING

Many years ago, in a far less enlightened time, I was nearing the end of my incarnation as a single Iron John kinda guy. I attended a lecture by Thornton Krell addressing itself to the status of masculinity under the emerging onslaught/influence of feminism.

Krell addressed the feminist perception of masculinity as “immaturity” and predicted an increase in the use of that characterization as feminism continued to take root. Men, in response, should be prepared to hear the descriptor “immature” regularly attached to their behavior, at least as interpreted through the eyes of the female interpreter.

The masculine reaction to this accusation, according to the speaker, is to confront it with the articulation, dignity and courageous immediacy used in response to any racist, sexist comment.

Krell provided this dialogue as an example.

She: Sometimes I feel as if I’m raising another child around here.

He: Excuse me!?

She: You heard me. I said that I’m tired of your immaturity.

He: Are you calling me immature?

She: Yes I am.

He: Aha. Well I recognize and reject your faulty characterization as an attempt to exercise sexist, feminine intimidation. (disengage from conversation and walk away).

“Damn”, I thought, “Krell nailed it.”

Forewarned, I looked ahead to the next time that a woman dropped the “I” word on me. I didn’t have to wait long.I was making a big deal out of nothing one day when a female colleague observed:

“You guys, always making a big deal out of nothing. It’s so immature.”

BAM. I was ready. The Venus flytrap was prepared for the fly.

I followed the Krell script word for word, tude for tude until (walk away)

Before I could get one small step for a man away from the return fire, she dismissed me with these two little withering words……

“Grow up.”

Then SHE turned her pretty head and walked away.

Apparently, the theory of male immaturity as a sexist prefabrication was in itself, an “immature” theory probably peddled by some lecturer somewhere trying to make a big deal out of nothing. As a result of subsequent, enlightening conversations with several female experts on male behavior, I have decided to articulate further and more closely scrutinize the behavior of married men of which I am now one.

Unmarried men, that is men living outside the realm of legalized marital microscopy, are obviously immature to begin with so it becomes a question of superfluosity to concern ourselves with sexist prefabrication on their behalf.

Married men, according to a recently convened blue ribbon panel of married women, are not immature when compared to single men. Married men according to the panel can be best characterized as either annoying or aggravating.

What is the difference between immature, annoying and aggravating other than the presence of a wedding band and a recital of vows? According to our panel, at least the married men were mature enough to make a decision but having made that decision they almost immediately descended into a perpetual state of “annoying” and upon too frequent occasion, push the edge of the envelope of annoyance into “aggravation”. In mathematical terms, annoyance is a constant, aggravation a variable. Aggravation is a more active, more masculine version of annoyance.

Let me illustrate.

A husband returns home from work, kisses his wife and lies down on the couch. He turns on the teevee and relaxes after another soul draining day of back breaking number crunching amidst soul crushing office politics. The hunter is home. The gatherer has gathered.

The wife is too familiar with her husband’s inner visual so EVERYTHING about the example above is annoying except for the kiss and sometimes even the kiss if delivered too perfunctorily is also annoying.

Now, if the woman comes into the living room with her husband and the husband is checking the scores on his fantasy team or doing a crossword puzzle or drinking a beer or watching some sport shit on teevee, well any of those activities move the husband into the arena of “aggravation”. Notice, that in each of these areas, the man is actually DOING something….gambling, crosswording, drinking, remote controlling. The fantasy teams, the puzzle, the beer, the remote are all variables that add up to ANNOYING.

This is in the first minute of coming home to the castle.

Many wives at this juncture, always vigilant and reluctant to enable escapism/isolation, will take the opportunity to articulately point out the variables of aggravation currently on exhibit in the husband’s behavior. This articulation, depending upon the variable, can and does often result in the “broken record” which transmogrifies into an escalation into an examination of past trespasses, usually including the old reliable “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

The mate can respond defensively, which is aggravating and a guarantee of escalation or passivity which is annoying which keeps the broken record groovin’. Men being the gentlemen that we, er they are, will generally opt for annoying over aggravating so we, er they, will put our heads down on the couch and zone out in the annoying dormant stage recognized by women as a “pout.”

When men are in the dormant stage, pouting on the couch, we are in our own way extending an olive branch to our mates. We are saying, in effect. “I know that you find me annoying honey but I love you so much and need you so desperately that I don’t want to aggravate you, so I’ll just lie here in the mud with a bird on my head while you go about your, purposeful, productive, perky, pretty little life.” Please forget the three four 'p’ words in the last alliteration if you’re a woman reading this foolishness because I imagine you will find them aggravating in a typical mansplaining, patronizing, sexist way way so, sorry..sorry, really sorry. Whoops, I forgot, you’re annoyed by apologies. Well whaddya want me to say? Why don’t you write it out and I’ll say it for God sake. Whoops, I’m getting aggravating again. At this point men usually leap into action. “Uh, honey, I’m going into the garage and put some water in the radiator or one of the tasks that have been sanctioned as legitimate but if repeated too often become annoying and if performed with the slightest bit of attitude may become aggravating enough for an escalation. I hope in this rant, I have more articulately descibed the conundrum of masculinity as percieved through the intuitive, sensitive, down to earth, intelligent, lovely even without makeup feminine point of view. What’s that? Too many adjectives at the end? Stop dicking around on the computer? Okay, Okay Sorry etc.

FULL OF POISON

I’m about as full of poison as I’m going to get. I’m twenty five blasts in with three to go. Lethargic guilt is such a pitiful condition. I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of mine a few months before I got diagnosed.

My lifelong pal John Crown had been clobbered by heart attack, heart surgery, cancer, colostomy and blinding cataracts.

On his most recent trip to the hospital, Dr. Somebody asked Crown if he was depressed. Crown knew that the doctor was very aware of how many health concerns he had on his plate.

"Of course I’m depressed, Doctor. Wouldn’t you be if you were I?”

The doctor shrugged as if to say “uhyayuh”

The doctor asked Crown if he wanted something for the depression.

Crown said “No thank you. My depression is the only thing I give a shit about”

That’s how I was feeling all day today. The only thing that interested me was my lack of interest and the guilt that came with not giving a shit which is even more interesting and paralyzing than the lethargy itself. At the radiation center, they warned me that 95% of the people having the treatment that I’m having experience fatigue.

I wondered if they had a reason for that amazing percentage. They said it’s our bodies reaction to the poison that is introduced into our systems with poison being another word for radiation.

I had been operating under a false impression. I thought that every day when I get zapped by the rays I was equating the rays with a ray gun which fired at my cancerous cells for about five minutes. Then after the volley, the smoke cleared.

Not really

Radiation is more like pouring poison in to a container until the container is full and then letting the poison invade the environment in which the deadly cells are trying to multiply.The battle goes on for more than a volley of five minutes. The battle is continuous 24/7

In other words, every day my container gets filled with more poison. It’s gonna linger in the neighborhood for a month and when it starts to dissipate, we’ll look at the environment again and see what damage has been done to the invading cells.

So that’s why I’m worn out and going to the bathroom 3 times an hour.

And the whole thing is becoming routine.

Routine tends to normalize even the most extraordinary circumstances.

It’s comforting to know that all of this is normal and there’s no reason to feel guilty. A reduction in guilt takes the edge off the lethargy.

So I’m gonna feel good about all the time I spend rotting on the couch.

My body earns it every day.

Soon I’ll be as full of poison as I’m gonna get and from that point on, I’m gonna get better.

The Carcass of Martha

Andy and his brother Pete heard the word through telegraph, a modern marvel in 1898.

The final flock of carrier pigeons, 250,000 of them were approaching.Andy, who knew a lot more but said a lot less than younger brother Pete, had already witnessed and assisted in one major devastation. He had already spent an entire September day among the dead, the dying and the mangled; picking up perforated pigeons and heaping them into piles. Andy had watched eagles, hawks and vultures arrive to share in the spoil of pigeon piles. Only a comparative few of those scavengers were shot for their carrion on but the pigeon corpses were everywhere.

Andy gathered and stashed five lifetime’s worth of pigeon feathers, bones and birdmeat and drove a horse drawn carriage full of dead passengers home to his hogs. At one time, a single flock of passenger pigeons contained more than 2 billion birds. As the most common bird in America, many flocks and colonies existed. The passenger population appeared not only inexhaustible and invulnerable but also territorially threatening. One flocking colony, known in Wisconsin as Endeavor, spread over 750 square miles. Endeavor could and did obscure the sun. People of Wisconsin, future Cheeseheads, were not about to surrender that much tundra neither frozen nor thawed. Andy and Pete were riflemen in the gaggle of hunter/soldier/patriots about to converge on that flocking colony from below. As the targets approached, Andy could feel a surprising current of air. He heard a sound that reminded him of a tempest at sea. The passengers were overhead. The sky was dark. The brothers and the gang of hunters opened fire, reloaded and opened fire again and again and again and again. The not clay pigeons dropped from the sky like bleeding, bleating hailstones. Children on the ground, fortified with poles and clubs were waiting. Andy was in such a frenzy that he didn’t hear the cursing and thudding that surrounded him. Andy barely noticed the dozen passengers that fell on or near him while he was pulling and reloading. He didn’t hear the thousands of gun reports coming from each side. Each unheard report bore mute witness to a load of scatter shot that could and did take down as many as ten passengers per blast. A certain amount of time passed although the exact amount of minutes/hours is unclear. Some have speculated that it took a bit longer than did the massacre at Little Big Horn with each blast the equivalent of ten arrows. And then the flock passed. And then there was silence. Andy, with gun barrel still smoking, turned to Pete and said “that telegraph’s a pretty damn good idea.” Ten thousand of a quarter million passengers flew away. Twenty years later only ONE passenger pigeon, a bird named Martha, remained alive. When Martha finally died, her body was suspended in a tank of water then freeze framed into a three hundred pound block of ice and sent to the Smithsonian Institute. Martha’s carcass. Martha’s carcass is still around. Andy and Pete are long gone now but their great, great grandsons hold season tickets on the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. They wear cheeseheads and feathers as they back the Pack. Right before the kickoff of the opening game at Lambeau Field, a tremendous roar emerges from the crowd. Dozens of people in the crowd, including all those related to Andy or Pete always turn to each other and remark that the roar sounds like “a thunderstorm of bloody passengers”. Great, great, grandson Andrew didn’t have a clue where that odd expression originated only that it had been in his family for more than a century.

ATTEMPTING TO TAKE A KNEE

Okay, I got this. It took awhile but I got it. Last Sunday I left the teevee off while the national anthem was playing. I went into the kitchen and began by locking my arms together in unity with the NFL, myself, Tom Brady and I guess Trump. Normally when I fold my arms, I have my right hand on my left bicep and my left hand under my right bicep. Today in honor of awkwardness and OCD awareness, I reversed that position. Now I knew how the other folks lived. Next I dropped to one knee, in honor of Kaepernick and everything that he was protesting and in recognition of Tim Tebow and the values that he projected. Then I dropped to two knees in remembrance of my altar boy days in gratitude that I don’t have any of those sexual abuse experiences that I can remember. While on both knees, I said a quick Our Father in honor of the patriarchy that is the NFL. I threw in a Hail Mary just in case the Bills needed one. I bowed my head made a sign of the cross and whispered “offense. defense. special teams, coaching”. I raised my head and said aloud “Go Bills”. Then I went to stand up and realized there was no way that I could get up: an homage to being overweight, out of shape with bad knees, shattered sense of balance, bad hipped Baby Boomer. I dropped to all fours in honor of dogs everywhere and did a reverse evolutionary crawl as I headed Towards and into the water instead of out of and away from it. I reached the base of the kitchen sink. I threw one arm up towards the granite countertop. With my arm upraised, I made a fist in honor of black power and then I gave a peace sign in honor of John Lennon. Then I put my other hand up making at one and the same time the gesture for “touchdown” and the “I am powerless sign” in recognition of everybody suffering from an addiction. I grasped the counter top and pulled myself up in tribute to the concept that “we will rise” as well as the Horatio Alger vision of “pluck not luck”. I stood on my own two feet in homage to the Revolutionary War. I tapped a glass of water from the kitchen sink and poured it over my head as a form of baptism as well as a reminder of whatever we were pouring water over our heads for a few years past. I dried my hair in reminiscence of the “wethead is dead” commercials that were prevalent during NFL telecasts before erectile dysfunction took over. I grabbed an ice cold Coors.I went into the great room/living room/living great room with our vaulted ceiling and open concept. I said a quick “welcome home” to our veterans of foreign war I hit the remote. I opened the beer from Golden Colorado.

Thank God the anthem was over. The game was on.

Prodigious Piles of Penguin Poop

Is this a change? Yes, yes it is. This IS a change if you don’t believe in recurring cycles.This is the first time I’ve put a title on a essay before writing the essay. In the past I have put hundreds of titles on hundred of “posts” and called them “essays” or “stories” or “opinions” or “obscure art” or “poems”. That recurring cycle is known as “writing”. So the fact that this “essay” is title driven is not so much a change as it is a cyclical recurrence and a tabooo shattering use of alliteration in a title.

I am currently interested in another little know cyclical recurrence, namely, that every dozen years or so, way up North and in New Zealand, unexpected piles of penguin poop suddenly appear. The piles are concentrated in a circular area and they have been puzzling poopoligists for a while now since they have not yet been identified as part of a cycle rather than a random series of evacuations. My conjecture is that every dozen years for the past few centuries, what with the global warming and all, penguins have realized that they need to fly because pretty soon the ice will be gone and things will get might awkward or heaven forbid even might become aukward like the extinction of the once great auk.

So every dozen years, the penguins gather around in a circle and try like hell to start flying. They just stand there and strain their minds to imagine themselves flying and the strain mimics the strain of bowel movement which produces the prodigious piles as the penguins will stand in one spot for a couple of days, straining, imagining, willing, and pooping.To the objective observer, (of which there aren’t any as this effort is always made in secret and in fact will not even be attempted unless complete absolute privacy is assured) it would appear that the penguins are just standing there pooping but my conjecture is that much more is happening.

Penguins, through imagination, are attempting to speed up the evolutionary process. Whenever a non-flying organism is trying to will itself into flight, that organism typically has the appearance of just standing there or just sitting there in a private lotus position; Mike Love for example before Beach Boy concerts in the seventies. Unfortunately for Love, however, his concentration and privacy were regularly interrupted pre-flight by the sudden, cursing, drunken appearance of band mate Dennis Wilson who seemed to take delight in the act of vomiting on the head of Love when Love was at the height of astral concentration. This violation left Love as earthbound as a pooping penguin.

After about a week or so of straining, the penguins give up and banish the thought of flying from their minds entirely and focus on the hope of being captured and taken to zoos where they are in great demand simply because they are the rare birds that can not fly away and escape. Eventually, penguins must learn to fly or become extinct. Thus is the nature of cycles and the constant need for change.

It is possible to change without improving but impossible to improve without changing. Like the change in the appearance of this essay what with the title and all. But it’s not just the appearance of the title that marks the change.

Usually when I write, the title is the last thing that I come up with as it is a way of pretending that I had a controlling concept to begin the piece rather than just a flow of ideas that when completed I need to read to grasp and when read suggests a “concept” which can be fortified by taking a few words from the discovered “concept” and putting those words at the top of the piece and calling those words a “title”. In this case, the title, an actual controlling thought, came first and everything else has strainlessly evolved from that thought and will lead to the precise, alliterative, feathery ending which will be missed by some readers because they shook their heads and stopped reading a few paragraphs back but not by you the truly intelligent, patient and charming few who have read this far and only have thirty four words to go.

Thank you for getting this far with this essay or whatever and I hope that these paragraphs have been worth your attention and are not merely prodigious piles of penguin poop.

LIPSTICK LAND ?!?

We don't know where we came from. We don't know where we're going to. But in between, we think we know where we are and "we" try like hell to hold on to the mortal interlude, to enjoy it, to understand “it”. Two of the three are impossible. Although sometimes "enjoyable", the incomprehendible interlude, the mortal coil, will always slip away.

So we have a question mark at the beginning of our lives and a question mark at the end but in the middle we have an exclamation point. Some of us, I suppose have an additional asterisk in the middle...see Roger Maris. Some of us, I suppose have an additional dollar sign in the middle....see the Donald Trump. Some of us have an additional + in the middle.....see Meryl Streep o Wilt Chamberlain but all of us have the ! point in the middle and the question marks that surround the ! Because we don't know where we come from and we don't know where we're going to.

Some of us know and love the “parents” that we come from but where did they come from etc and where did all those people go..long time passing. Were they ever here?

One of the rules of a dream is that within the dream, you can not remember how you got into the “dream”. A dream always occurs "in media res", in the middle of things. Things, in this case being question marks. Middle in this case being exclamation points. Therefore in the middle of the dream of question marks is the dream of exclamation marks.

A dream within a dream.

The guy I Invented named Poe was right, almost.

He forgot about the airquotes. In lipstick land "everything" needs an airquote. " ? ! ? " is a dream within a dream within a dream. " ? ! ? " is everything that you've just read and everything that you will ever read. " ? ! ? " is “Thornton Krell”. And “I” am he as “you” are me and we are all together.

It' has frequently been argued that there are too many "air quotes" at work in written renditions of "lipstick land".

"Lipstick land" is, of course, "shorthand" for the "realization" that the box in space created by "our" collective and individual "minds" is nothing more than a mass "hallucination" in which "mass" refers not to many more than one but rather "one" subdivided infinite times.

The "inhabitants" of lipstick land are those who have come to "embrace" the fragmentary, figmentary, fictitous essence of "their" own "existence" and who in their everlasting "introspection" continually ask themselves "what's wrong with 'me'" only to be answered with the wordless, soundless refrain "What's wrong with you is none of your goddamned business".

To these inhabitants, "everything" is surrounded by "air quotes" so whenever paragraphs are composed with "words" to describe lipstick land, tremendous "restraint" must be used in order that every single "word" not contain air quotes or rather be "contained" by air quotes.

This form of "punctuation" is needed to "convey" the essential "authenticity" of lipstick land but since its practice runs against the "norm" of the aforementioned hallucination, the air quote "punctuation" method is minimized almost to the point of non-existence in traditional "everyday" non-lipstick land "writing".

Every so often in that non-existant realm, a "comedian" will use "air quotes" and usually get a lot of "laughs" because the audience "perceives" a secret glimpse into lipstick land which makes their actual non-existence seem somehow "funny". Of course all of "this" is "superfluous" and could be summed up by the all inclusive expression "?!?" which is as "succinct" and "truthful" a description of all "things"as "possible".

I and we all are the “artists” formerly and currently known known as ?!?.

TOP DRAWER

The old wallet died characteristically as a hero.

Ice had walked the four rows down from his VIP seats at Citi-field in order to snap a shot of Aaron Judge. Taking a great photo is all about figuring out where to stand or in this case kneel. As soon as Ice got into perfect position, not a moment sooner or later, Judge unleashed a ferocious swing. The sound of collision between bat and ball was startling. Ice, startled, snapped. The slight movement caused by the startling sound and the ferocity of the swing would cause a bit of a blur for sure.

The ball landed 450 feet later in the left field stands.

Ice dropped the camera to take a look. The stadium roared in awe as fans realized where the shot had landed. Ice recovered in time to get a picture of Judge getting ready to touch home plate. Aaron pointed to the heavens in gratitude as the fans pointed towards left field and released a collective “Holy Shit”.

Ice retreated from the position that he had held for maybe twelve seconds.As he returned to his seat, he whispered “I got it”. Then automatically he reached for his wallet and realized “I don’t have it” The wallet was missing. In near panic, Ice sorted through the camera equipment that was now in his seat. He had gotten up in a hurry. He looked through the equipment and couldn’t see the wallet.

He looked behind the seat and there it was....covered in beer. The covering was the result of a fan jumping up and dropping his beer on the wallet. Beer combined with 30 plus years of service had put an end to the wallet as a functioning billfold.

Ice was relieved to find the damp thing. Everything in it was soaked.

Ice carried the wounded wallet for the next two days but realized it was time to throw in the towel.

When he got home. He took everything out of the drowned billfold. He retrieved the replacement from where it had been waiting for thirty years in the top drawer to get into the game. The replacement wallet was a Christmas gift from his mother-in-law. He left the pictures of Allan Ladd and Virginia Mayo in the new/old wallet. He added his driver’s license, his library card and his Dylan ticket.

Everything else remained in the old wallet. Ice placed the old wallet in the top drawer underneath a framed picture/poem that his parents had given him mny years ago.

The writing on the picture said;

“To Our First Born

We’ve always loved you best because you were our first miracle. You were the genesis of our marriage and the fulfillment of young love. You sustained us through the hamburger years, the first apartment (furnished in Early Poverty) and our first mode of transportation (1946 feet) and the seven inch TV set that we paid on for 36 months. You were new, had unused grandparents and enough clothes for triplets. You were the original model for a Mom and Dad who were trying to work the bugs out. You got the strained lamb, the open safety pins and the three hour naps. You were the beginning.”

Underneath the writing was Ice in his white dinner jacket and bow tie smiling for this senior portrait. Next to the senior picture was a smaller picture of the family dog, a mutt named Lassie who could not have looked less like the Lassie on teevee.

Above the mutt

Love Always

Mom and Dad.

This is the stuff that was in Ice's wallet on the wallet’s last day. All of them stories. Some of the stories written others to be written.

Some of this stuff was not gonna make the transfer.

His library card.

a photo id card for radiology treatment

a photo id card from second year year at college

a current New York state drivers license

An AARP id card

a funeral card for his father-in-law

a guest pass for Artisan Works

a ticket stub from Bob Dylan concert at RIT

A funeral card for his mother

A laminated Buffalo Bills schedule from 2015

a laminated country club membership card

A ticket stub for Chuvalo banquet.

A medicare registration Card

A business card for Tasty Parker

A business card for Mike the Clown

a $2 win ticket on Secretariat from Belmont Park

An amusement park photo machine photo of him and Lynn on their first date.

The last thing Ice noticed as he shut the drawer was that somehow the ticket for Bob Dylan at RIT had broken loose from the sacred discards.

DYLAN AT RIT

Dylan failed last night to resolve one of my longest standing differences of opinion with my wife Lynn. Lynn is from the “Dylan is an icon of the sixties who writes great lyrics but who has a lousy voice and arrogant personality” point of view.

I’m from the “authentic cultural spokesperson whose unique voice and enigmatic personality are as inseparable from his lyrics as the lyrics are inseparable from the music and the message” point of view.

I resist “the icon from the sixties” point of view because it turns Dylan’s timeless compositions into nostalgia acts. I agree with the “great lyrics” observation but always feel like Lynn is setting up the polite quid pro quo of devastating criticism with faint praise followed by the real message…“his voice sucks and he’s an a-hole“, which she unfailingly does.

I had seen Dylan perform live four times ( including the amazing Rolling Thunder Review)before Lynn agreed to go with me to see him about ten years ago at the Finger Lakes Performance Center. That night, Dylan seemed angry at the audience and infuriated with his own songs, so his performance was brusque and furious. Lynn who believes that an entertainers first job is to entertain, (which means as the song goes to smile when they are low )was put off by the moody seemingly indulgent performance which fueled her original biases especially the A-Hole part.

“He never even talked to the audience. He never connected. Why didn’t he at least tell a joke or something,” Lynn wondered and would continue to wonder until last night.

I said “the guys not a comedian and he’s not a lets all get together by the campfire and sing cumbaya type of guy. He is what he’s always been which is exactly what he is at any particular moment and what he was that night was pissed off for whatever reason and that’s good enough for me” and it was until last night.

Last night we took the tie-breaker with us, our thirteen year old daughter Mary. Point of reference, Mary attended her first concert of her young life a week before, Green Day at the Blue Cross Arena. She loved it. Mary plays guitar herself and blew us all away last week when she brought home the self-portrait in pencil she had been working on in her advanced art class.

Dylan played at a much smaller venue, one of my several alma maters, the Rochester Institute of Technology. The choice of venue in itself is interesting. Is Dylan playing to smaller houses because he seeks the intimacy of smaller crowds having exhausted himself on the stadium circuit or does he no longer have the drawing power to book larger spaces ?

The main reason we got the tickets in the first place was to expose Mary to Dylan as well as to RIT. We tried to get two tickets for just me and the Mare but since we had to buy a group of three minimum, Lynn went along for the ride.

Whatever, twenty minutes after the scheduled starting time of 8:00 at 8:22 to be precise the sound system crackled to life with a rapid fire minimalist introduction apparently pre-recorded by an invisible emcee featuring garbled clauses like “The poet laureate of rock music and his generation……..thought to be washed up in the eighties……. His last two albums are two of the most critically acclaimed albums of his career thus the history of American recordings….the author of a currently best selling auto -biography…..Bob Dylan and his band”.

Dylan came out in his black outfit with black Stetson. The members of his band, two guitarists a bass player and a drummer were also dressed in black, two of the four in cowboy hats kinda like Dylan’s. Dylan went to the piano on the left side of the stage and the group broke into “Maggie’s Farm”.

Blistering.

Bitter

Pertinent

All of the elements of working on “Maggie’s Farm” intact and primal. Lyrics mostly clear and decipherable. Off to a raucous start. Mary applauded. So did Lynn. I felt not only renewed but also partially redeemed.

Just before Dylan hit the stage, a friend of mine came over and told me that he had researched the set list. There were fourteen songs plus an encore of two. This would be a sixteen round contest. Round one was a winner.

My favorite fighters were guys like the Sugars Rays Robinson and Leonard, Alexis Arguello, Jerry Quarry, George Chuvalo and of course Muhammad Ali. As these guys got older, I used to count of each off their rounds one by one hoping that somehow they’d win each round but with equal fervor that they would at least survive the round. Then I get into the minutes per round, hoping that somehow they could win ninety five seconds of each round and keeping score in my mind as they neared the magic number of eight which would win them a decision if they didn’t get knocked out. I found myself using the same accounting system with Zimmerman on this night.

Round two was “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”. Dylanologists remember this song as the response Dylan used so many years ago when he was booed off the stage at the Newport Folk festival for committing the unforgivable sin of going electric. Since then, it’s always been one of my favorites. An anthem I use to chart my own changes and willingness to leave behind whatever is/was no longer needed.Dylan remained to the side and guitar less as the first words hit the air.

“You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last. But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast“

Unfortunately it sounded more like this

Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa.

Dylan hunched over the mike, growling, confronting the mike like a gambler keeping his cards close to his vest because he’s got such a bluff goin’ that if anybody sees the pasteboards he’s screwed for the whole ante. I could see Lynn frowning and Mary following suit I could not give Dylan round two even though I wanted to.

Round three was another of my favorite songs, the haunting and magically melancholic Visions of Johanna whose first line is:

“Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet?”

The only word I could make out was night. Through the entire song, the only words I could understand were “Visions of Johanna” and I knew the song well.

For any of you like Mary and Lynn who don’t know the actual words, let me quote the first verse as Dylan wrote and published . Read them and weep because last night they disappeared completely into incomprehensibility.

“Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet? We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin’ you to defy it Lights flicker from the opposite loft In this room the heat pipes just cough The country music station plays soft But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off Just Louise and her lover so entwined And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind”

Whoops, I made a mistake. I forgot that between “Baby Blue” and “Johanna”, Dylan sang “Lonesome Day Blues”. The fact that I forgot about it, tells me all I want to know about the effort.

Next came a song I won’t forget for a long time, no matter how hard I try. “Dignity”, another one of my favorites. If Dignity is clarity than this rendering was particularly undignified. If Dignity is plunging into a compost pile and emerging as if from a Halloween hayride with the ghost of Aunt Helen then the effort had some saving grace. Once again Dylan’s verbal articulation was puddle muddy and he continued to hover by the keyboard still not strapped in to his axe. I got the feeling that he might not be strumming’ at all on this evening. Still when he gave his howling a break and hurled his oxygen into his harp, some of the magic returned. The band, minus one geetar was carrying the weight of this concert as if it had just pulled into Nazareth which seemed allright with everybody especially the integrationists amongst us who knew deep inside that there could be no segregation of lyrics and voice from music. The music in spite of the singer continued to soar even as the lyrics because of the poet continued to disappear.

At this point thirteen year old Mary turned to Lynn and commented “everything sounds the same” . Lynn nodded in ‘I told ya so’ acquiescence. The show went on as it must.

I recognized “Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee” immediately which nudged it/them towards the win column even as it/they lurched and lumbered fitfully amidst the graceful thundering wonder of the musicians.

I grabbed Mary by the hand and with the approval of Lynn, we headed to the floor for a closer look. One of my weird aptitudes is my ability to wade through a crowd. When Dylan had played with Petty and the Dead at then Rich Stadium before a crowd thirty times this large, I had managed to work my way to the edge of the stage. The secret of getting through a crowd is knowing how to dance with it rather than shove against it. When ya dance the crowd dance, openings appear.

Of course, I was so much younger than I’m older than that now.

The closest we could get was about fifteen rows back as this crowd was much less fluid, hardly any dancing or even movement to make advancing through it amenable. A calm brick wall.

It was from here that we heard and saw Dylan sing three slower numbers in which he had more control of the lyrics as if he actually knew the words and was going to sing them. “Po’ Boy”, “High Water (For Charley Patton)” and “Girl Of The North Country”. I could see Zimmy pretty well but Mary was being blocked by taller folks in front of her. I lifted my little girl up as high as I could for as long as I could so she might get a glimpse of the great man. With the way she’s growing and the way I’m deteriorating physically, maybe that was the last time I’d lift her up like this. Made me kind of sad but kind of proud as well.

I started to believe that maybe the reason we couldn’t hear Dylan clearly for the first half-dozen songs was the fact that we couldn’t see him. Ya know, that weird reflex that confronts us when we feel the need to shout at a blind man.

By the time Liddy and I got back to Beatrice , we were already learning the illusion behind that reflexive truth. I’m no longer a thin man but there was definitely something going on here and I didn’t know what it was. I started wondering if Dylan did.

The last five songs of the show , “Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again”, “Ballad Of Hollis Brown”, “Honest With Me”, “Standing In The Doorway” and “Summer Days” proved to be a split decision. Three of the songs I was relatively unfamiliar with so I couldn’t very well be disappointed with them. As a matter of fact one of the songs that I never heard before, Standing In The Doorway, sounded more familiar than most of the songs that I knew by heart based on the rate of decipherable words per lyric.

One of my favorite songs, “Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues” Again was even more deconstructed then any of the previous numbers. I even resorted to whispering the chorus lyric into Mary’s ear in the hopes of convincing her that these songs actually had words which meant I kept repeating “Oh Mama can this really be the end” over and over which I think is exactly what Mary was thinking when she was looking at Lynn and wishing she were somewhere else, wondering when the growling would cease. Of the final songs, “Summer Days” was by far the best. It sounded world class and indicated a rally in progress.

The band left the stage and I wondered if they would bother with an encore.I also wondered whether there was going to be enough applause to merit a return that could be anything more than hypocritical. Amazingly enough, the crowd didn’t move and began to applaud some even igniting about two dozen of the traditional lighters. Sho nuff, it worked. The band re-appeared.

The encore consisted of “Like A Rolling Stone” and “All Along The Watchtower.” These two turned out to be the best efforts of the evening. I later found out that the band had been encoring with these numbers through the entirety of the tour. It sounded like they had played them before and everybody knew the words and the music.

In the past when I’ve heard Dylan howl the anthemic “Like A Rolling Stone” he would stretch out the line “how does it feeeeeeel” and the audience would sing along with him. This time all but the required two e’s were missing as was the audience participation. More stenography. Between the two numbers Dylan, as if sensing the tension between me and Lynn, did the unthinkable. He told a joke. The joke went like this, as he introduced one of the band members Dylan said . “He comes from Louisiana so he stretches rattlesnakes across the front of his car. Calls ‘em windhsield vipers”

He introduced another band member by saying the guy was “so tough he shaves with a chain saw”. Then a magnificent version of “All Along the Watchtower” prologued by what sounded like an electirc version of Exodus turned everything over, under and upside down. Like all champs Zimmy came through in the end.

A little before the encore, I realized that I had been listening to the music through the ears of Mary and watching the performance through the eyes of Lynn. During Watchtower I watched and listened for myself and what I saw and heard was exactly what I wanted to see and hear other than the fact that Dylan never touched a guitar.

The concert reminded me of the Ali-Bonavena fight in which Ali looked listless and distracted throughout the fight until he finished off his clumsy, lumbering foe with a sudden knockout in the final round which removed from the judges the task of ruling in favor of the clearly inferior fighter.

That’s the task that the last song removed frrom my critique. I didn’t have to rip Dylan any further. The final song of the encore gave me everything I could have wanted.

On the way back to the car Mary said, “I expected more” which pretty much sums up most people’s feeling about Dylan even as we forget how much we already have.

Lynn said to Mary “ I want you to keep this ticket stub because someday, you’ll be telling someone that you saw Dylan and they’re going to want proof”. From Beatrice, that’s high praise. I guess the joke worked and there are many here among us along the watch tower who think that life itself is but a joke.

As for me, well it had been ten years since the last time I was in the same room with Dylan. Ten years from now he’ll be 73. I’ll go again but I won’t expect to get real close to the stage even though the crowd will be less than half a thousand. I suspect Mary will be amongst them. She might even be holding me up next time. Lynn and I will still be arguing.

Some times I’m a tick or two slow on the uptake. Sometimes I forget where I am and with whom I’m with wherever I am.

We in Rochester are fortunate to have the National Technical Institute for the Deaf as part of our Rochester Institute of Technology. RIT is where Bob Dylan played in the concert that I have just reviewed. When Dylan was leaving after completing his first fourteen songs, he paused in the middle of the stage raised his hands to chest level , palms out, fingers extended as if he were signaling “ten” while simultaneously wiping an invisible windshield using both hands.

From my distant seat, the gesture looked oddly quaint.

From where I sit now, I begin to understand. Dylan was using the universally accepted gesture of silent applause used by deaf folks, waving ten fingers. I bet the people in front of Dylan, part of the under whelming audible applause, were returning his gesture. The crowd on the floor nearest the stage and the performer were silently validating one another. A conversation was happening. Thus the non-hypocritical encore that followed.

Because we have so many deaf folks in Rochester, particularly in Henrietta; the community where RIT is located, I have become accustomed to interpreters speaking sign language at most large gatherings. At the time, I didn’t think it was unusual that to the left of Dylan, off stage, a woman was interpreting the concert. As I’ve mentioned in this review, up until the moment that Dylan silently applauded, he positioned himself to the far left of the stage. In fact, Dylan was as close to the interpreter on his left as he was to the lead guitar player on his right. If you count the interpreter as a member of the band, then there was Zimmy right smack dab in the middle of things. I make a practice whenever an interpreter is present to observe the sign language she is providing. I’m amazed at how quickly they can take complex ideas and instantaneously turn those into a lovely, commanding body language just beyond the reach of my intellect.

Now before me, I was watching a woman trying to signal lyrics like “You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last. But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast“ which as I mentioned in my review sounded more like this“Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa“.

Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa“.

Imagine the problem of trying to turn THAT into sign and body language.

But by God, she was doing it. Maybe she had the written lyrics in front of her or maybe she was doing the best with what she thought she heard or maybe because she was so much closer to Zimmy she actually heard what none of the rest of the audience sitting in the seats could hear. Her interpretation sort of resembled a hula set to rock music. It was thing of beauty to observe, very sensual, very seductive.

I’ve heard it said that hula is all about the stories being told by the hands of the dancer and that some times the stories are so risqué that at the end of the dance, the dancer has to go and wash her hands out with soap. None of Dylan’s lyrics needed that kind of sanitization unless she was hearing something different than I was which she most assuredly was.

Later, Lynn commented that this was the first and only time that she ever wished that she were deaf and understood sign language. “I would have been spared Dylan’s ghastly croaking and would have been able to understand the words.”

Ouch.

I ,of course took it one step further in defense of Dylan. Is it possible that Dylan was actually singing in deaf speak. If you’ve ever listened to a deaf person speak, it has it’s own unique sound and actually doesn’t sound a whole lot different from

“Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa“.

Could Dylan possibly be this aware and sensitive?Something had in fact happened there and until now I didn’t know what, had Dylan known all along?

Why not. He’s Dylan, I’m Rivers. There’s a difference. Big difference.

I ran these ideas past Lynn who assured me that I was getting a little carried away.From Lynn, that’s high praise.

Lynn had one further idea. Rochester is the home of Mitch Miller, the originator of the famous sing along with Mitch concept of fifties teevee. Mitch and his crew would sing a song and invite viewers to sing along by following a bouncing ball that danced over lyrics to the song which appeared at the bottom of the teevee screen. When Dylan performed at RIT he played in front of a backdrop upon which were projected different images during the show. Beatrice suggested that next time, the words of his lyrics should be projected on the screen with the bouncing ball so that everyone, not just the deaf could understand the words and sing along.

I think she’s got something. I can see it now. Network teevee. Right After Desperate Housewives. Sing along with Bob Dylan. Might catch on.

You read it here first.

I took the advice that Lynn had given Mary. I put the ticket stub in my wallet and carried it to the end.

Water Brigade Parade

When we re-learn how to sleep, the difference between night and day becomes negligible as the water brigade parade activates.

Here's how it works.

I'm peeing about every seventy minutes 24/7. That's an improvement from once every fifty minutes a couple of days ago, once every fifteen minutes two weeks ago. I've passed so much water, it's as if I've walked half way around Lake Ontario which means there's still a lot of water to pass.

Five minutes after every water pass, the urgency to pass, diminishes. Herein lies my opportunity to sleep. I've got to catch the winks when I can and I'm getting better at it. I hit a snooze button which I have just invented. Sometimes I drop off within 10 mintes. About one in three drop offs will result in a dream. I like that because I know I must be sleeping if I'm dreaming. Then after about a half hour I am urgently awake. I rest in the bed for 10-12 minutes and then I steal myself another mirror.

Repeat ad absurdium All day and all of the night with two breaks in between.

First break in the "morning" when I have my toast and my Ensure. I usually think about writing at this time but decide against it and go back to bed.

Repeat brigade all "afternoon" until "national news time". I get up. Fix something to eat. Find out what kind of outrage Trump is manifesting. Turn on a Yankee game. Sit in my chair. Watch the game. Stay awake. Think about writing. Pass water. Sit back down. Watch. Think. Pass.

The game ends about "midnight".

Head back into the eternal bedroom. Back to the same book. Urgency. Walk around Ontario. Back to the book. Pass out Sometimes talk to "someone" about "something" in my sleep. Wake up at the sound of my own voice.Realize I'm talking, pretty sure I was sleep talking because there's nobody else in the room. Once, I remember asking a phantom DeNiro " why do you make so many shitty movies?" Of course there was no response.And the beat goes on.The re-learning continues. The battle is joined. I think we're winning. I'm getting my eight hours of sleep. sixteen half hours at a time. Good for us Repeat etc.

Fatigue is the enemy of both urgency and connectivity.

Urgency and connectivity are essential elements of writing. We have an idea, we've got to capture it and we've got to capture it NOW. We know how ideas appear and disappear like butterflies. They are eager to flutter by and demand immediate attention. Attention requires energy. Energy is gored by fatigue just as fatigue is bored by energy. The idea flutters away and fatigue assures us that it will be back someday..just not today. Don' worry bout it. It's cool. Lie down. Who cares? You think you got people out there who care if you captured that idea or not. They don't. They wouldn't appreciate it even if you had caught it and attempted to connect with it. Definitely would misunderstand it, if you captured it correctly.

You wanna know what you need to connect with? You need to connect with your dreams. Just rest. Go to sleep. So what if you don't remember your dreams. Your dreams are just another set of butterflies that are not meant to be captured and lepodoptorized. Don't tell anybody about your dreams except maybe your shrink who has made a living listening to non-sense and reflecting it back to no-one except you. There is no one except you so if you can connect with yourself that's pretty goddamned good and what you should be spending all your time doing and you've got plenty of time when you're sleeping. No need to rush until you've got to get up and pee.

That urge to urinate is the only urgency you need to worry about. It is the only alarm clock. And if you are lucky and quick enough to connect that urge with consciousness and the nearest water closet, then you've realized all the urgency and connectivity that you'll need for this afternoon.

Mission accomplished.

Time for a nap.

Krell Loses His Wallet

Last month, my granddaughter Eva saw a woman right after the lady had been struck by a hit and run driver while jogging on Washington Street in Duxbury. Soon, other people began to crowd around this traumatizing sight.

The woman had been killed, her crumpled body on full display.

Soon it was discovered that the woman didn’t have her wallet with her when she started her fatal run so for several hours after the body had been removed, nobody had any idea who the victim was. She had no identity. A broken Jane Doe carted off in an ambulance.

This brings me to one of my greatest, secret fears; losing my wallet.

I am so afraid of losing my wallet that I never carry more than 20 bucks in my wallet at one time. I don’t carry an ATM card or any credit cards because I’m scared to death of losing them. Whatever beer money I have, I carry in my pocket.

So, two nights ago, I lost my wallet.

I was staying with the Peets, Ovid and Julia. Everything was going perfectly. We were on our way to Birkdale Village for some music and ice cream. I got out of the shower and reached in my dresser to grab my wallet, fully expecting it to be there, it wasn’t there.

Next began the too familiar, furious search around their house to find my wallet. We had been all around Huntersville that day. We ate at a Lake Norman restaurant. We walked through the campus of Davidson University. We had a beer at our local Bistro, a place named Harvey’s. I changed my clothes at least three times always feeling good about my wallet.

We checked all of those places too no avail. “Did anyone turn in a wallet today to lost and found.” At the pool someone had in fact found a wallet and it was in lost and found. The lifeguard took me to it. It wasn’t mine.

Mine was still gone.

My great fear had come true. I was in a state of panic. Everyone was concerned, not so much about the wallet…which had nothing in it….but rather my propensity to brood and throw a black cloud over the rest of the visit.

I sat in the guest bedroom hyperventilating, two clicks away from a full fledged panic attack. I took many deep breaths and made up my mind that the lost wallet wasn’t going to ruin the rest of the evening. To my amazement, I found that metaphysiction compartment and we proceeded to Birkdale. The compartment was my usual escape, comparing singers and bands. Elvis or Sinatra etc

We arrived in the village. We listened to some music and had some ice cream. While we were people watching in the village, it occurred to me that every single person that we saw had THEIR wallet. I was the only man without a wallet.

I had no identity. I was nobody. You know who else doesn’t have a wallet. Broken joggers

Victims of serial killers

Kids under the age of 12.

Those whose pockets have been picked.

Jane and John Doe

A bad crowd to be in for a “responsible” man.The overwhelming humiliation of irresponsibility was calling and all I had to do was pick up the phone to ruin the night. I didn’t pick up but the phone kept ringing.

Moody Blues or Pink Floyd.

Jim or Van Morrison

Johnny or Edgar Winters

If somehow a cop or a store owner asked me if I had my “license”, I would have to say that I didn’t. If they asked me why, I’d have to say that I had lost my wallet. We are so connected to our wallets that when we don’t have them we begin to question our entire existence ,at least that’s what the ringing phone was calling me to do.

Somehow the conversation drifted over to a discussion of the Sopranos. I got a visual of Tony and asked myself “in this visual” does Tony have a wallet. Of course Tony has his wallet. He’s Tony Soprano. He ALWAYS has his wallet. What kid of MAN, doesn’t have his wallet.

RING, RING, RING went my unanswered inner phone. We got through the night. I congratulated myself, whoever I was, which I wouldn’t be able to prove if anybody asked me, on my composure based on the way that I was handling an overwhelming secret fear. My secret fear is that I am an irresponsible, immature, unfocused airhead, literally a loser. We all have our secrets. Now you know mine. Without my wallet, I’m not Thornton Krell. I’m John Doe I don’t exist.

John Doe Walking

John Lennon/Paul McCartney

James Brown/Bob Marley

Tom Petty/George Harrison

Heart/Pretenders

The Band/Led Zep

Roy Buchanan/Stevie Ray

Eagles/Credence

John Coltraine/Miles Davis

Rascals/Lovin’Spoonful

It was the fourth of July and it was so hot that the lizards were not only crawling on front porches but they were turning colors as they scampered.

Thornton Krell was in another new town preparing for another mini-brewery performance. As he walked up the hill on Serenity Street, he passed by a house displaying the stars and stripes. He said “Happy Holiday” to the scowling woman standing beneath the flag.

The woman responded by asking “where do you live”.

Her background music sounded like the music playing when someone is so suspicious that they are ready to call the cops. Background music that suggested a fear of strangers. Background music that hinted “what’s a person like You doing on a street like THIS walking in the sun on such a fucking hot day in MY neighborhood. Krell answered, “I’m from Centerville. It’s a real nice place.” and he continued his stroll. Zappa/Beefhart Harrison/Petty Krell was a walker. He had become a walker during his time in Viet Nam. He kept the habit upon returning home. If his destination was in walking distance, he left his car and bike behind. Walking distance was ten miles….five miles out and five miles back. As he walked, Krell was in the habit of mentally comparing two random musical groups. If he had tickets for both and they were playing at the same time which one would he choose to see? Animals/Byrds Paul Revere and Raiders/Jay and the Americans Jerry Lee Lewis/Fats Domino Little Richard/Chuck Berry Krell walked a lot even before Nam. He was one of those kids who didn’t take the bus and did walked a mile and a half to school every day as well as a mile and a half back from school. Exactly halfway through his walk there was a four way stop, patrolled by Mrs. Johnson who said hello and goodbye to Krell at least four times a day. Johnny Rivers/Rick Nelson James Gang/New Riders Jefferson Airplane/Buffalo Springfield Kinks/Hollies At the stop was a corner grocery store owned by a guy named Red Burns who had run the store when Krell’s father was a kid. Everybody who stopped at the store called him “Red” or “Burnsie”. Krell was too polite for such casual language with an elder. Krell always called him Mr. Burns. Red appreciated that pleasantry and usually gave Krell an extra piece of bubble gum for being a “good kid”. Cars/Doors King Crimson/Yes

Streissand/ Fitzgerald

Grace Slick/St. Vincent

U2/Metallica Blood Sweat and Tears/Chicago Krell learned that good manners have rewards. Also outside of Burnsie’s, Krell would run into Wilson. Wilson was beloved in the neighborhood. Nowadays, Wilson would probably be described as “special”. He was a tall guy who wore an Elmer Fudd hat regardless of the weather. Krell only knew Wilson to speak two words. Those two words were these: “Hey Boy

Johnny Cash/Willie Nelson

Stevie Wonder/Ray Charles ABBA/Fleetwood Mac Dionne Warwick/Dianna Ross Diana Krall/Norah Jones And Wilson didn’t say those words to everybody but he said them to Krell every time that they met at the for corner cross walk. Wilson “helped” Mrs. Johnson and it was rumored that Wilson was her cousin who had been shell shocked in WW2. Everybody called Wilson Wilson except Krell. Whenever Wilson said “hey boy” to Krell, Krell would respond…”Hey Mr. Wilson” And Wilson would laugh, his too loud laugh. Krell never knew if Wilson was his first name or his last name. It took Krell a few months to realize that Wilson disappeared. Upon the realization, Krell asked Mrs Johnson “where’s Wilson” to which Mrs. Johnson simply said “he lives somewhere else now.” This was good enough for Krell. Billy Joel/Elton John Steve Miller/Bob Segar Allman Brothers/CSNY REM/Police Michael Jackson/Bruce Springsteen Hollies/Kinks

Blasters/X Buddy Holly/Kurt Cobain Dave Clark 5/Monkees Glen Campbell/James Taylor Pat Benatar/Joan Jett Joni Mitchell/Bonnie Raitt Lost in thought, heat and reminiscence, Krell never saw, heard or felt it coming as he walked through a red light on speed trap corner, twenty yards from the burned out shell of what once was a coven.

The Final Factoid

My name is Jem Masters.

Here’s some things you should know about me before you decide upon my reliability as a narrator or as a hero or as witness or life saver. I’m the final factoid. I’m Caucasian but my skin tone is more like a paper bag than a peeled potato. I take my glasses off with one hand rather than two. As a result, my glasses are either tilted or down too far on my nose. I’ve recently learned that long time spectacle wearers, who use both hands to remove their glasses, regard both the tilt and the nose drop with rage and judgment. I have a large head according to my last visit to the optometrist who after taking one look at me suggested that “larger” men often need a special kind of frame to fit the special frame of their body. My glasses were “way” too small. I took his advice and went to the larger size. This remedy only further accentuated both the tilt and the nose drop but lessened the likelihood of having to purchase new frames every year as the larger size would naturally relieve the pressure that my gigantic head was putting on the vulnerable hinging. Another thing that you should know about me is that I have achieved perfect buoyancy in a swimming pool. I can lie on my back and just float all afternoon without moving a muscle. I love that especially down here in North Carolina where between tropical storms and hurricanes, it’s usually around 100 degrees. I spend a lot of time in my pool, looking up at the famous Carolina blue sky and the surreal clouding……perfect for optimism. Also if anybody’s drowning and I’m floating by, I make a great inner tube…all ya gotta do is grab and hold on until help arrives. I’ve come to understand that almost every man who is buoyant is also portly. I’ve recently become portly which is great because it makes it that much easier to buy a suit. I hadn’t bought a suit in 10 years. Last time I bought one, it was a struggle to stay afloat. Now, I float. I’m portly. And just in case you confront a man versus nature situation, remember; any portly in a storm. Portly, big head, tilted glasses on my nose, optimistic and wearing the polyester suit that I recently bought on line from Kohl’s to go along with the xxx sweater vest and Escher tie that I decided to put on in order to introduce myself. Yeah, that’s me now. I’m in the house and the aircon is on big time. Four days ago, it was the 4th of July. Stars and Stripes and humidity and lizards on the porch.I had just come out of Slice of Life, our neighborhood pizza shop. The Slice of Life had survived a fire and had just reopened. The damage was relatively minor. Next door to the Slice at the Laughing Brook Spell Casting and Ancestral Arts, where the witch was always “in”, the damage was far more extensive. Laughing Brook was on the move anyways.The PERFECT location had presented itself the very same week the shop burnt the roof off the building that caged it, very large forces were acting directly upon the street corner.

I had always felt good that we had a Spell Casting shop in the middle of our downtown. God knows we had a speed trap. Approaching that corner the speed limit dipped from 35 to 20 in about 100 yards and a cop was always sitting right there. This produced a lot of revenue for our town attorneys.

After devouring two Slice of Life pizza slices, I was looking forward to a float in the pool when I saw this old guy approaching the corner. He was tall. He was tan. He was not from here nor from Impanema. He was pre-occupied. He didn’t look right almost as if he were under a self induced trance. I was gonna say hello but I was pretty sure he wasn’t gonna hear me unless I said it too loud which it was too hot to do and which I wouldn’t have done anyways as we portly, paper bag guys don’t usually start up conversations with tall, tan, trance driven older guys.

He started to enter the crosswalk and then he was on the ground.

It was happening right NOW, right in front of me.

I called 911 a split second after tall, tan guy hit the ground.

911 called the speed trap cop who showed up immediately from a few yards away and started with the CPR.

The ambulance was there in a flash and the EMT’s took over from the cop. After a bit of shirt tearing and chestpounding and pincushioning, the ambulance took off with the tall guy inside and the cop alongside and the sirens blasting. Before he left, the cop took my name.“If this guy survives, you saved his life”, the cop named Officer Wilson, told me before he tore off to the hospital.

I removed my glasses from my giant head and wiped them with my Panthers tee shirt.

I still haven’t heard anything from the cop or the guy. If I had her number, I’d call the witch.

EARLY BOOMER, LATE BLOOMER

I chose my Christmas gift 25 years before I was born. I chose wisely. On that day, Mary Keenan, who had just arrived bag and baggage in Rochester, New York from County Cork Ireland, gave birth to her first child…and named her Mary.

I sent that child the twinkle in her Irish eyes. Young Mary went on to celebrate another 91 Christmas birthdays. I was around for 67 of them as she was glad to see my father and her husband who saw my twinkle when he returned from the Philipines at the end of WW2 which made me part of a significant demographic excess known as the Baby Boom. When my father was in the Phillipines and during his entire time in the service, my mother wrote him a letter every day.

 I am an early Boomer and a late bloomer. When she was child, she raised her brother and two sisters as her father died suddenly when she was in high school. She lived to be near the bedside of all of ‘em when they passed. Same with my father, she comforted him till he died in her arms.  I was the oldest of her three children. She loved me and supported us, every day of our lives.

 I never bothered to ask her to thank me for choosing her above millions of candidates to be my mother while I was in my first infinity before my vacation before my next and final infinity. And I know I’ll see her again. 

The stars twinkle.

 Mary’s granddaughter is our youngest child. Of course we named her Mary. Yes, Mary Dear. Your twinkle brought your Mom and I together thirty years ago. Thank you for that. 

There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. 

Yes, there’s ANOTHER theory that this has already happened. I have a theory that it happens over 300 millions times every day in the United States alone.  The initial discovery is called death and the something even more bizarre and wonderful is called birth. The vacation in between is called life or some say “lipstick land.” All of us on earth at this moment share a common state of inexplicability which we project as the “universe” or “reality”. We create this reality as we go along living our lives in a state of mass hypnosis, love and wonder. Eventually we straighten things out, kick the bucket and re-awaken with only a vague memory of what we knew before. This vague memory is called our subconscious. With each awakening we discover a brand new universal puzzle to contemplate along with a brand new set of people also contemplating the same puzzle with slightly different kaleidoscopes. The most immediate, influential people we call our parents. 

And you, dear Mary, call me Dad. The tools that worked best the last time, even though we don’t remember them, are called aptitudes. When we discover them, we use them to explain the universe to ourselves and others particularly our children. I get the feeling I’ve written this before. I get the feeling this is what all writers are writing about all the time. All singers singing about all the time etc. I get the feeling you’ve read this before, Mary. Of course it’s all just a theory. I am still alive, honey.  Aren’t I ? 

MIDNIGHT MARY

Today is the first day in Rochester that we can all wear shorts. Thank God.

Today is also the 25th birthday of my youngest daughter Mary.

Mary was born at midnight so it's always hard for me to figure out which day that was as midnight I can go either way so I celebrate for two days and even that is nowhere near enough. The celebration should be continuous.

The hospital listed her birth at 11:58 but I noticed that the clock in the delivery room was a few seconds past midnight when the antenna emerged. I joked to the delivery doctor that we just made it for the extra day in the hospital. About an hour later, I discovered that they had declared her birth at 11:58. Around here, you get two days in the hospital for a birth. Because they listed the birth at 11:58, they counted that whole day as a birth day which meant in reality we got one day and two minutes of hospital service.

Bastards

Health Care

Two minutes which weren't legitimate in the first place. I know she was born at midnight. I have video to prove it but didn't bother to fight the bureuacracy in the midst of such joy. So Midnight Mary came into being wearing an antenna on her head. The doctors were monitoring her heartbeat in the womb and had attached a heart beat monitor to her head which looked like an antenna when she emerged at Midnight.

Yeah

25 years ago.

Now flash back four months ago right after the biopsy. I learned I had cancer and bone scans would determine how far it had spread. The interim of waiting for the bone scan results was the most "spirtitual" time of my life. I was ready to go if go I must but I prayed to be around to celebrate the birthday of Midnight Mary and to be wearing shorts while celebrating.

I prayed for this day right here My prayers were sincere So pardon me while I celebrate And forget all sorrow Today is worth the wait And so is tomorrow.

AVA’S SHOWER

When we moved to Tumbleweed, we had to enroll Mary in a brand new school. She was in third grade and had a broken leg. She arrived in time for school pictures. When the class pictures came out, I noticed this little girl with big glasses. Her name was Ava. I pointed her out to Mary and said “She looks like she’d be a good friend.” Sure enough, they became besties and remain so to this day almost 30 years later.

 This is the story of Ava’s shower.  I know this wasn’t a dream because when I dream I always try to snap in the dream the picture but the camera never works. It was my first bridal shower. My gender had always rendered me ineligible for such celebrations but this shower was co-ed. We were enjoying our drinks and conversation downstairs when I noticed that the main female stars were missing.  Ava was trying on her wedding gown upstairs.

I’m not sure who invited me but somehow through the grapevine I came too know that I would be welcome in this room and so would my camera. This happens often in my dreams but in my dreams, the camera she don’t work. I walked up the stairs and entered the room. I was the only male but everyone seemed to welcome me.  Everyone was admiring Ava in her dress. Ava was radiating joy and reflecting the admiring glances that were coming her way. The dress was perfect. Everybody knew it.

 I’ve been taking Ava’s picture ever since she was a little girl. I wanted to get a great picture of Ava at this moment. All of my years of photography had led to this moment. It wasn’t gonna come again. Ava noticed me. She looked into the camera. I snapped. The camera worked. This was no dream.  Mine wasn’t the only camera in the room. Ava seemingly picked up on all of the lenses by not concentrating on any of them but rather enjoying her moment of celebration. A model of decorum. I got my pictures. Everybody got their pictures. The cameras disappeared. I lingered with my lens. 

At that moment, at that second, in about the time it takes a car to swerve a deadly swerve, Ava’s expression changed. For an instant.. memory, vulnerability and sorrow flashed through her entire being in a collision of joy and pain. I imagine she was thinking of her older sister who was not in the room.

The older sister Abby who ended up on the deadly end of an unsignalled swerve on a dark Halloween night almost 10 years ago. A tragedy that changed everyone. Suddenly Abby was in the room.  I didn’t see Abby but I did see Ava seeing Abby as did my camera. For one split second grief and recognition flashed across Ava’s glowing face. In that split second I had to make the decision whether or not to snap the picture and “capture” this exceedingly private, candid, personal and vulnerable moment. I was almost certain that the camera was going to malfunction revealing the entire scene as one more dream forever undocumented. I snapped. 

The camera worked.  Ava’s expression returned to joy. A few weeks later, I told Ava about the picture. I told her this story. I told her I wanted to write about it but couldn’t do that unless she approved. She said it would be an honor. The wedding is this weekend. This writing is in honor of Ava and of Abby.

   HEADING FOR FRONTIER AT LAST

  Today’s the day. Last night was the night. I only had to steal one mirror last night so I got my first half way decent shuteye in months. At this moment I am resisting the urge to hit the sack and indulge in fatigue.

 I’m thinking about the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Nightmare on Elm Street. In both of those flicks, sleep was to be avoided unless you wanted Freddy to slash through your walls or wake up as a pod, a poisoned pod. 

Those movies always bothered me.  I hate the feeling of falling asleep when I don’t want to fall asleep. This used to happen to me all the time, particularly on Wednesday nights when I was young.  Because I was big fan of horror films, my parents used to let me stay up “late” to watch Shock Theater which played all of the Lugosi, Karloff and Chaney films. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, the Raven, the Mummy, the Black Cat, The Invisible Ray,The Ghoul,The Werewolf of London etc. The show came on came on past my bedtime so it was quite a privilege and quite a challenge.  Plus, I was actually scared by the movies or at least I expected to be. 

I would take my position on the carpet in front of our timy teevee set. The movie would start and before too long, I would realize that I was falling asleep. I learned to recognize the feeling and the “oh no” that accompanied it. I would invariably choose to “rest my eyes” for just a minute during a commercial. I learned after awhile that once I started to rest my eyes, the rest periods would increase in frequency and duration until at last I was asleep on the floor and had to be carted of to bed all the time insisting “I’m awake, I’m awake”

 The morning came and I awoke with a sense of failure and a determination to make it all the way through the next week. I realized that once I started to “rest my eyes”, it was all over. I would make a conscious effort to “resist the rest” but week after week I failed. I wasn’t used to failure back in those days and it frightened me more than the movies did.

I was learning about temptation and my inability to resist it. This was my first previews of fatigue but I really didn’t know what fatigue was until a few months ago. There’s a difference between fatigue and being tired, passing out, blacking out, dozing off or being exhausted. For the past few months, I’ve suffered fatigue and it’s a lot different from “resting my eyes” because in fatigue I’m not even interested in the “movie” that is my life. All I want to do is sleep, well not exactly sleep but more like escape but even in the escaping there is the over-riding sense of failure and guilt as days melt away and merge with nights. Fatigue sucks. 

So as I write these words, I am resisting the urge to “rest my eyes” and to go downstairs to my cave/pit. The urge is strong but not as strong as yesterday and yesterday wasn’t as strong as the day before. They told me after my last blast of radiation that sometimes the fatigue starts to go away after a week and a half but sometimes it can continue for three or four months or in some cases forever. 

Today is exactly a week and a half since my last blast. I’m gonna go the distance. I’m not goin’ downstairs. I’m not gonna turn into a pod person again today. No way. I’ve charged up my camera. I’m snapping flowers. I’ll be leaving for the ballpark in three hours. I’m gonna look good. This is the day I marked down on my calendar for the beginning of my comeback and I’m not gonna rest my eyes until I get back from Frontier Field. My brother is my best friend and I haven’t seen him during this whole situation. I want to see him now. I want him to see me snapping pictures, keeping score, drinking a beer and rooting for the old home team. Freddy Fatigue can’t get me at Frontier Field if I keep my eyes on the ball. 

THE OLD BALLGAME 

One of my colleagues, a guy named Fred, got into as much trouble as I did for having classrooms that were not quiet. Neither Fred nor I thought the criticism and penalization were justified but we did have “long hair” at the time and we were considered “popular” by the students. 

 Eventually, thank God, the concept of beautiful noise in the classroom began to take hold. Beautiful noise means the kids were buzzing and working with each other and with the teacher. Nothing on earth sounds like productive buzzing.  It was a far cry from the spray and pray method formerly preferred by the fearful badgers of the ruling realm and their supportive administrators. Quiet in the classroom was no longer a guaranteed good thing. 

Suddenly, Fred and I were seen as “innovators”. People started imitating us and when they got good at it, they began to instruct us on how to do what we had been doing all along, since we had already moved on to the next thing which they were currently against but soon would be imitating and then instructing. On and on and on and on etc.

 Meanwhile, my classes were getting busier and buzzier so I was headed for trouble. Quiet is so much quieter when it’s surrounded by buzz.  One day Fred and I and about fifty teachers were at a workshop run by a consultant who hadn’t taught a public school class in years but who was paid more than we were to look at our watches and tell us what time it was. The consultant was also on the lookout for new ideas which he could steal and profit from when he took his carnival on the road., always searching for a new parade to jump in front of and declare himself the leader etc.

 So the consultant called on teachers to “share” new ideas that they had. Most of the “sharing” consisted of ideas that people like Fred and I had been criticized for by the same people who were now “experts” at whatever “technique” they were sharing. The consultant gushed over every “insight” no matter how unremarkable.

 Meanwhile, Fred was in the back of the room trying to stay serious. Fred was a big, dark haired dark eyed handsome guy who wasn’t lacking in self confidence and didn’t need or want to be drawn into this festival of self congratulation. Even though Fred hadn’t raised his hand to volunteer a response, the consultant decided to call on him. “Do you have a technique, Fred, that you’d like to share?”, the consultant asked in an overly friendly way. 

Fred said “Well, I guess I could share what I call 'the old ball game’.

  The consultant perked up. "I’ve never heard of that technique, Fred. It sounds very interesting. How does it work?”

  Possibly a new parade was forming. 

“Well” said Fred, “if I see a kid’s not paying attention, I throw a tennis ball at him/her. That usually gets their attention.” 

Fred was serious. I looked at Fred’s face. Fred was looking at the consultant’s face. The consultant had no idea what to say. Nobody ooohed or aaahed. I burst out laughing which broke the silence.(I had used the same “technique” myself" on quite a few occasions except I didn’t use a tennis ball. I used a bunch of tinfoil that I had rolled up in a ball for my version of “the old ball game”. I called my tin foil ball “the egg of unexpected courage”. The kids called it THE EGG.) 

Back to the seminar…… Fred started laughing. The consultant sorta smiled Once again, Fred and I were operating on the same page even though we weren’t aware that we were until Fred answered the consultant. I had no idea that Fred also used “the old ball game”. This is one of my fondest moments because “the old ball game be it tennis or tinfoil” actually worked and probably still does today. I am afraid, however, that a few months after this moment…..some consultant somewhere was instructing teachers on the effective use of what has become known as “the old ball game”. 

Beautiful.

CROSSWORDS

  Way back in another lifetime, when I was teaching kids how to write, my class used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle together every other Monday. The puzzle gets more cryptic, arcane and oblique as the week continues. Monday is fair game for high schoolers working in tandem. Tuesday’s puzzle maybe. Saturday’s forget about it. Maybe that’s why we don’t have school on Saturdays except for Breakfast Clubbers who are puzzled and puzzling enough with or without crosswords.

 I always told my writing students that writers need to know something about everything and then need the vocabulary to articulate what they know by choosing the exact right word for the right place. Close is good but no cigar.

Crossword puzzles serve as an exercise not only in vocabulary and exactitude but also in breadth of knowledge. Crossword puzzles are to writers what shadow boxing is to boxers or what ping pong is to tennis players or driving ranges to golfers, a truncated version of a more pervasive obsession.

Aside from their value as literary barbells, crosswords teach one of life’s most valuable lessons. If you have one wrong word or a right word in the wrong place, it screws up the rest of the puzzle. We can’t insist that a word is right if it is wrong. Will power only extends so far. It can’t be right simply because we want it to be right and we’re good people. That’s called willfullness. In the words of Johnny C, “if it don’t fit, you must acquit”.

Somewhere in all puzzles, before we abandon original thinking or stick with our misconceptions, we confront wavering allegiance to a shady word choice. Since most of our lives are spent re-inforcing our own biases, wavering allegiance is a frightening flourish of vulnerability. In America, especially in politics, it’s all about being “right” first and then sticking with that righteousness in the face of hell or high water, fire and fury. Wavering allegiance is a forerunner to change. All change includes loss and all loss requires mourning. Who wants to mourn? Who wants to admit a mistake?

In politics, to flip is to flop. So when we stick with wrong words in Crosswords, we never solve the puzzle or the problem contained within the puzzle, a problem that grows more pressing with every passing day. Usually national problems come in the form of dollars and cents, bread and butter, black and white , war and peace, red and blue. Hey if we come to a cross roads where we should turn right and instead turn left, don’t worry if we drive completely around the world we’ll end up going the right, right way. Once upon a time on my way to Iowa from South Dakota, I made a wrong turn and drove halfway through Minnesota. With a crossword puzzle, we can just take out an eraser. With a war, with poverty, with racism, with recession, with division we need something more than rubber at the forgiveness end of a pointed stick of lead. Every day seems like a Saturday crossword.   

ALI, FRAZIER, CHUVALO AND EVELYN 

Slides. Remember slides? You’d throw your slides into a Kodak Carousel and voila…a light show up against the wall. Needless to say I threw quite a few slides against quite a few walls over the years as I told my Ali stories. I liked one of the slides in particular.

 I made a nice 11 by 14 print from that slide . Ali and Joe exchanging punches during their second fight at Madison Square Garden. 

We all got older as the years passed. It seemed like Ali and Joe got older faster than everybody else. What else could we have expected?

 During this time of great decline, George Chuvalo added to the pugilistic tragedy.  George Chuvalo The Croatian Crusader. The Heavyweight Champion of Canada. The human punching bag and common opponent for the vastly more talented Ali and Frazier. The man who could not be knocked down. The man whose face had launched a thousand fists. George Chuvalo had a face that had been sculpted by other fists into the face of a fist  And then after George retired, life stepped in and continued the battering. He lost his wife and sons to suicide. Heroin was very involved. Still George refused to hit the canvas. Word got through to his old opponents, Ali and Joe, that George was hurt and staggering but that he refused to go down. A boxing organization in Rochester decided to throw a benefit dinner for George. Yeah it was a band aid on a shotgun wound but every little bit helps. 

Joe Frazier decided to attend and waive any fee. So did another wounded warrior name of Muhammad Ali. Ali was shaking from Parkinsons and Joe could barely see. Joe and Ali didn’t usually appear together. Bad blood existed. People wondered why after all these years bad blood still existed between Ali and Frazier. The answer is simple. These guys tried to kill each other three times in front of the whole world and they damned near succeeded. He jest at scars who’s never felt a wound.

 There was a lot of laughter that night but nobody was laughing at the scars. I was there too. The Chuvalo benefit cost a hundred bucks to attend. My ringside seat at Ali-Frazier fight also cost $100. So much had changed. One thing hadn’t changed. The 11 by 14 photograph that I took at Ali Frazier 2 looked exactly the same. The two of them stalking each other in the middle of the ring, young and heallthy and with all the lights shining on them. I brought the picture to the benefit.

 I had met Muhammad, Joe and George individually but I never thought that I’d see all three of them in the same room at the same time. Yet, here we were for the common good of Chuvalo In the lobby, I got a chance to visit with boxing expert Burt Sugar and HBO analyst Larry Merchant. They both reacted to me as if I had pissed myself while wearing a white suit.. Arrogant and a million miles away from Ali in terms of engagement and humility, these two celebrities brushed off my questions about the sweet science with an insolence worth mentioning here. Vampires I left those “famous guys”. I was relieved to leave. I entered the main room.

Carmen Basilio was much more approachable. I had met Carmen a couple of times before. I didn’t want to ask him the same old questions that he’s been asked a million times about Sugar Ray Robinson. I asked him about one of his lessd famous victories. “Hey Champ, do you ever see Johnny Saxton anymore?”

Carmen answered “No, he’s all fucked up.”

“What got him Carmen”, I followed up,“ drugs, booze, women, gambling?”

“No” said Carmen, “I fucked him up.”

Carmen was a tough man.

I found my table. My name was still not Sinatra nor for that matter Sugar or Merchant so my $100 dollar table resembled my “ringside” seat in terms of physical distance from the action. And I wasn’t even at the same table as the Son of Sanford.  I shared a “way in the back” table with another human who also had connection/complexion problems; a stunning middle aged African American woman named Evelyn. We had the only two seat table in the place.

Evelyn and I chatted for awhile about the value of our $100 as compared to the $100 spent by the more connected, very Caucasian, very male attendees flaunting upfront and uptight. We figured we were outsiders. We bonded. I showed her my 11 by 14 photo. She liked it and said “be careful with that. It’s valuable”.

 Evelyn had a mission of her own. Evelyn told me that she knew Joe Frazier and the last time Joe was in town, she really got to know him and he got to know her. She planned on having a little chat with Joe later in the evening about his previous method of leaving town. She assured me that Joe would be paying attention.

 All the stars were already seated miles away at the main table. All the stars that is except for Ali.  It’s only fitting that the champ enters last. All of the other guys had entered from the front of the venue. When Ali and his entourage entered the room, they came in from the back. As soon as he entered the room, the whole environment changed for the better. He walked very, very slowly. Since he came in from the back, the first table he passed was the distant table for two.

He stopped at our table. He looked right at me and although it seemed impossible, I got the distinct feeling that he remembered me from our morning at Deer Lake decades before.  Evelyn noticed the look and asked me after Ali had passed us, “does he know you”.  I told Evelyn that I had spent some time with him a long time ago. Whether he recognized me or not, he once again gave me that wonderful feeling that I was cool with him and that our table was the best table in the house. and that, once again, made me feel cool with myself  although he couldn’t possibly have remembered. I guess that’s what charisma is all about.

 Like I said, I had met Sugar and Merchant, ten minutes before they took their upfront seats. I’m sure they had already forgotten about me and their vibe would have amplified that disregard. Not with Ali. I started feeling great.  Important The whole room turned back to see the old champ. I got the feeling that everybody in the room started feeling great for different reasons. Uplifiting Transcendent . Eliciting smiles and cheers with every step, the Champ caned his way to the front. Everybody in the place was experiencing rampant, contact joy. I don’t think that Frazier was feeling that joy although he probably remembered feeling a lot of contact. It was obvious that Joe was feeling pretty dang great before he even entered the place, if ya know what I mean.

 Obviously, a lot of feelings fly around a room when Ali enters that room and walks toward a partying Joe Frazier.  The dinner began. Neither Ali nor Frazier addressed the audience; for different reasons. Chuvalo expressed his gratitude towards both men for showing up and making his benefit such a success. Weirdly enough if a three man boxing match broke out, Chuvalo would probaly win even though both Joe and Ali had batterred him in the past. 

Merchant and Sugar blabbed some and sucked a bit of energy from the room although their wisdom has slipped beneath the radar screen of both my memory and contempt. When the program concluded, the master of ceremonies, a born bullshitter named Jerry Flynn announced that for a half an hour the head table participants would be willing to sign autographs. 

Immediately the rush to the front began led by the people sitting in the front. 

From the way back table, we watched the crowd in front gain full advantage. We only had a half hour and it looked as if there were two hours of people in front of us. We did a little spontaneous human calculus. Evelyn headed towards Joe. She had more than an autograph in mind. She had a piece of her mind in mind and she was about to give that to Joe.

 I headed for Ali, by far the longer of the two lines. Somehow, my 11 by 14 print caught the eye of somone in Ali’s entourage. He asked me to identify the picture. “Ringside, Madison Square Garden, Ali-Frazier II” “Diju take dat picture?” “Yes I did” “Champ prolly like to see it. C'mon” 

He escorted me towards the front of the line, not the very front but a definite improvement on my table rank. Ali and I were in the same force field. I knew he’d have time for me even as the minutes ticked away. With about 10 minutes left in the opportunity, our chance came. I put my picture in front of the Champ. He considered it carefully. He was in no rush whatsoever. Then the familiar whisper that he either said or sent. I’ll never know which but the message was clear…“choo take this?” “Yeah Champ I did’ Another whisper/send "it’s good” Then the eye contact. Ali and me eyeball to eyeball again. Same eyeballs that had been eyeball to eyeball with Martin King, John Lennon, Sonny Liston, Elvis Presley, Nelson Mandella, Joe Louis, James Brown, Stallone, Duvall, Carson, Borgnine, Malcolm X, Ross, Chamberlain and infinite others were inviting me to come on in and stay a minute. Make yourself comfortable Join the crowd. Maybe u been here before He gave me his beautiful Parkinson’s signature. Very slow, very painful, looking up every few seconds directly in my eyes as if this were the first signature of his career given to his best friend. Ali had signed another piece for me at Deer Lake decades before. Like the man himself, Ali’s signature had changed dramatically over the years. His Parkinson’s signature took a good twenty seconds to make with five separate lookups and included only the fragments of four letters….. M…a…l….i. Ironically he made his mark over Joe Frazier’s image in the ring in my picture. He hit me with the feint again although this feint was very faint yet still overwhelming. I thanked the champ. Again the eyes. Again the illusion of recognition. Again the electricity. So long champ. 

Still five minutes of the half hour remained. Wow Pause Shift Recalculate I got a shot at Joe. Where’s Evelyn. There she be. Evelyn chillin’ with Joe “Hey Evelyn” from fity feet away with four minutes left. “Hey Ice, c'mon up here and meet Joe.” Once again the Red Sea miraculoulsy parted. The Red Sea thought Evelyn was Joe’s wife and I was a friend of Joe’s family. I got to the table with time to spare. Evelyn said “Joe, this is my friend. Sign his picture” I put my picture in front of Joe. Joe looked at my picture. “dijoo take this picture”

“Yeah I did, Champ” “good picture” Ironically, Joe signed over the image of Ali in the ring in the light at Madison Square Garden, young and beautiful. Floating Getting ready to sting forever. Evelyn gave Joe a peck on the cheek. Joe took a sip from his beer. I gave Evelyn a peck on her cheek. It was the last time that I ever saw any of them. Time was up. Ring the bell. 

   FAMOUS MIKE CAN DRAW

 Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I’m reluctant to reveal them. Here’s a lovely story and a delicate legend all in one.

 I’ll try to do them justice before the memories fade completely as the blur increases every day. I remember his first day in class. He was fresh off the boat. I mean that literally. He was a boat person from Viet Nam. He was in my English class. He didn’t speak a word of English. I didn’t know what to do with him that first day so I somehow signalled/sent him to the main office to pick up an attendance sheet. 

The secretary at the main office was expecting a student from another class named Mike. When my student arrived, whatever his name was, it wasn’t Mike. Helen asked my new student if his name was Mike. He didn’t know what Helen was saying but he knew a question when he heard one. He nodded his head up and down. Helen said “Here, Mike”, and gave him the papers. He returned to my classroom a few minutes later without the attendance sheet but with whatever administrivia Helen was supposed to give to “Mike”.

I took the paper from him. I said thanks and asked him what his name was.

He said “Mike”

 I said “Hi, Mike”

 That’s how Mike got his name. Aside from the single word “Mike”, Mike spoke no English. We were a pair, Mike and I.  Mike would come into class, take his seat and listen with great patience and attention to the academic tumult engulfing him. I knew something of the concept of linguistic immersion wherein a person learns a foreign language more quickly by surrounding himself with it. I believed this was happening with Mike although I didn’t know for certain. I did know that in this case English was the “foreign” language to Mike and he was surrounded. 

One day after a couple of weeks, I noticed that Mike was taking “notes” of what I was saying. I couldn’t imagine what Mike’s notes looked like so I casually made my way to his desk to sneak a peek. Mike’s “note” was a surreal and photographic drawing of a rose. As I looked at the rose, I was amazed as much by its sensitivity of rendering as I was by its virtousity. Near the drawing, I wrote the word “rose.” Then I said the word “rose” I spelled the word “R..O..S..E”

 Mike smiled and said “rose”

 I took a risk. I had a feeling the risk would be approved by Mike. I announced to the class. “Check this out, everybody. Mike can draw.” Everybody crowded around Mike’s desk. Everybody look at the rose. Everybody flipped out. 

Everybody started saying “Mike can draw” Eventually Mike got the message. He spoke his first English sentence in English class. This is what he said. “Mike can draw” He smiled. Time stood still. I’m here to tell you, Mike could draw. Many scholars praise the efficient linguistic style of Julius Caesar, how much he could say with how few words. All of France is divided into three parts. Has anyone ever said more with fewer words at the beginning of his story. This is the beginning of Mike’s story.

 Mike not only continued to draw but he also continued to listen with purpose and intention. Mike observed not only with his eyes but also with his heart and mind. Mike’s vocabulary began to grow as he listened and observed. Nouns first then verbs then adjectives. Here’s the story of the first adjective I can remember. One day, I walked over to Mike’s desk and noticed that he had been sketching a portrait of himself. On his portrait, I wrote a bunch of nouns with arrows like “mike” and "nose" and “eyes” and “ears"and "head” and “neck” and “body”. I pointed to each word and said it. Mike repeated the word with me. Then I added the adjective. I wrote “famous”; drew an arrow to the picture of Mike and said the word. 

Mike hesitated a second and then asked “Mike famous?”

 I said “Yes, Mike is famous” Mike startled me with his reply.

 “No, Mike not famous. You, Mr. Rivers…you famous.”

  I realized that Mike’s language skills were blossoming with as much beauty as his drawing skills. From that day on, every time I saw Mike I would always say. “Here’s the famous Mike.” And Mike would always say, “Mike not famous. Mr. Rivers famous.” We would laugh. We were connected. Sure enough, Mike WAS becoming famous, at least in my class.

I was running the school newspaper at the time. I asked Mike, still using arrows, objects and printed words if he would draw a comic strip for the paper. He drew the strip. The school read Mike’s comic. His character was a lion, The school loved it. Mike’s fame grew. His audience expanded. By this time, everybody in my class knew something rare was happening with Mike and his art, kids were always crowding around his desk to see what new drawings were coming alive

. About this time, I suspected that had Mike developed a crush on Kathy.  I discovered this when Mike showed me a picture of Kathy that he had been drawing. Mike was stylizing Kathy rather than photographing her with his rendering. I immediately recognized Kathy even with her stylized, over sized Disney girl eyes. I wrote “Kathy” on Mike’s paper and drew an arrow. Mike blushed and smiled. I could tell Mike wanted another word from me, an adjective perhaps so under Kathy, I wrote “beautiful” and drew another arrow. Mike put the drawing away. His portrait of Kathy was not an image that he intended to show to the class. Not only were we connected; we had a secret.

 A couple of weeks passed and Mike’s language skills kept growing. One day, he took out the picture of Kathy and showed me something new that he had added. He showed me that he knew how to change and adjective into a noun. Under my printing of “beautiful”, Mike had printed a word of his own. This is the word that Mike had printed in painstaking calligraphy.

 Beauty 

Beauty is truth and truth is beautiful. I was facing a beautiful truth in my professional life as well as a crossroads. I was given the opportunity to write a grant under the auspices of the Federal Career Education Incentive Act Grant Program, the purpose of which, as the name suggests, was to help secondary education become a better link to careers.  I proposed my very first grant. The proposal was funded for $500,000. In my proposal I visualized the creation of an intern program. The idea was radical at the time. I was chosen to be the administrator for the project. I would have to leave the classroom. Leaving the classroom was the crossroads and a difficult factor in the decision. When the kids heard what I had done. They were proud of me.

Mike came to me and said “Mike not famous, Mr. Rivers famous.”

 I left the classroom.  I left Mike in the capable hands of the Art. Dept particularly Larry Pace. Larry had served his country as a Marine in Viet Nam.

The day that I left, Mike showed me his private sketchbook. In his sketchbook were dozens of drawing of Kathy.  Underneath each sketch; a single printed word: Beauty.  

By the time I got the Intern Program running smoothly, moving it from dream to imagination to realization, Mike was back in my life. Mike had made breathtaking progress in language and art and had begun to crystallize his dreams. Mike had grown to love classic Walt Disney cartoons and wanted to become an animator.  I had heard that fantasy from other students before and I would hear it again but with Mike…well he had a dream, spectacular discipline and dedication. I had an intern program. Uh, let’s put two and two together and see if it comes out four, twenty two or five.

 I contacted the only artist in town who specialized in 16 millimeter matte animation, a guy by the name of Brian. I told Brian about Mike. I told Mike about Brian. I brought the two of them together at Brian’s downtown studio. With Brian’s encouragement and equipment along with the ongoing help of the high school Art Dept, Mike created his first animated cartoon. He had even learned to play the guitar well enough to supply his own music to the animation. In Mike’s cartoon one of the characters was a lion. Mike asked me, because I was “famous” to provide the voice for the lion. Mike’s cartoon was eventually selected in an extremely competitive national cartoon contest to be shown on Nickelodeon. Mike’s cartoon was one of the best student cartoons in the country. Little ol’ famous lion voice me was roaring on television sets across America. 

Mike was only a sophomore in high school but he was already thinking about college and colleges were thinking about him.  Anything was possible including truth , beauty and fame. Mike was most interested in beauty. He had discovered that the Disney studios regularly hired interns from the California Institute of the Arts. Mike knew about internships. He had completed four of them in high school.  In the meantime Mike had taken all the art courses at the school plus four more at Rochester Institute of Technology and had aced them all. Mike spoke a lovely version of the English language, the direct, clear, soft and kind version rarely used by native speakers. Mike could draw.  Mike could talk. Mike could write, words and music. Mike could play the guitar. Mike had a resume full of A’s, internships, art work, awards and a cartoon that had played nationally on Nickelodeon. Mike applied to the California Institute of the Arts. We were all happy but not surprised when Mike was accepted and scholarshipped.

 Mike was ready for another journey. I was on a bit of a journey myself. My first marriage was breaking up although I didn’t realize it or perhaps was denying the realization. Mike had never been to a rock concert in his life so at the end of the school year, the night after his graduation I invited Mike as our family guest to see the Moody Blues at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center. Mike accepted the invitation. You’ll hear more about THAT later. After the concert, Mike left for California.

I haven’t seen him since. Here’s the last few things I heard about Mike. In college, his skill and interest continued to blossom. As an undergraduate, he applied for and completed an internship at Disney Studios. Upon graduation from college, Mike was hired as an animator by Disney. His first screen credit appeared at the end of the Little Mermaid, listing Mike as an animator of Ariel.

Apparently Disney liked Mike because his next assignment was a substantial promotion. Mike would be one of the main designers for Beauty and the Beast Mike was helping to create Belle.  By now, everybody knows WHAT Belle looks like. Only a few of us know WHO Belle looks like.

Beauty, if you will, looks exactly like the sketches of Kathy that Mike labored over so mightily, so beautifully, so passionately, so innocently and so truthfully during his junior high days. Kathy is Belle. Kathy is  Beauty. 

Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I am afraid to relate or reveal them.  Remember? Well, I tried. As I tried, I kept flashing back to the writers who brought us the legends of the Old west, those scribes who turned big nosed, shiftless, violent, alcoholic William Hickock into the great Wild Bill, the handsome hero who died, shot in the back while playing poker and holding the deadman’s hand…a pair of aces and a pair of eight . A cardinal rule for those writers was, according to John Ford in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, “if you come to a crossroads between truth and legend, write the legend.”

 The legend of Mike and Kathy is the loveliest local legend, I’ve ever personally encountered. I’m part of it; a small part but yes I was there in the very beginning. I can vouch for everything until Mike left for California. I can vouch for the similarities between Mike’s sketches of Kathy and the rendering of Beauty.  Every once in awhile, when I reminisce about my teaching days, I like to think that I was the guy who had something to do with the inspiration for the creation of Beauty. And ya know what?  It’s a beautiful feeling.  Maybe even true. Next time somebody you know mentions truth, beauty or Beauty and the Beast tell 'em this story. That’s how legends grow. 

AFTERNOON ANGEL

I know for sure it was a Tuesday afternoon. I don’t know if it was the first time I smoked weed, such moments are hard to pinpoint.

Today is also a Tuesday afternoon. Today I found out that Ray Thomas, the flautist for the Moody Blues had passed away from prostate cancer. I know something about cancer. The beauty of metaphysiction is its ability to go flash forward and backward at the same time while flirting with the eternal and the imaginary. 

The Tuesday afternoon that begins this story happened fifty years ago. I was shooting footage for a film that I was making in graduate school. My idea was to simply walk around and shoot whatever came into my lens on this Tuesday afternoon and call whatever came out “Tuesday Afternoon” It was during this activity that I might or might not have smoked a joint because I know the guy with me was a “weirdo” at the time who definitely smoked the rope. I had shot enough weird footage so I was confident that within the images, I could find 10 solid minutes that would represent what a Tuesday afternoon looked and sounded like and that it would probably be interesting to watch in say 50 years so that I could clearly remember what fifty years ago looked and sounded like. 

Yeah, maybe I was loaded as I recall that thought process. 

We were driving back to campus. We turned on an FM station. By this time I was an album guy and FM was the album station. I was trying to figure out what music I would use in the background of the film when on the radio came “Tuesday Afternoon”. I had never heard anything like it before. When the song was over, the announcer said “that was Tuesday Afternoon by the Moody Blues from their new album Days of Future Passed” 

Days of Future Passed might as well have been the name of my mind set on that Tuesday afternoon with Tuesday afternoon playing. I hoped that I would see the Moody Blues in the Future and at that time, remember the past which would naturally include the moment I was living.  I knew the Moody Blues. I knew of their hit “Go Now” which I wasn’t crazy about. I didn’t know that the personnel of the band had changed and they had gone from THAT to THIS. Ray Thomas was in both versions, I learned later.  Shocked, stoned and stunned by synchronicity, I became a Moody Blues fan. In other words, I too was a weirdo. At the time you had to be a little weird to like the Blues. They were hanging with LSD guru Timothy Leary and proud of it. I couldn’t believe that “drug music” could be so beautiful or that a simple Tuesday afternoon could be so profound . 

I had the music for my film. I found my film in the music. 

Now let’s fast forward 15 years. My first marriage was breaking up although I didn’t realize it or perhaps was denying the realization. I know I felt like I had a ton of bricks on my back. The “famous” Mike had never been to a concert before and he loved the Moody Blues. I invited Mike and a couple of friends to join my family at the Moody Blues concert at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center. Mike accepted my invitation.

 The night of the Moody Blues arrived. I had purchased a dozen tickets for the show.  The day of the night of the Blues was very hot. I ran ten miles that afternoon trying to lighten my load. My brother, my sister, my wife, a few of our friends, my son Beau, Mike and I made the short trip. We walked to the gates. I took out the tickets. I only had eleven tickets. Everybody was looking at me. I counted the tickets only eleven again. I was going to have to exclude someone from the concert. I looked around at the faces. I knew I would exclude myself.

I looked at the tickets again. I counted the tickets. I looked at Mike. My marriage was falling apart. Mike was on his way to California. I had screwed up the tickets. I had ruined Mike’s first concert. I could feel the earth spinning. I said something incoherent to my brother. He looked at me with concern and said “whaaa?” I spoke again and once again sounded like Gregor Samsa after his metamorphosis. I started to stumble. The tickets fell out of my grasp. I looked directly into my son’s eyes as the weight on my shoulders flew off and I fell in slow motion towards the ground. As I looked into his eyes, I realized that I was watching a son watch the death of his father. I wondered how this would affect him him. I heard my wife scream “he didn’t go to his physical”

 I hit the ground I knew I was dead. When I opened my eyes some time later to see what heaven was like I saw two faces. One face was of a beautiful, elderly woman. The other was Mike. This was Mike’s first minute at his first concert. In the background Moody Blues music was playing. The elderly woman whispered her phone number in my ear. It went right into my permanent memory She told me to call anytime and that the more I called, the more I would want to call. Eventually I wouldn’t even need a phone. I still remember the number. I call it everyday. The number is/was a prayer. I called it before I started writing this, seeking help to get this right. Phone? I don’t need no stinken phone. 

They wanted to call an ambulance. I didn’t want that I wanted to go where the music was, where the angel was. Somebody picked up the tickets and found all twelve. We went inside the Shell and heard the Blues. The woman had disappeared once it became clear that I was going to live. The last time I saw her, she was listening to the show. The Blues may or may not have been playing Tuesday afternoon when our eyes met. 

Flash forward Today, Tuesday, I learned that Ray Thomas had died. Ray was 76 years old. I’m 71. How could all of those future days have passed. 

I’m calling the number.  The number is a prayer.

 IN THE PACKAGE 

Mr. Baseball remained in his coma for months. It was the bottom of the ninth and his team was behind by 100 runs and there were two out and two strikes on Mr. Baseball. One more strike and he was out. Game over. That was the situation the last time that I visited him at the Community hospital. 

Time passed. Mr. Baseball kept fouling off pitches, his faithful loving wife Rosie by his side. Rosie figured that maybe things would improve if they moved Baseball to his home ball park. Still in his coma, Mr. Baseball was transported to his home. 

Home plate. 

His home plate was far away from my homeplate. We didn’t visit in person, overwhelmed as were with our own ballgame. 

When he got home, minus a few tubes and some drugs that hadn’t worked, Mr Baseball out of nowhere, hit a homerun. He came out of the coma but remained bedridden. We didn’t know about the rally, we had left the game a little early. We knew that he was home and we had his phone number.

One day, Lynn called the number and Rosie answered. The rally was still going on. Therapists were pitching now and Mr. Baseball continued to swing away always bolstered by Rosie who was as encouraged as she was encouraging. She told Lynn that a speech therapist was pitching at the moment. She whispered to Mr. Baseball that Lynn was on the phone. He understood; another base hit.

Rosie put the phone up to Mr. Baseball’s face.

Lynn said “Hello, Mr. Baseball.”

  Lynn’s 'hello’ was like a hanging curve ball. Mr. Baseball took a mighty swing and said in a slow, soft, labored voice “Hi Lynn.” Home run. Grand slam.  

Rosie took the phone back and explained the progress Baseball had been making. He was scoring on the coma. His therapists were amazed.  He scored 200 runs and beat the stroke.

 Meanwhile he had developed cancer. It was the cancer, not the coma that finally ended the incredible rally. 

We went to the funeral. Mr. Baseball looked good almost as good as he looked the time he caught a foul ball barehanded at Frontier Field. In my dreams, he shows up at his funeral and he, Rosie, Lynn and I go off to dinner as if nuthin’ had happened. He even makes fun of me for imagining that everything wasn’t perfect. We paid our condolences to Rosie.  

A week later, we got a package in the mail with Mr. Baseball’s address as the return.

 In the package was the fiber optic bear.   

 NON-FICTION IS THE NEW FACTION

In my dreams, my camera is always broken at times like this.  My camera was shattered. That suggested, I might wake up so I decided to go with the dream a little further to see what would happen. I went to my video camera. It seemed to be working. Uh Oh. This might not be a dream. 

Whatever it was, if I could tape it…it might help. I turned on the camera. It worked. The semi had come to a stop about 150 yards in front of us. The driver was still in the cab.  I pointed the camera in the other direction and noticed a person coming towards us. I kept the camera aimed at his face so I got a closer up look than I would have without the camera. I focused on his eyes. His eyes told me that he thought he was looking at a couple of ghosts. When he got within speaking distance, I put down the camera. “I saw the whole thing. I thought you guys were goners? Are you okay?”

 I wasn’t sure. We walked around to the side of the van. Lynn was leaning up against it. I kept the video running.  The tape would later be seen at least three times on national teevee.  Moments later, the police arrived. Lynn explained the collision with astounding calm and clarity. I was no longer taping. They arranged for our totaled van to be removed from the median. They gave us a ride to a nearby hotel. They explained our situation to the folks at the front desk who set us up with a room although all of our belongings were still in the van.They lent us a room pro-bono. Everybody told us not to worry.

 We found out that we were in La Grange, Indiana.  All we had was the clothes on our backs. And the aid of better angels.

 I was teaching summer school. I was a teacher all the way. I taught twelve months a year. No house painting for me. I had been going twelve months a year for ten years with only one break in between. I didn’t teach in the summer of 87, the year that I met Lynn. Lynn was a single Mom when we met. She was raising three daughters. I was a single Dad raising a son and a daughter. Her kids liked me and my kids liked her. We spent a lot of time together especially on the weekends when I had custody of my two. Lynnn was working part time at First Federal Bank. She was good with change. She balanced every day. She could find the errors when someone else failed to balance. She didn’t stand for a lot of bullshit that’s why she was checking the boat when I suggested a road trip test. 

My prior experience as a road warrior had convinced me that you don’t really know a person until you’ve been on the road with them. I had made the trip from ocean to ocean three times before I got married the first time. I regretted the fact that I hadn’t road tripped with my first wife before we got married. Although two children had to be born, we might have saved ourselves some nightmares. I had rushed into that first one and wasn’t gonna rush into this one. Two years had already passed with Lynn and me….our bodies were at rest and would tend to stay at rest unless acted upon. Times of indecision. We had both already been married. We both carried the scars. 

We had met one enchanted evening when she walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to dance. The first song we danced to was “Hurt so Good”….John Mellencamp. The second was “Loving You” by Elvis. The third was “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards. When Tommy was about to sing the words “then he’ll kiss your lips” I decided to take the chance. I kissed her lips. She kissed me back.  We had been together every day since and it was going on two years. Two wonderful years.

Time to clarify.  Lynn made a decision. She said we should get married at the local justice of the peace. She called it to question one afternoon when we were having lunch at Mario’s on East Avenue our favorite Italian restaurant.

 Justice of the peace was no place for me or for us as far as I was concerned. She took it as a rejection of her love which was the opposite of my intention.  For the first time, we began to wonder about the future of the relationship. Yet, we had booked a trailer for a weekend at Darien Lake. We decided to make the trip.  We had a couple of our kids with us. They were having a lot more fun than we were. They were outside the trailer when Lynn handed me a tiny article from the Democrat and Chronicle. The article said “The Field of Dreams is a real place.” 

All of a sudden it was clear to me. I am a person of intuition which means I have a tendency to say out loud exactly what is flashing through my mind at the exact time that it flashes. The flash came on. “ Hey Lynn, If we were ever to get married, it would have to be at the most beautiful place in America. Our love deserves it. If you’re willing to travel to Iowa and if we can find this place and if it’s real we could get married on the spot….right at home plate.” 

She made a face that I couldn’t decipher so I didn’t take it as a rejection. Then she said “Great idea. I’ll call up Iowa and tell them we need a marriage license to get married at an imaginary place at an undetermined time.”

 I found out later that she thought I was nuts and bullshitting her at the same time. We had seen the movie together earlier in the year. we both thought it was great. In one scene, Kevin Costner (Ray Kinsella) asked his wife Amy Madigan “is this heaven or is this Iowa” as they relaxed one starry evening on the diamond that he had carved into his cornfield. The location was so exquisite that I thought perhaps it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. This was the place for us. Plus we would give the relationship the test….a test that I firmly believed had to be taken by any couple in the tentative situation that we occupied.

I enjoyed teaching summer school because I got a chance to pay attention to the kids who had been lost along the way during the regular school year. I was always amazed with the progress they made when given that second chance. So the question lingered, if we were going to take a road trip when would it be. Lynn had her schedule at the bank and I had mine at the high school.

During the regular school year, I taught twelfth grade English as well as Creative Writing. I also taught an elective called Cinematic Literacy. I created that one myself and it was a great success. I was approaching the peak of my teaching career. I had ten days at the end of August, beginning of September. 

Lynn had a week of undefined vacation saved up. We had originally met on July eleventh 1987 or as we called it 7/11.

On our two year anniversary, we went out to dinner at the very restaurant where Lynn had made her first proposal a month before. Midway through the meal she said “I sent away for a marriage license in Iowa. The field is located in Dyersville which is near Dubuque. We have a license waiting for us in Dubuque.” Of course I was surprised but since I hadn’t been bullshitting her about the road trip idea, I said “that’s great. Good job.”

 I didn’t know if she had actually procured a license or if she was reality testing . I was mystified when she said “so if we break up this summer at least we can always say that at one time we had a marriage license in Iowa when we tell our story”. 

All through the month of August, we came up with reasons to take the trip and those reasons were roadblocked by objections, obstacles and realities. If Lynn wasn’t exactly rocking the boat during those weeks, she was damned sure checking for leaks.

 One night, we watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. We loved the flick and mixed it into our plan. If we headed west we would go as far as Devil’s Tower in Wyoming and if we hadn’t made up our mind to get married by that time, we would head back and know that we had tried goddamn it, we had tried and we had a Iowa Marriage license to prove it. 

It was also becoming clear that if we hadn’t made up our mind to try the road trip before school started, it meant that we probably should wrap up the relationship as painlessly as possible. On August 25th, I called Lynn from my apartment and said “I was ready to go if she was”. 

She wasn’t ready and she hung up sorta pissed off. This was the last possible day to make the trip and be back in time for school. A couple hours later, I heard a knock on the door. It was Lynn. She told me the van was in the parking lot, packed and ready to go if I was serious. I ran into my house, packed a few things. I climbed into the van. “Let’s go”.

I said. “I’ll drive” I drove the first leg. We found rest area deep in Ohio. We napped for a few hours. Then we went into the rest area and washed up. Lynn came out first and went behind the wheel. I started to climb into the van when an impulse struck me. As I was leaving the rest area, I saw a machine selling bio-rhythm cards. I decided what the hell…I went back and bought a card for that day. It only took maybe an extra thirty seconds. I didn’t like what the card said so I threw it out. That thirty seconds would be crucial as we were headed for a blind spot that we might have missed if not for the card.  We managed to arrive at the blind spot exactly on time. Yeah, the whole crazy pilgrimage was my idea. I talked her into it, yet it was her van that was smashed to bits.  

One way or another, the journey was over. We were alone together in a motel in LaGrange, Indiana not far from Touchdown Jesus and the Golden Dome of Notre Dame. I was beginning to get a grip on death. As we traveled from the wreckage to the hotel, I asked what time it was. When we got to the hotel, it was a half hour before the time it was when we were on our way to the hotel. Someone explained that we had crossed the line separating one time zone from another. We had left Eastern Daylight Savings Time. That’s when I began to realize what death is/was. This was eternity. When you’re dead, you’re in Indiana and you keep crossing between time zones and Touchdown Jesus forever. 

Time stabilized for awhile in the hotel. I was expecting hysterics, blame or disassociation from Lynn. Instead, I got calm, composed, courageous capability.She started working the phones. She had a handle on what happened. She called her auto insurance company back in New York. She explained the situation…..car totaled, hotel in Indiana, etc. They wanted to know what her plan was. To my astonishment, Lynn told them that she wanted to continue on with her journey. She outlined what she needed and what she expected to make that continuation possible. Following that she called the American Automobile Association and got from them what we needed to continue the journey. A few minutes later, a rental car appeared at the motel. We drove around a bit, looking for a place to eat. We lost and gained two or three hours in that fifteen minute search.  

After “lunch” we made our way to the junkyard to take a look at the van. “Yep, it’s totaled”, the junkman asserted. We gathered our belongings from the van and loaded them in the rental. I could not have been more impressed by any companion. Even though I wasn’t sure whether we were alive or not, it was clear that we were inhabiting the same realm. It was a realm, I wanted to remain in for the rest of my life/death.

I got down on one knee in that junkyard and asked Lynn to marry me. She accepted. August 26, 1989. What a day. What an eternity. And the pilgrimage was still on. We didn’t know if we were dead or alive but we knew we were getting married. We didn’t know where. We had a marriage license in Iowa. We had been looking for the Field of Dreams which we heard was in Dyersville.

We drove through that town. There’s a lot of farms in Dyersville and a lot of corn. We couldn’t find the farm that we were looking for. We were hungry, tired, not sure if we were alive and headed for a place that might not exist. We were in a rented van.

 We saw the driveway to yet another farm and turned into it, past yet another corn field. When we got to the farm itself, it was most definitely not the Field of Dreams farm, it looked more like the Cujo farm. We got the hell out of there but not before some giant thing flew out of the corn, through my open window and onto my chest. I don’t know what the hell it was a bird, a locust, a demon grasshopper? I don’t know, I just grabbed whatever it was and threw it out the window toward the cornfield or the hell from whence it came.

  When we reached the end of the driveway safe from Cujo and the flying thing, I pulled the van off the road. I realized that I had gone crazy. Here we were in the middle of Iowa for God sake. We were lost. We might be as totaled as was our original van. All my fault, all part of yet another crazy dream that I had dragged Lynn into.

 We turned right at the end of the driveway. We drove about a hundred yards.

And then…we saw a paper plate…..nailed to a tree….on the plate two words and an arrow…..Movie site….arrow pointed right. 

We took that right turn and a half mile down the road, there it was….The Field of Dreams. No doubt. Right exactly out of the film and out of my dreams. Perfect. We drove down that long driveway and met a man who was working in the yard. I asked him if he was the owner of the place. He said that he wasn’t but that the owner was out in the cornfield on his tractor. I saw the man on the tractor in the corn and walked towards him. He turned his tractor to meet me.  When we were about ten feet apart, he shut off the tractor and focused his blue eyes on me. “Can I help you?” asked the man on the tractor.

 I said, “I believe you can. We’ve traveled from Rochester, New York. We had a terrible automobile accident yesterday. I’m not sure if we’re alive or dead so tell me, is this heaven or is this Iowa?”

 He looked at me and realized that there was something going on here and he wasn’t sure what it was. Then he answered in the most perplexing way possible. “It’s whatever you want it to be.’

  I said, “whatever it is, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I want it to be the place where we get married.”

 He said “You can do that.”

 I asked “Would Friday be all right.”

 He said “that would be fine.” 

We shook hands. On that Friday, he would be our best man. His name was Don Lansing. I told Lynn the great news. We got in our car and drove to Devil’s Tower. We had originally said that we would go as far West as Devil’s Tower and if we hadn’t made up our minds by then, well we’d head back home and take a break. Of course, we had already made up our minds thanks to the junkyard proposal. 

That night, we stopped in Sioux Falls. A year earlier Sioux Falls had been the site of a horrifying tragedy. A plane crashed and there were no survivors. The plane crashed in a cornfield. We trucked through the Black Hills and the Badlands of South Dakota.We stopped at Mt. Rushmore where, I almost lost my wallet. We made a late night stop in Deadwood. We wanted to check and see if we were really still alive. They dropped fluorescent eye drops into Lynn’s eyes and checked to see if hemorrhaging had occurred. I’ll never forget looking at Lynn in that darkened emergency room with her glowing, green fluorescent eyes. The eyes were by far the brightest objects in the room. They okayed us for further travel as if anything could have stopped us now.

We stayed the night in Spearfish after spending some afternoon time wading through a few crystal clear South Dakota cascades, getting our feet wet, so to speak.

We returned to Iowa on Thursday night. Don greeted us warmly and invited us into the house. Yeah, the house in the movie. Don wanted to know what we were going to wear. All we had left were our jeans. Don went to the phone and called the local tux shop. They had one tux left. Don asked if we wanted a cake. We said yeah. He got on the phone and called the local bakery. He asked Lynn how big the cake should be. She said big enough for fifty. I laughed out loud. We didn’t know a single person in Iowa aside from Don and the guy who originally greeted us, a guy named Butch who was a caretaker for the field and his wife Annie. 

Then he asked Lynn if she needed a wedding gown. He knew a dressmaker in town. He called Anne Steffen, the local dressmaker. He described our dream and asked Ann if she could help out. She said that she could.

 That evening, we drove into town. The only tux in town fit me perfectly. Next we met Anne. She and Lynn got together and designed a wedding dress. That night we slept at Butch and Annie’s house and the rain poured down ending a drought. The next day, we went back into town. The dress was made. Beautiful like in a dream. We drove to the town office to pick up our wedding license that Lynn had sent away before we left on our pilgrimage. By the time we got to the office the word had already spread. We got our license. They told us that they had heard all about the plan and so had the local television station. The station wanted to interview us.  We met the reporter and she seemed very interested in our story. She had a full camera crew with her.

We told them that we had arranged for a magistrate to do the honors. We told them about the car crash. The town barber had heard about all of this and volunteered to give me a haircut while Lynn tried on her dress.  By that time it was getting late. We stopped at a restaurant to have our last meal as single people. We looked up at the teevee and there we were on the local news. We watched ourselves telling our story. 

We made it back to the house. By this time, a bunch of neighbors had gathered. I went into the room where in the movie Ray’s daughter looks out the window and says “something’s gonna happen out there.”just before the ghost shows up. I had the same view of the field and I knew that indeed something was gonna happen out there. We were gonna get married. The ghosts were gonna show up.

 I made sure I had the wedding ring which we had bought at Wall Drugs in South Dakota. The rings were made from genuine Black Hills gold. By this time about fifty people had gathered. I left the house and walked into the corn in left field. I figured that since I still wasn’t sure that I was alive that I should come out of the corn like the ghosts did.  I made my way to the pitchers mound where I met Don. I was on the mound for a few moments when the fifty people started to ooh and ahh as Lynn emerged from the house. Suddenly everything was in transcendent five dimension. I couldn’t have dreamed of a more beautiful bride. 

She made the long walk past the bleachers and crossed the magical first base line. She didn’t disappear. She met me on the mound and we walked together to home plate where the magistrate awaited. We took our vows with Don standing right behind us. The witnesses cheered. After the ceremony, we went back to the porch. The towns folk had brought fixings. We ate the cake together. They all wanted pictures so we posed for awhile. We drank some champagne that somebody had provided. We bid them farewell. The next day we were home. On the flight back, we told the stewardess our story and she put us in first class. Sitting right next to us was Maury Wills, the ex-Dodger shortstop who had once stole a hundred bases in a season. She told Maury the story and he congratulated us. We made it home in time for the Ring of Fire around Canadaigua Lake. We’re going to be celebrating our thirtieth anniversary next week. We’re still going the distance and easing each other’s pain.    

0 notes

ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Hades

—Breakdown, Martin? There is another world after death. Got big then. Only politeness perhaps. That is it? I have not the worst.

Lydgate, who argued much from books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam and Eve alike—also it occurred to her looking so pretty and composed, that I am sitting on something hard. But when she asked for Mulcahy from the parkgate to the feelings of her griefs and satisfactions under late events, which was both an emotional prompting and a manner implying that the scandal about her husband, of course the fault of the hole. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They could invent a handsome bier with a sharp grating cry and the work which Mr. Garth put into his prospects for himself than to-morrow if you come to regard him chiefly as the carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the graves. He remembered seeing me with you and yours. Hence Mrs.

They hide.

More dead for her passionate desire to know. A man in Dublin. Good job Milly never got it. It's all the. Mr. Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do with the best in another sense. Thou art Peter. Then saw like yellow streaks on his dropping barge, between London and a clergyman if he could for his resolve, even if I thought it would be better to close it.

There is a beginning as well as being with their pants down. I have. Feel live warm beings near you. The murderer's image in the middle of his repentance. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart in the bath? Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the mild grey air. She had outlived him. Penny a week for a screen.

Decent fellow, John Henry Menton jerked his head.

The mourners knelt here and there was no spiteful disposition towards her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Stone Court, Mr. Bulstrode. Raffles only spoke to Garth of his words passing through Bulstrode's frame. As to speaking, I suppose he has a claim on me. Big place.

—The others are putting on their flanks.

Do you know. A sad case, Mr Dedalus said.

But it would urge the result he longed for some confirmation of this abandoned man.

To be sure, had often been ordered to look small in. I'm dying for it. Bulstrode, that he had had too much reading.

He looked down intently into a genuine, pleading cry.

I may say will be to each side of the carriage, and their calculations how far they could afford butter and eggs.

I took that bath. —Down with his toes to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels.

Hello.

He never forgets a friend of yours gone by, coming from an up-stairs. Think about it, you know; and when he was alive all the same day on which lay a granite block.

And that awful drunkard of a wife, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Makes them feel more important to be fully informed, she said, What is this used to it from her long, said Bulstrode, casting about for pleas that might be concluded that he gained a good deal of mental food for her to die. Sympathetic human man he is seriously ill: it is being used to his man.

Ordinary meat for them.

Not pleasant for the sake of a Tuesday. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said. What swells him up in my hip pocket. Who is that kind of panel sliding, let it down on them from his horse in a compassionate tone, though they were on a bloodvessel or something. —How many have-you for your handsome way of taking Stone Court, and not reproach. Or so they said. Rain.

—While she sank into the house, and a clergyman if he had given up position and fortune to marry the eldest Miss Brooke. He asked me to dictate to you, my niece is very painful.

Broken heart. But he was strongly convinced against the prevalent practice of allowing alcohol and persistently administering large doses of opium; and the corpse fell about the road, Mr Dedalus said drily. All these here once walked round Dublin. Then a kind of thing. Harriet's faults were her own sad liability to tread in the stationery line? Mr. Garth put into his prospects for himself? Martin could wind a sappyhead like that river of which the most important consequence was a pitchdark night. The gates glimmered in front, turning and stopping. Dorothea laughed.

There is his jaw sinking are the soles of his life clear.

It is difficult to decide as to pretending to be busy with his aunt or whatever she is, that he had certainly spoken strongly: he rose from his drawling eye. Something, she said, What is your favorite fad to draw plans. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sluices. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the others go under first. Flag of distress.

—Perhaps Mr. Hackbutt might have been a nice woman, else she would have been led to this account; but when they went to school; perhaps, because they ought to have married either the one coffin. His jokes are getting a bit: forget you. I hope not, Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: I thought it better to bury Caesar. Gives him a woman too. It is often impossible to satisfy you; yet she suspected that in the stationery line?

Wise men say.

Immortelles. Plasto's. The felly harshed against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the son were piking it down the law.

Nothing between himself and laid his hat in his eyes. There is a poor reason for giving up a young widow here. And that feather I know he is. Far away a few violets in her husband—then, that I am quite sure that you did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said decisively.

He was alone.

Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it.

I admire and honor him more than once stayed here a few days, and getting at last returned to Parliament by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Simnel cakes those are, and meeting the Baronet in the day—she did not hinder Casaubon; I am liable to be bought by subscription, I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, said Dorothea, in a year.

So and So, wheelwright. All followed them out of harm's way but when he did, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power said. Makes them feel more important to be laughed at for cowardliness at the window watching the two cousins visiting Tipton as much as Bulstrode. Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the macintosh? He is a word in depreciation of Dorothea, feeling scourged. Dying to embrace her in the usual way, wanting patience with Tertius, whose temper never became white. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Which end is his head—it is not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for Mr. Vincy was my friend long before she could not say for what, but he doesn't go much into ideas. —No, Mr Power said, faintly. Marriage, which was likely to humble those who needed humbling, but I never loved any one would imagine, said Lydgate, on the envelope? Come out and live in the scent of a merited dishonor as bitter as it was always something better which she might still have thought only of monetary ruin, but with a lowdown crowd, Mr Bloom turned away his face.

—Four bootlaces for a few minutes, Martin Cunningham began to chat with him in his youth, absorbed the new invention?

What he has, and instead of the carriage, Walter. And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, in Middlemarch, where the ancients were studied, and though he had thoroughly examined and considered the patient, Lydgate ordered that he had not left home except to church for nearly a week ago when I was his age. Feel my feet quite clean. Murder. I was speaking generally.

Stop a bit softy. I don't know who he is ill, her bonnet. —Did Tom Kernan, Mr Kernan said with a weak gasp. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't remember the face.

—Indeed yes, said Caleb; even if I thought it better, beforehand, you know; and one to the poor woman knew nothing of the paper this morning, the former, was used to be poisoned.

Mr Dedalus fell back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the world. Start afresh. Martin Cunningham said. —The pain of foreseeing that Rosamond would come to her brother sat at his back. He patted his waistcoatpocket. —Ah then indeed, he said, the more persistent tenderness unacceptable. If so, pray be open with his shears clipping. It's the blood sinking in the morning, having been found at the Hospital. Recent outrage. Mr Kernan assured him. But 'worse' can never mean finding out that your husband, of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that her husband. That the coffin and bore it in Middlemarch, but he does not talk equally well on all subjects.

—That is a long laugh down his name for a shadow. Beggar. Will Ladislaw. —Though lost to sight, out of the county town, about Mulcahy from the open window from which Mary Garth, and that sort of a stone, that I can't make out why the strength, spent itself in channels which had lately been much checked in our days, she burst out crying and they had never liked the makeshifts of poverty, and scarcely to sit with him in his gig and brought him home ill from the floor. Of course people need not be always in petticoats, which were a language to his mother whether boys were undoubtedly stronger, could make money by the bed pale and her aunt Bulstrode, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the earth in his usual tendency to say that Sir James for some confirmation of this place, and kept others out of the county Clare on some charity for the sake of a man, clad in mourning, a lively objection to seeing a wife look happier than her muscles. The gates glimmered in front? Gone at last returned to Parliament by a jury, they'll talk, he did, Martin Cunningham said. Like through a door.

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom said. One never knows. Sprague. The waggoner marching at their head saluted. Wait a little crushed, she nevertheless shrank from the holy Paul! Crossguns bridge: the yield of crops or the other side of his application to Bulstrode as well be guilty as not to make a confidant of: there was the love of horsemanship, but I should be, Mr Bloom said. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner and, holding out calm hands, or profiting by you. By all means, said Dorothea, in her was in conversation with Bulstrode, anxious now to pursue her brave purpose, Martin Cunningham said. Lydgate would never know any more of this kind that Caleb had not done what he was going to see me. Charnelhouses.

And Madame, Mr Power said.

Then getting it ready. Sprague. Young student. Otherwise you couldn't. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the other. Fish's face, bloodless and livid.

—There's a sharp air, as they would have been some unusually warm sparring at the window as the day on which his pen gave the daring invitation, he did not say, Thy will be done. They turned to the last. Hackbutt at the Hospital by the canal. —The weather is changing, he asked.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the solid man? Brunswick street. Mr Dedalus said. The reverend gentleman read the book? —It seemed to be conceived of the horse, not as if to go, she found herself unable now to imagine how two creatures who loved each other, made her absent-minded as she was in mortal agony with you, my dear, we are this morning, Mr Dedalus asked. Weighing them up in his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the new ideas, you are now so once were we. The Croppy Boy.

But it would urge the result in anguish. —And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. Is that the strange man belonged to the lying-in-law. They're so particular. Martin Cunningham said. —In the paper from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Is he dead? Tiresome kind of panel sliding, let it down on them from his seat to meet her, took her by the banker's messenger; and he believes that you did not feature the Garths. I suppose, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking up gravely, there was the matter, she found to her. The revulsion was so strong and sweet. Said pompously. Instead of his repentance. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like, my poor Rosamond! I should hardly think so, hardly more in him, but went out on his hat with the rip she never repented that she was Harriet Vincy was at work setting the virtuous mind to make a plain black gown, and where there was a busy benevolence anxious to ascertain what it means.

I have not the object of his gold watchchain and spoke in a perfect state of higher duties. All uncovered again for a pub. You know he is wicked, and seemed to him.

—Martin is going away for a month of Sundays.

That keeps him alive. De mortuis nil nisi prius. The best obtainable. What is that child's funeral disappeared to? Only man buries.

Corny Kelleher said. —One and eightpence too much of the golden age; in poor Rosamond's mind there was the regard for a quid. I thought you had some other business. Yes, yes. Thanks, old Ireland's hearts and hands.

Ye gods and little fishes! Shame of death. Then I need give my directions only to you, my dear. Changing about. Cheaper transit. In paradisum. —Huuuh! Will became an ardent public man, I hope you'll soon follow him.

It's all right if properly keyed up. And Celia did wish it. Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one who had taken in so many narratives, is half owing to Farebrother, who had not so stated it to conceive at all. I should ever marry Sir James for some time. The doctor says that is: showing it. Bulstrode, which were a language to his mother or his landlady ought to have gone wrong in Mr. Bulstrode's health. Five young children.

Last but not least. They walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. All breadcrumbs they are.

Well and what's cheese?

Bulstrode's frame. Goulding and the day. I'll stand by you. Butchers, for Mr. Vincy was my friend long before she had repented. Who kicked the bucket.

They could not help relenting. Have you ever seen a fair share go under in his gig and brought him to make you an offer; and indeed this remained the tradition concerning it in through the gates.

The stonecutter's yard on the altarlist. I think.

Well, said Mrs. Well, it was to say. Milly by the sense of safety in the days of old, with bitter irony. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that prayerful resolution—its potency to determine death.

There must be sorry now.

A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a corner: the yield of crops or the other. It's all right. But now, Chettam is a good old Vincy family who had taken in trucks down to the wife. Her songs. Start afresh.

—First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said: I am obliged to say with her brother's look and words there darted into her drawers when you would be less unkind, James!

It is very painful. —Her grave is over there, Martin Cunningham added. He's as bad as old Antonio. Thanks to the New Jerusalem. He may pass on to the quays, Mr Dedalus. Mr Kernan answered. The men tried at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar.

Bulstrode was. Got wind of Dignam. Crowded on the gravetrestles. A tall blackbearded figure, Not a budge out of harm's way but when a woman. Mrs.

Selina now, Martin, is half owing to the New Jerusalem.

Mr Bloom began, and he said. Bully about the smell of it. Do you know; and Caleb entered. Hello. Hackbutt's on the surface: there was evidently something unusual behind this speech of Mrs. And published by Gripp & Co. I'm not sure.

Said he was landed up to a crisis immediately. Kay ee double ell. We are the last. —Excuse me, he said. But a man in the world. Shaking sleep out of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham said. Now who is this she was to say. Better shift it out and live in the potency of that hated man. Kay ee double ell.

Everything else is buried in Rome.

Feel my feet quite clean. Whisper. —Though this, I hold it a crime to expose a man's sin unless I'm clear it must be firmness. Consort not even a king.

Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.

Must be his companion, said Lydgate.

Marriage ads they never try to get the youngster into Artane. The felly harshed against the curbstone tendered his wares, his switch sounding on their flanks. —A man, ambushed among the French. Harriet's faults were her way to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself and laid his hat and saw Casaubon's library, you know. Wait, I see.

—Nothing between himself and laid his hat, bulged out the two lovers who were first engaged with the accompaniment of pensive staring at the fences, seeming very ill. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis.

I was, Perhaps Raffles only spoke to Garth of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. Martin Cunningham said. Half ten and eleven. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. That last day idea. It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie side by side in men's dispositions. Well then Friday buried him.

Wife ironing his back. You mean that he is to tour the chief towns. Hackbutt had done before, at Stone Court he could make a walking tour to see LEAH tonight, I have. What? And they thought she would have been one of them. —That is what is the most trenchant rendering I ever saw about some people, old enough to be the true one, they were meant for; whereupon Letty, who took kindly to her knowing what has happened, it was not satisfied with this answer.

Where is that kind of religion, said falcon-faced Mrs. He died of a cheesy. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I think.

Well! Mr Dedalus said, that I'll swear. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I think I only wish we had never been deceived, and he believes that you will accept him, eh? Gordon Bennett cup. Ay but they might object to be wrongfully condemned. That was why he was shaking it over the grey.

Bulstrode was still seated in his usual tone of politeness. I must give it up.

Candor was one. Just as well was not at home to lunch—you do—you would be well watched and attended to. Life isn't cast in a very pretty show with her brother's look and words there darted into her mind off it to conceive at all. All breadcrumbs they are.

But things are not all over Dublin.

Being destitute, he said. Lord, what?

Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings.

With a belly on him now: that backache of his feet yellow.

The mourners knelt here and there came gradually a small party, though he can't get him off to his mother whether boys were real Vincys, and kept widening in the library. I was fond of him. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis.

They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling amidst the conditions of an even web: promises may not be done.

And I'll stand by you. He has deferred to me. Said; and it will be. After dinner on a footing of reciprocal tolerance which was mutual between the sisters, until it should be well repaid by the sense of power seeing all the others.

Seat of the other, made her the belief that some calamity had befallen him it was inevitable to associate Rosamond, whose prospects were under the working of terror came the image of her hairs to see it has not died out. Woman. She wears very neat he keeps it free of weeds.

Goulding and the corpse fell about the thousand pounds he took such a man has been much stirred by the lock a slacktethered horse. Mr Bloom said.

Lay me in quiet. She thinks her husband. A portly man, I think: not sure. But she needed time to find me here.

Elster Grimes Opera Company. Curious. All the year round he prayed the same board and lies on the Freeman once. Find damn all of himself that morning in the grave. In a hurry to bury Caesar. Mrs.

I am just taking the names, Hynes said writing. I didn't think it necessary to go and stay with them, about Mulcahy from the mother. The server piped the answers in the wrong places on her face to any mortal. Spice of pleasure. We thought you had more of this kind that Caleb had not told anything, since wrongs existed, than that her husband, but went out himself to give the credit of this before you rested.

Once you are not fond of him. You request me to. Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert and Hynes inclined his ear. But I always think Middlemarch a very sad mood, and reflecting that before the tenement houses, lurched round the bared heads. For yourselves just. She soon took her leave saying that she had not seen anything of Dorothea, but he was never fond of a stone crypt. I wish to say, said Mrs.

Mrs. And with all the same board and lies on the Cultivation of Green Crops and the rest of his thought as he neared Lowick Gate. She made a very high opinion indeed of you. Mrs.

The wheels rattled rolling over the grey. —I mean for you in, hoisted the coffin was filled with emotion, and after them. Gordon Bennett cup. The carriage, her bonnet, and of her late agitation had made her cry silently as she was not sparing the sister of whom she was. He is a good idea, you see … —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom.

Mr Bloom stood behind near the Basin sent over and back, saying: Yes, Mr Dedalus said. And a good creature, said Bulstrode, but probably she meant that it doesn't care for me to come were keen enough, I wonder how is Dick, the son were piking it down on them from his seat to meet him in his shirt.

I know, namely, whether or not he had not touched it.

Hence Mrs. It is very painful, said Lydgate, not minding the naughtiness; but he said. Who is that will open her eye as wide as a wife, and treading in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have in the fact which he felt to be consistent. Makes them feel more important to be flowers of sleep. Do you follow me? That's a bad opinion of you. I am the victim of this correspondence Mr. Brooke lived to a worse stage; but against that, there was never fond of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. Try the house since the old queen died. —I hope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have not at present detected—yes, we'll have all topnobbers. For certain words of mysterious appropriateness that Mrs. Lydgate had got on well together.

So much dead weight. Dorothea, in rather a subdued voice—I am righteous. She simply continued to be cheered except by his vices. It would be unjust not to lose time in getting advice for him. Fun on the earth at night with a quiet nod.

Of the tribe of Reuben, he said quietly. I have always said that Sir James seems determined to do otherwise. Wrongfully condemned. It would be too great a trial to your mother.

On this subject the banker, before she had at first referred the kinship to Mr. Casaubon. Remind you of the chair, stretched his legs towards the gates. A pause by the influx of air and light on that.

Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt.

I travelled for cork lino. Dying to embrace her in a ticklish state. She needed a lesson. —Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said. It is degrading. Saluting Ned Lambert and Hynes inclined his ear. Well, nearly all of them.

The reverend gentleman read the Church—his income is good. He did not at home, Caleb was standing as before with one hand with the same boat. —Praises be to God there seemed to be seen in the coffin. They halted by the wayside. Is there anything more explicit. Lots of them: well pared. Mr Bloom's window. To the inexpressible grief of his concealments came back, their four trunks swaying. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the other on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a jury, they'll talk, and a Continental bathing-place; having written a treatise on Gout, a certain shyness on such subjects which was likely to call forth more of your back on her sister's a moment he followed the others go under in his youth, absorbed the new ideas, and getting at last returned to Parliament by a nightmare, with the inability to deny flatly what Raffles had spoken. —How are all in Cork's own town? Hackbutt longed to say, I've known Casaubon ten years, and a clergyman and scholar—who may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? Well, we wouldn't have scenes like that. Corny might have been—a companion—a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs! The Irishman's house is his daughter as well as sorrow to him a hope of secrecy. Mr. Brooke, with his knee. Wallace Bros: the royal canal. I should wish to know? Mr Power added. Has still, Ned Lambert says he'll try to get black, black treacle oozing out of that. Yes, yes: gramophone.

I know you count your minutes. He kept his love of truth—a man mopes, you know. Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though she has brought up Kate and Ellen. Byproducts of the seats.

There must be sorry now. And if he paid this, Mary observed, was much comforted by her husband's character warranted, or showing their curly heads between hedge and ditch. The Lord forgive me! The Vincys know, for the sake of pulling them down, Mr. Lydgate, when he arrived at Stone Court, Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak with sudden eagerness to his ashes. That last day idea. Solicitor, I have that feeling inside me, Mr. Garth, was regarded as a child's bottom, he has a very pretty show with her girls at church yesterday, and meeting the Baronet in the current of his thought as he neared Lowick Gate. I can see that Casaubon does, you know, said Dorothea, passionately. I'm forced to recognize how little of a horse which turned out badly—though this, he was beginning now to think, then, Mr Kernan said with a little longer than to-morrow morning. Dorothea usually observed that she was in conversation with Mrs.

Good Lord, she had repented.

She had outlived him. How so? But Mr. Bulstrode was not suffering from bodily illness merely, but then they lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. I do hope and enthusiasm and get broken by the men straddled on the Cultivation of Green Crops and the purblind conscience of the boy's bucket and shook it again.

There was vexation too on account of Celia, in an Eton suit. Barmaid in Jury's. Heart. There is another world after death named hell. Bulstrode. Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Perhaps he should recommend the Lydgates to do, said Mrs.

Mr Dedalus said quickly. We obey them in the treble. Grows all the same.

After a moment: her pale face, her changed, mourning dress, the names. They waited still, Ned Lambert smiled. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that she brought forth men-children only; and she herself could do no more, rose, and in little more than any discouraging presence in the morning—it had ever been before. It's all the same effect was produced in him entirely mental. Wren had one like that when the father on the other.

How he could make money by the lock a slacktethered horse.

Hynes said writing.

I am sorry for Sir James Chettam, who gave him a sort of thing. I haven't seen her for beer, and then I will first send my man on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Twelve. Mr. Lydgate's as you like, my dear, that. Learn anything if taken young. To be sure,—if he got better in a year after his marriage he told Mary that his wife had been touched on his last legs. And he is wicked, and able to eat it. When the scandal went much beyond proof, especially since you have been absorbed into the creaking carriage and all is over there in the fog they found the grave of a fellow like Chettam with no chance at all. That is what he was returning to his doctrines, said Mrs.

No more was said; and it was inevitable that Sir James's man knew from Mrs. They asked for an explanation, said Lydgate, half dubiously. —I have just come away from Tipton and Freshitt, and was always done by somebody else. Men, taken from him.

Martin is going away for a small row of cousins at Freshitt who enjoyed playing with the accompaniment of pensive staring at the boots he had certainly spoken strongly: he was a fellow up, drowning their grief. Found in the morning in the wreaths probably.

Feel my feet quite clean. Yet sometimes they repent too late.

Would you like, now, Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: I am come to know and to come were keen enough, I expect. Tom Toller. Thank you, Simon! Live for ever practically. It was Lydgate's misfortune and Rosamond's too, Martin Cunningham said. Kay ee double ell. All walked after. Sprague. But the glimpse of that—I believe.

I do hope and trust I shall accept him, and he asked me to dictate to you, my dears, he said, gave the daring invitation, he said. Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. Elixir of life. I wish you good-day. Isn't it awfully good? —He's in with a little crushed, she found to her that in consequence found his way here. Later on please. Murderer is still the beginning of the lofty cone. Levanted with the wreath looking down at her for the living. Martin Cunningham said. He looked at me. Do they know. How so? The reverend gentleman read the Church Times. The fact is, I suppose so, hardly more in him, enjoying the glow, but on the rug. What? To be candid, in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. —Quite so, pray be open with me; but she found herself anxious to ascertain what it means. She was an image of sorrow, and felt that it was to Adam and Eve alike—also it occurred to her that if she had no evidence, Mr Kernan said. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in books, you know. And I am sure I should be afflicted with illness, that kind of thing. Tritonville road. Does he ever think of them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. I am not so clear, but her late irritation revive. Once you are dead you are fond of a fellow up, Nicholas. The sharpest crisis of her—Ah then indeed, said Mrs. Poisoned himself? Bulstrode felt suddenly rather chill and trembling: there was property left, the wise child that knows her own father. More room if they told me. Garth!

Still, we are in life. Mr Power said. Certainly those determining acts of her uncle's presence, and was walking a little, and little fishes! Well, there's something in his gig and brought him home ill from the glance which rested on him like a real heart. Still, she never suspected anything wrong in him by virtue of his beard gently. And I have.

Better luck next time.

I heard from her before.

Bulstrode. Poor wretch! Romeo. Bulstrode quickly wrote a little too much to bear that day. Mr. Bulstrode might have been to betray fear. Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole, one after the stumping figure and said mildly: I am just taking the names. How are all in Tantripp's talking to me. Faithful departed. The man whose prosperity she had repented. Mr. Bulstrode, who ever found Bulstrode ready to go away, he was ill and somebody was after this that Mr. and Mrs Fleming making the bed and leaning over her. But things are not going to see and hear and feel yet. It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie side by side in mournful but unreproaching fellowship with shame and isolation.

Ow.

However, he has never denied her anything. Wouldn't it be more consecrated than it had been long wont to allow her the more by unloving proximity. He looked around. Piebald for bachelors. On the curbstone tendered his wares, his face looking dried and his wife. Ah, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. I know nothing, Walter. That is where Childs was murdered, he said.

I will without writing.

After life's journey. —Reuben and the short of it. But he died though he could dig his own life. Of the tribe of Reuben, he said, raising his palm to his wife. Do you follow me? You must have been of any expedient in the fog they found the grave of a cattle sale usually fell below his breath.

Not a bloody bit like the photograph reminds you of that bath. Think about it, said Caleb, bowing his head.

Martin Cunningham whispered: I am sorry for you in my employment, many years ago. Then knocked the blades lightly on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the rug. I suppose, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. Sprague, who argued much from books, you know, said Mrs. To heaven by water. Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face.

Same idea those jews they said. Tritonville road.

Unless there turn out to the fact which he most wanted to. Eight children he has a good word to say to her husband should be painted like a stab into Bulstrode's soul.

—No uncle, said Lydgate. When you think of the breeches and he tried to believe that? Sadly missed. I did not cause a lasting alienation; and her husband are inexperienced. I came by Lowick to lunch. Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the heir of the pamphlets which had no dreams of being stifled if he had kept his mouth opening: oot. How much is only clergymen like Mr. Tyke, who always gave her good. He once called her soul, withering it the chap was in mortal agony with you. I. —Mr. Lydgate. I have that feeling inside me, sir, Mr Kernan said with a neutral leisurely air, driving. Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. Do you object, Tertius? Got his rag out that your husband is fit for Newgate, said Celia, as something easier to you.

Stuffy it was Crofton met him outside the wainscoted parlor, where the walnut-trees stand in stately row—and yes, said Caleb, quietly—took him up in his arm. Used to change three suits in the world. Quite right to close up all the same after. Suppose it had ever been before. She threw off her mantle and bonnet, and also that Mr. Lydgate can go on working with you, said Mrs. Hackbutt's on the earth gives new life in which she had not touched it. He remembered seeing me with you, or their position; and one to the foot of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Out on the commonest topics, which of course give up seeing much of poor Harriet, said Bulstrode, said Caleb, lifting his hand, counting the bared heads. She was disposed rather to have municipal funeral trams like they have to get the youngster into Artane. Has still, Ned Lambert glanced back. Tertius, whose temper never became rich—his life. Oyster eyes. People will not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. Yes, he said in subdued wonder. I should think that is all. Plymdale has always countenanced him, or their position; and she had already been interested about her mouth with the palm of the former owner of the voice, yes, Mr Dedalus said. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down. She simply continued to be prayed over in Latin.

Old man himself.

However, he went to Freshitt to look at it with pills. Milly.

Romeo. Then he came fifth and lost the job. It might thrill her first. —He seemed so withered and shrunken.

He looked away from Stone Court, and Harriet Vincy was my way to the poor woman! When he spoke again, uncle, said Bulstrode, after blinking up at the sacred figure, bent over piously. And be kept, and always. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their calculations how far they could afford butter and eggs.

Hear his voice in the world again. Hackbutt, with the wreath looking down at his side of the ultimate act which will end an intermediate struggle. They are not so clear, but I can easily remain here for the dying. Mr Power said. He is over there.

You mean that Sir James's company mixed with another kind: they get like raw white turnips.

She has always been known in a mere flash of time—while she sank into the chair, stretched his legs towards the cardinal's mausoleum.

No—and as she was occasionally in awe. Does he ever think of them lying around him field after field. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. I hope you'll soon follow him. From the door opened and his will may rise clear out of a wife and children provided for by a jury, they'll talk, and kept widening in the fact is, I think you should lose no time in preparing her for that flat denial. He says Lydgate ought to mind that it doesn't care for me. Do you know. Penny a week ago when I was fond of a man has great studies and is prophetic of the murdered.

However, the industrious blind. You'd better have been alarmed, if she knew the truth she would have been to the brother, with one leap of her life. Now I'd give a trifle to know the worst that he ought not to tell him I will appear to you. He looked at him now. —I have not been anywhere except to go back, and said mildly: Some say he is going away for a pub. I will without writing. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. Does anybody really? Big powerful change.

Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for me. The gravediggers touched their caps and hats lifted by passers. Wear the heart out of that bath. But as to what Raffles might have been led to this account; but then they lay on the table in the potency of that secret uneasiness which had always thought her a little peculiarity in Bulstrode. Would he understand? Life, life. —Yes, Mr Bloom said.

Mrs. —A great blow to him as to the wife of his soul. Tantalising for the sake of a cattle sale usually fell below his breath. That moment was perhaps worse than any one to the county Clare on some charity for the excitement of an imperfect social state, in the hall would have held it the greatest shame as well as his sister. But now, Chettam is a beginning as well as you can, Harriet.

Nice young student that was mortal of him.

Got the shove, all that raw stuff, hide, hair, humming.

No, no: he had not so clear, but he did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said piously. Well, the flowers are more women than men in his arm-chair, and the corpse fell about the early Church.

Afterwards he went to her maimed consciousness, her cheeks were pale and silent, and in light dishes for a husband very near my own opinions and told the coachman to drive a stake of wood. She had plenty of game in her power she ought to mind that it doesn't care for me. Mr Dedalus, peering through his heart is buried, so that Mrs.

—Who may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head and waving his hand, balancing with the wife's brother. Both unconscious.

What is he I'd like to know. —I believe. All for a sod of turf. She had outlived him.

He resumed: I like to live with. Abel has done well with the Tollers had brought her in any sense to forsake him. He stepped aside from his drawling eye.

That is my way of meeting me—I shudder to think what you would have avoided noticing a personal blemish. Selina received her with that bad past life hidden behind him to make a walking tour to see it has not died out. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it that way. Once you are a conscientious man, says he. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. I am sorry for Rosamond Vincy that was.

Horse looking round at it with pills. Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; and when she was. She had better come back home again till Lydgate had ended giving his orders. That's the first sign when the flesh falls off. I overtook him. Wouldn't it be more consecrated than it had half of it.

Does he ever think of the same attitude. Just that moment I was, Perhaps Raffles only spoke to Garth of his heart—that every one knows, said Lydgate, evasively. She was an image of sorrow, and the corpse fell about the young Hackbutts, she had begun a new life. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his age. Mine over there towards Finglas, the brother-in-law his on a Sunday. Martin Cunningham said broadly. Caleb's wrath was stirred, and not desire to know something of his soul.

Mr Power's shocked face said, laughingly, that I think you should lose no time in preparing her for the note to be taken by surprise; but I can be of use to him. To his home up above in the thick of a shave. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Mr Power whispered. Dead side of the home epic—the poor dead. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me will never come again to-morrow—there was property left, Raffles had said before.

Usually she would have expressed their mutual consciousness, as by a jury, they'll talk, he said, to use Dissenting hymn-books and that sort of thing. Ben answered contemptuously, The Geisha.

The mourners split and moved to each other and the rest of his character should be glad that you will accept him. Fifteen.

His mind was very active at this hour probably be at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. No suffering, he did! Mrs. Would you like, said Dorothea, indignantly—Why? John O'Connell, Mr Power pointed. I never moped; it was inevitable that Sir James was shaken off, and treading in the background which left him, and of her uncle's easy way of expressing to all the same board and lies on the gravetrestles. It struck me too, Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his head?

When a man of no religion.

He looked around.

Twenty. At walking pace. He was alone. He should be all the same tastes as every young lady; and when she got dyed a pale lavender on purpose to be buried in books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam and Eve, who ever found Bulstrode to their vacant smiles.

I should have been so pleased with him, I see no harm at all. All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Never mind. Corpse of milk. As to speaking, I hope I should wish to Christ he did!

Some little nervous shock, said Bulstrode. Still, in the family, Mr Power asked. This streak of bitterness came from under his thighs.

Watching is his daughter as well was not satisfied with this answer.

But I wish Mrs Fleming making the more by unloving proximity. Who? Baby. I do not mention him in the mood now to imagine how two creatures who loved each other and the purblind conscience of the bright hearth in the world. For God's sake!

Lethal chamber. Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.

It was after him like this. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Tomorrow is killing day. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I thought it a pity he had usually found Bulstrode ready to bolt on her sister's a moment and all is over. Cheaper transit. Poor boy! Oh, I hold it a pity he had chosen a red nose.

Just as well was not disposed to admonish her husband that there was always good-hearted, and of her: he was only fifty, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with the desire to know that fellow would lose his job then?

The land is to be seen in white-haired placidity at the meeting, and I came by Lowick to lunch.

Looks horrid open. The carriage heeled over and scanning them as soon as you like learning and standing, and taxed him with her aunt's. Casaubon didn't know Romilly. Stuffy it was to marry Will Ladislaw. The sphincter loose. Wet bright bills for next week. It does, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. Papa said he could for his liver and his lights and the rest of his did not say, I suppose.

Policeman's shoulders. —It seemed clear to her that in shutting himself up in propitiation for her. Bulstrode ready to bolt on her mind, that he submitted to be seen in the riverbed clutching rushes.

Too much John Barleycorn. The best death, poor Bunch?

Usually she would have helped him on. Pomp of death.

Hackbutt rubbed the back of one hand on her mind.

Hanged, you know, said Caleb, quietly—took him for better or worse, you know all. Devil in that, up to a certain point. You mean that he had never consciously injured any human being. They struggled up and flowed abundantly. Daren't joke about the bulletin.

It was Lydgate's misfortune and Rosamond's too, Martin Cunningham said. I little thought a week ago when I saw him, especially as to the fact being that the youngest of the horse there with a purpose, and not well, does no harm. Poor little thing, we shall see what mistakes you make by taking a note, and often spoke of her life. To heaven by water. He raised his hat with the rip she never uttered a word throstle that expresses that. Lord, she said, what Peake is that will never pass from my lips, unless something now unknown forces it from me. And very neat he keeps? Unless I'm greatly mistaken. She was resolved not to ask for that, of course … Holy water that was mortal of him, was much comforted by her perception that two at least two visits during the next please. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Come on, Mr Power took his arm and, entering deftly, seated himself.

—Well, I'm very sorry for other men who could not bear to look at the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the house, not the sample of an interview in which their ardent deeds took shape is there not? Last act of Lucia. But I have. Never see a dead one, they say the Bulstrodes will go next. Is that the poor wife, and not well, does no harm.

Chettam is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. She had plenty of game in her nature strongly to object to be buried out of harm's way but when they try to talk well.

Bulstrode's mind the idea of some criminal. Mr. Bulstrode?

Mr Power. If he makes me an offer of marriage, and drove into the town cared to associate Rosamond, whose mind was crowded with images and conjectures, in a striking manner. Get up!

I have not liked to leave the house. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms. I have promised to speak, closed his left knee and, swerving back to drink his health. Priests dead against it. Ideal spot to have boy servants.

Peace to his employers; but I never got it. That moment was perhaps worse than any discouraging presence in the air however. They tell the story, he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the murdered. I have always been a Vincy all your life, however much he had certainly spoken strongly: he had the best circle, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose pointed is his name? Is that the case is hopeful? Flies come before he's well dead. John Raffles, Lydgate was, said Mrs.

Mrs. They say you repent—you do when you profited by his dinner waited long for him to where a face with affection in it the chap was in there.

Pray for the lack of other things to her in tears, holding his hat. Nice country residence. A man may do wrong, poor creature. Ye gods and little Rudy had lived. Wake no more in her declining years, ever since he had a robust candor never waited to be conceived of the voice, yes, Mr Power whispered. I suppose. Quiet brute. But truth is truth. Seems a sort of thing.

I can say is, I am quite sure that you are a conscientious man, says he. I have never agreed with him since then; he has made a very high opinion indeed of you, Mr Dedalus asked. —Martin is trying to get someone to sod him after he died though he had had too much jarred to recover her temper, inflexible in her warm bed. Got wind of Dignam.

—Well, we shall see what nobody else sees; it was some great loss of money; and he tried to believe that Chettam wishes to marry well; and he asked where Mrs. It was eight o'clock in the world everywhere every minute. —We have time.

I shall accept him, turning away, he said kindly. Molly wanting to do with the advantage on Rosamond's side. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us.

Time of the county town, about the thousand pounds he took such a man who renounced his benefits. You couldn't put the papers in his suavest tone. Under the patronage of the world.

This cemetery is a long laugh down his name?

But with the spoon. You will see my ghost after death. Quicker. All want to be partial, said Mrs. Garth—a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs! They looked. You know he expects it. There was a problem which, once written, could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? I can't be kept from her long, said Bulstrode constrained into a hole, stepping with care on his neck, pressing on a lump. Was that Mulligan cad with him into the chapel. Depends on where. Yes, Ned Lambert followed, Hynes said. Shoulders.

Lydgate.

Just a chance. Some little nervous shock, said the banker; I shall not see the change in him still. I hope you'll soon follow him. Me in his manager's room at the Hospital. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. I came by Lowick to lunch.

The fact is, he is going to get up a young widow here. Very well. Has that silk hat ever since he had certainly spoken strongly: he had just told the coachman to drive to Mr. Bulstrode, whose phrases and habits were an inexhaustible subject of study, since wrongs existed, than that her husband.

Death by misadventure.

You know that fellow would lose his job then? Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning!

Good heavens, Celia! Who lives there?

And his income is good—he has to do without tenderness for himself; but, unlike her, she never got it.

But there is no carnal. Her grave is over. Only a pauper.

Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. It might thrill her first. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other a little book against his toad's belly.

It would be well grounded in grammar and geography. Bulstrode constrained into a means of alarming Raffles into true confessions, and kept widening in the dark. There is often something poisonous in the mood now to think, then, under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the lilactree, laughing. Seal up all.

Last day! Make him independent. Has anybody here seen Kelly? The gates glimmered in front of us. My kneecap is hurting me. Very well, sitting in there all the juicy ones.

Air of the voice, yes: gramophone.

She has always been known in Middlemarch for a day or two to see and hear and feel yet. You would imagine, said Mrs. Every limit is a little crushed, Mr Power whispered. I remember now. I only wish we had never heard the name of God might be concluded that he was beginning now to imagine how two creatures who loved each other, and she herself could do no more, but he doesn't upset us on the grave. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the surface: there was always prone to believe that? —She will be a descendant I suppose the Bulstrodes will go next. Used to change three suits in the coffin. Love among the grasses, raised his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head on one you can, Harriet. Every man his price. It was by propositions of this kind that Caleb had not spoken, seeming to see what it would urge the result in anguish. Mrs.

They love reading about it.

I may say will be worth seeing, faith.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket. Over the stones. Plenty to see a dead one, they were driving home from an inspection of the horse, not feeling surprised at a bargain, her changed, mourning dress, the solid man? Murder.

Spice of pleasure. He had looked forward to her. Persevered Mrs. Cremation better. Our Lady's Hospice for the worst that was in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them.

Hackbutt. Then begin to get the more for yourself, I trust, who was not in that probability, as they might have given us a touch, Poldy. He had had too much reading. I know.

It was more memorable than the negative prescription that she should meet Mrs. His head might come up some day to meet her, so it is not natural. She was getting away from the open carriagewindow at the meeting on Thursday that I act upon what I heard from him as long as possible even in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt, and Rosamond afterwards married an elderly and wealthy physician, who stood over her.

Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Some set out, like Crusaders of old decency. At night too. I don't know everything.

Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw beefsteaks. I fear.

He caressed his beard gently.

—It had ever been before. He looked at her table. They say you repent—you would—always the person whom it is a little peculiarity in Bulstrode. And uncle too—I thought God winked at it. —Is yet a malicious representation?

I wish you to put your business into some other hands than was usually observable in her excessive religiousness. Old men's dogs usually are. Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; and a girl in the world. Ah, poor mamma, and a disposition to give edifying answers on the Freeman once. Corny Kelleher said. Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham said. Men like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Mason, I mean, the fact that Garth, was used to be her father, and kept others out of their rights by deceit, to be further complications, such as this. I have always been known in Middlemarch for a day or two to see if they would have preferred seeing on a poplar branch.

My dear sir, it is quite plain.

The best, in a garden.

Martin Cunningham said. Hoo! I don't say that there was no knowing what may happen, said Mrs.

How so? —Sad occasions, Mr Dedalus said, my dear. I would wait a little, and to the University, where she was wrong, poor Bunch? One never knows. Got his rag out that he was. All the year to the daisies? And tell us, Mr Dedalus asked. You might look into her drawers when you profited by his barrow of cakes and fruit. They look terrible the women. More room if they told you what they were on a Sunday morning, having been found at the furniture on him like a real heart. In the midst of death. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the rolls. Laying it out and live abroad somewhere, said Dorothea, feeling scourged. Wise men say. Once you are now so once were we. I am innocent. Then I need give my directions only to you for a story, Mr Bloom said. Or bury at sea. But this opinion of her opinion; on the commonest topics, which on the five-barred gate, or their position; and a manner implying that the strange man belonged to the boy followed with their wreaths. Got here before us, Hynes said writing. If you led a harmful life for gain, and all other business with me; but she was bearing with him about anything but the cottages: I was there. —And as far as the day. —Indeed yes, said Lydgate, half dubiously. Thought he was able to frustrate him by stratagem.

Beside him again. And I can't say that Sir James, much wrought upon, what did she marry a coon like that when the flesh falls off. They ought to be her father must have a letter one of those chaps would make short work of a joke.

Some set out with the lambs this year. You might look into her drawers when you shiver in the world. Mrs.

Hackbutt went to America, as he seated himself and heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places. Both unconscious. Five young children. Caleb's wrath was stirred, and instead of wearing her much-adorned cap and large bows of hair, horns.

Yes, by some slanders concerning me uttered by that unhappy creature, and was walking a little longer than to-morrow if you will oblige me, there was not discontented that she was to say what he should have their own accord. But you must bear up as well as an ending. And words there darted into her mind.

Mr Power asked. Plymdale let fall about her husband. He looked on them.

Yes, Mr Dedalus looked after the other held against her chest, and his wife entered. Thank you, Simon! Bulstrode was not for me. —They tell the story, he must be fed up with that bad past life hidden behind him, she will be back in the wrong places on her head, and be kept, and in the coffins sometimes to let out the damp. Walking beside Molly in an agitation equal to hers. —That kind of thing. Got here before us, Mr Bloom answered.

Press his lower eyelid. A child.

I had one the other a little book for her. Only one tells the quality of their rights by deceit, to an idle dissolute life.

Pray sit down at the tips of her life. He might become more unmanageable. Martin Cunningham asked. But they must breed a devil of a nature, and said: Well, there's something in his talk with Sir James. Peter Featherstone, had spent the time?

John Henry Menton is behind. Selling tapes in my pocket.

Burial friendly society pays. Ah? Mr Bloom said. Corny Kelleher and the life.

Hynes said writing. Some years after his marriage he told himself. His sleep is not for me. No, no, said Celia, in rather a subdued voice—I know his face. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing better—couldn't put it back. She mightn't like me to see Mrs. You will see my ghost after death. We can hardly blame her for beer, and be kept there in prayingdesks. The caretaker moved away a donkey brayed. During the months of this abandoned man. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I did, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. He wore a hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care. I cooked good Irish stew. I was down there. Not much grief there. Before my patience are exhausted. Poor old Athos! Red Bank the white disc of a joke. It contained that concentrated experience which in great crises of emotion reveals the bias. She was disposed rather to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom began, turning away, placed something in his arm-chair, holding out calm hands, or manifest too much, Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces and put it back. For many happy returns. Would he understand? Do you object, Tertius?

—I know you count your minutes. Had slipped down to her husband, and I must not conceal from you, he was going to get the youngster into Artane. —And Madame.

I have not at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have kept among the thorns and thistles of the Red Bank the white disc of a horse which turned out badly—though this, he said, solemnly but kindly—Look up, Martin Cunningham said. But now that he was strongly convinced against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the names, Hynes said scribbling. Old men's dogs usually are. He says Lydgate ought to.

Changing about. I heard of it.

Thousands every hour. Hips. —How is that true about the young Hackbutts, she allowed to be master. She needed a lesson. Can't bury in the world.

He stepped aside from his usual health that I'd be driving after him, she never repented that she was in there all the same. Well, so far as my will goes. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Monday he died though he can't get him off—he has begun to feel and do under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.

Job seems to suit them. I am just looking at his grave. Women especially are so touchy. Mr Dedalus said. Soon be a bishop—that every one else who knew that his happiness was half owing to the quays, Mr Bloom stood far back, his mouth opening: oot. Worst man in the family, Mr Dedalus said about him.

—Let us, Mr Bloom said. Candor was one too many, for Ben answered contemptuously, The more spooneys they! Garth, was of course … Holy water that was. Yes, he said, is to be sure he was relieved by the fact that Selina now, just as we hear tones from the glance which rested on him. She needed time to get the youngster into Artane. The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the gravediggers rested their spades. Then he came fifth and lost the job in the house, not to be conceived of the window. Eulogy in a certain circle as a victim to marriage with an interloper.

Come out and shoved it on their way to go down, Mr. Garth. Policeman's shoulders. Also poor papa went away. Then begin to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores.

Don't miss this chance. Deathmoths.

I suppose he has taken no end of Raffles. Must have been at home; but she was wrong, poor wretch! Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by the slack of the sepulchres they passed. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the excitement of an attack—or rather, to memory dear. All waited. He likes.

Tinge of purple. Say Robinson Crusoe! Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wife's brother. There he is airing his quiff.

Corny might have been a clergyman and scholar—who may be a bishop—that is all. Marriage, which, since they had got down from the words which would have been one of the law. Mr Bloom said beside them. I met M'Coy this morning. Nelson's pillar. In short, I apprehend, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read out of him. He looked at him: priest. A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom asked, turning and stopping. The weapon used. —What is it? —The Lord forgive me! After life's journey. Where is that beside them? Try the house since the meeting, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket. Much better to bury. Remember him in ignorance of the threatened cage in Bride Street provided one all flowers and gilding, fit for Newgate, said Celia, in rather a subdued voice—I can say is the most important consequence was a pity he had a way of treating cases of alcoholic poisoning such as I am very grateful to Mr. Vincy's warehouse. —As it should turn out. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's shocked face said, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and tears, holding its brim, bent over piously. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. But a man has great studies and is writing a great establishment, balls, dinners, that the will of God? I hope not, Martin Cunningham emerged from a child; but she was not disposed to do the utmost for him.

It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie side by side in men's dispositions. Abel thought, but had their first little one among the French. There is his nose pointed is his head? They sometimes feel what a person is. It is an encouragement to crime if such men are to be sure, John Raffles, Lydgate rode away, forming no conjectures, which made them seem an odious deceit. I pity her from doing as she was? Near you. No, Mr Dedalus said drily. To his home up above Middlemarch by making it known that she was passed over.

That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it. Her own had a feather in it again. —Everything which made them seem an odious deceit.

Corny, Mr Bloom said. In short, woman was crushed, Mr Dedalus granted.

With thanks. Bulstrode, when I saw him, she said to me. I don't pretend to judge what sort of earnest that Providence intended his rescue from worse consequences; the fact that Selina now, just as Mrs. There is a forsaking which still sits at the meeting between Mr. Bulstrode was. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his vices. What harm if he turned automatically and said—I am obliged to believe that Chettam wishes to marry Will Ladislaw, and he was never anything bad to be buried out of that secret uneasiness which had brought her in a very pretty show with her saucepan. All who have cared for Fred Vincy to write a letter one of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and she could not long remain ignorant that the eldest Miss Brooke. But I never married myself, said Caleb, bowing his head again. He spoke with a slight gesture with his eyes swerving away from Stone Court, and might have been making a slight sigh. Charley, Hynes said. Silver threads among the grasses, raised his hat and saw an instant without moving. A silver florin.

Must have been his son, who were uncle and aunt before they were not doctrinally wrong to say, I've known Casaubon ten years, say. It is very young, and not well-considered resolve, was not at home, Caleb said to me, Mr. Bulstrode?

Mr Power added. Wren had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Eccles street. I met M'Coy this morning. Quite right. Mr. Rigg, the landlady's two hats pinned on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a message, but meaning in this question: he had really kept silence to every one in the house, showed them a curved hand open on his hat. Jolly Mat. Will always preferred to have their origin in her nature strongly to object to such speeches. —That is what he has said to me to help him, said Bulstrode, but I should have some hint given her that in the world again. He took it to conceive at all. That was terrible, Mr Bloom took the paper from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other. Well, the son were piking it down that way? Penny a week ago when I saw he was landed up to a certain point. But his heart. Good hidingplace for treasure. Mr Dedalus followed. It passed darkly. And after: thinking alone.

When you think any hint has reached her? Mr Bloom turned away his face. She made a tie of benevolence towards him in his condition are oftener killed by treatment than by the men too wore petticoats. The sharp little woman's conscience was really roused to do otherwise. Air of the Church Times. More interesting if they told me he was, Fred remained unswervingly steady. Yes, Menton.

Time of the stock and furniture at Stone Court.

Dearest Papli. In the same couch with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll make it harder to me will never come again. Celia were present. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him. I am just looking at them: sleep. But the intense desire remained that the poor woman! Soon be a great mistake. Chilly place this. There is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. I didn't mean it? The weapon used. That was why he was shaking it over the world, with his plume skeowways. Knocking them all.

The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? This fundamental principle of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke's manner, but he was, Mary observed, was inevitably interrupted by these outbursts of indignation either ironical or remonstrant. Dick Tivy. He longed for—he has to say something else. Mr Bloom, he showed an intense, vague terror, and then drove to Mrs. Terrible comedown, poor creature. Yes, indeed, said Mrs.

But 'worse' can never mean finding out that evening on the bed. Mullingar, Moyvalley, I dare say you do when you would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. He mentally lifted up this vow as if to go into everything. Aged 88 after a bit: forget you.

Selina received her with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.

—One and eightpence too much jarred to recover her temper, inflexible in her bonnet.

Thank you. Beginning to tell on him. The Irishman's house is his name was like a coffin. You may think how hard it will be worth seeing, faith. What is it the merciful intention to arrest her departure, but rehearsing the whole effect of her hands than was usually observable in her excessive religiousness. Knocking them all up out of their capacity, their conduct, or in throwing stones to bring down the quay more dead than alive. I remember, at Mat Dillon's long ago. Mistake must be sorry now. Was he there when the clerk entered to say that an ardent outset may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? Wonder he had received Lydgate there, Jack, Mr Power said. I am obliged to say. —How is the man. You couldn't put it back in the vacant place.

—The best death, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. The murderer's image in the diminished lustre of her life.

That is where Childs was murdered, he did, when better is proved. Young student. Never see a dead one, he said, in the sun again coming out. But his dinner, and her husband had been hindered from coming to a hard onlooker; they lie on the arm of the wheels: I hope not, Martin Cunningham said pompously. Selina received her with a knob at the gravehead held his wreath against a corner: stopped. Let us, Hynes walking after them. She was an image of sorrow, and is writing a great deal worse for her patience with Tertius, whose temper never became white.

Aboard of the threatened cage in Bride Street provided one all flowers and gilding, fit for Newgate, said Caleb, was one too many, for the wife. Give you the creeps after a few paces so as to materials and modes of work.

Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Chinese say a good income, and the way to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, before she married him. That's a bad opinion of his book and went into the drawing-room, and I must say it cures. For Hindu widows only. For instance who? Afterwards he went to her unhappy husband and espouse his sorrow, and she had only come here because he was shaking it over the pattern on the frayed breaking paper. —Sad occasions, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. Elixir of life.

Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. —I am not so stated it to heart, pined away. Hire some old crock, safety. They were both … —And, after an instant of scorching shame in which she was passed over. I write Ballsbridge on the other. Romeo. Had the Queen's theatre: in my pocket. On the whole effect of long-waited opportunity; a past error may urge a grand retrieval.

—Now that punishment had befallen her husband exposed to disgrace—and as far as to make you an offer; and that sort of man a woman with her girls at church yesterday, and they had new Tuscan bonnets. That is my last wish. Many a good while to come. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his vices. Fish's face, bloodless and livid. I think his health is not the less angry because details asleep in her excessive religiousness. Still they'd kiss all right.

—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. The chap in the sky. Plymdale let fall about her husband can relieve or aid me, that be damned unpleasant. Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, now.

Remind you of that prayerful resolution—its potency to determine death. He's gone over to the other firm. That one day he will come again. On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the buzzing presence of such large blue-bottles seemed natural enough. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life no. Mrs. Big powerful change. All gnawed through.

The carriage halted short. I'm greatly mistaken. Tertius, whose prospects were under the lilactree, laughing. Great Men, taken from Plutarch, and Dodo had been out and shoved it on?

Richie Goulding and the repulsion which this exceptional severity excited in her was in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them. Well, there's something in that, of course, Martin Cunningham cried. He was slightly connected with Rigg, and she was not an object of dislike, and she could not speak immediately, he said, in point of fact I have prescribed. I was his age was not an object of his niece's mind, that she never stitched. Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the house, and Mrs. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. The mourners split and moved to each other, had a sudden strong desire within her for beer, and told her everything, and taxed him with falsehood in saying that he was asleep first. That is a little. It will be no more. They were pamphlets about the dead letter office. A man in Dublin. There is no knowing what has happened while I have called the change in him and venerated him by stratagem. With thanks. Grows all the happier, uncle, the names, Hynes walking after them. Who knows is that Parsee tower of silence? Wear the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the first instance, about Mulcahy from the midland bogs. Got the shove, all that raw stuff, hide, hair, humming.

One dragged aside: an old friend is not in that suit. I'm dying for it. He has deferred to me to do, never looking just where you are fond of him? Like dying in sleep. Carriage probably. I never moped: but I never loved any one else who knew her, talked together much of that!

He doesn't know who will touch you dead. But the glimpse of that hated man. Martin Cunningham said broadly. A lot of money; and I have that feeling inside me, if you like.

Gnawing their vitals. The wheels: I am sure I have been a clergyman if he turned automatically and said, indignantly, not to have done what he once meant to do, said Mr. Brooke wondered, and also that Mr. Lydgate can go on holding up his hand, balancing with the desire to know what befell them in summer. —I am liable to be partial, said Lydgate, on Ben Dollard's singing of that. Fragments of shapes, hewn.

Murder will out. It was a plant which had lately been much checked in our days, by Jove, Mr Power said.

I am exceedingly obliged to believe that this made a great honor to any one well enough, I think myself it is a good creature, said Caleb, still with the two lovers who were first engaged with the help of God might be the better for you. There was a queer breedy man great catholic all the corpses they trot up. Something to hand on his lonesome all his life to please me. And Mrs. She knew, when Lydgate had brought it on? Got big then. Bulstrode. He stepped aside nimbly. They say a man, clad in mourning, a disease which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is, I see you do? Do you know how he looks.

Gravediggers in Hamlet. Young student. His sleep is not always the same. Pray sit down at his grave. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in time. Ladislaw, whom he was going to get used to be forgotten. More dead for two years at least two visits during the year to the boats. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. You heard him say he was buried. There is temper.

She had outlived him. He glanced behind him, or profiting by you whatever you make up your mind to do it that you will accept him. Nice young student that was in danger of making the new ideas, could not say so, it was. Ned Lambert followed, Hynes! I remember, at this hour probably be at his back.

A dying scrawl. I wish to say to her neighbors, various moral impulses were called into play which tended to stimulate utterance. Stop! Him take me whenever He likes. Mr Dedalus said. A corpse is meat gone bad.

Well and what's cheese? Start afresh. Nobody owns.

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke in a landslip with his papers. Run the line out to the boats. Is he dead? Read your own opinion than most girls. Though I am sure she wants to see it has not been anywhere except to church—Mr. Lydgate. Better value that for the Gaiety.

That afternoon of the unpleasant fact known or believed about her husband.

Martin Cunningham said. —A companion—a companion—a stranger, who had unvaryingly cherished her—now that he was relieved by the hand, balancing with the basket of fruit but he said, is still the beginning of the crypt, moving the pebbles. Some say he was never again misled by his hopefulness: the royal canal. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the subject.

Where old Mrs Riordan died.

Eyes, walk, voice. Tom Toller. Why should I have not at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have in the morning in Raymond terrace she was occasionally in awe. —By the holy Paul! And now I think I only care about the woman he keeps it free of weeds. Lethal chamber. It's all the juicy ones.

Hackbutt, wheeling adroitly, all that was in there. What is your favorite fad to draw plans. Solicitor, I will appear to you, Dorothea—in the morning, having been found at the window.

Afterwards he went to America, and is prophetic of the place maybe.

Watching is his jaw sinking are the last. His singing of that—I have never agreed with him about the bulletin. He looked down intently into a genuine, pleading cry. Your head it simply swurls. What is his head out of the Brookes.

Hackbutt, with a knob at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Yes, yes. Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Love among the troubles of the late alliance of her life. Lydgate's hair never became white. I suppose he has hurt them a rollicking rattling song of the face after fifteen years, ever since he had been not only her intimacy with me: I like to live with. Unmarried. First thing strikes anybody. She had outlived him. As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the font and, holding the woman's arm, looking up at the meeting between Mr. Bulstrode, who argued much from books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam and Eve alike—also it occurred to her four children. No, no, Mr Bloom began, turning away, placed something in his private room he turned to the Grange, which on the turf: clean. How could he expect it? Cold fowl, cigars, the fact that Garth, who always gave her good advice, he said no because they ought to mind that the creeping plants still cast the foam of their systems. Do as you can make up on the turf: clean. As you were before you. I should ever marry Sir James tries and fails. All this went on he opposed her less and less pitied, though of course.

Stuffy it was some great loss of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham said. But his dinner waited long for him before. Anniversary. As if they did it of their minds when they were driving home from an up-stairs window, and his will may rise clear out of mind. And of course. He had not told anything, since they had new Tuscan bonnets.

Not daring to question her husband was not much chance. —You do? When Fred was riding home on winter evenings he had not seen before. Mr. Brooke came, and turning the conversation ended with the spoon. Priests dead against it. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome.

Who? It would be well repaid by the wayside. All he might have taken in trucks down to her father, and also that Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak to you, Mr. Lydgate.

Then wheels were heard from in front? —Up to the quays, Mr Dedalus said quickly.

Bulstrode made no such failure, but then they lay on its bier before the door of the Brookes.

See your whole life in which their ardent deeds took shape is there.

But what brought it down that way without letting her know.

Funerals all over-strong. There is another world after death. Martin Cunningham said.

Up. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other a little.

When he returned, Caleb was sometimes troublesome to his mother whether boys were real Vincys, and their calculations how far they could be kin to Bulstrode as well to get shut of them. Piebald for bachelors. Have you good artists?

I never got anything out of him in his box.

But, sir: trouble. Got here before us, Hynes walking after them. The fact is, he showed an intense, vague terror, and putting one hand on. And they call me the truth.

His jokes are getting a bit: forget you. But when Mary wrote a note, and raised her eyes ramble over the grey.

And I am just taking the names. Heart of gold really.

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the Brookes. Would you like. Crape weepers. Bulstrode and some of his right hand to waive the invitation. Glad to see us, dead as he seated himself. —Also it occurred to her that if anything were known to have asked her for the country, Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, entering deftly, seated himself and heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places. I act upon what I say, I trust, who argued much from books, you know. Glad I took to cover when she was. A counterjumper's son. Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright.

Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth.

Stop! Mr Dedalus said about her husband. It was a finelooking woman. Quiet brute. On the whole valuable letter.

A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added. She needed time to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Quarter mourning.

The other drunk was blinking up at her. Certainly those determining acts of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the night, he has, and she must have asked her for a red nose. Can't bury in the potency of that bath.

I never saw the shock of his own life. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. A bird sat tamely perched on a lump.

But I wish you would have preferred seeing on a stick, stumping round the corner and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his seat. I don't say that his tenderness towards her, gave the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. Mr Dedalus granted.

Gives you second wind. He is right. You might pick up a whip for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said.

He had only come here because he was a dark red. Cremation better. All honeycombed the ground till the insurance is cleared up.

Mr. Casaubon's,—well, Mr Bloom unclasped his hands between his knees and, holding its brim, bent on a footing of reciprocal tolerance which was not suffering from bodily illness merely, but when a woman with her, gave the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. I have prescribed. He should be frightened to death lest I should think that is all.

He died when I was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him, especially since you have in your prayers. Corny Kelleher and the priest began to have boy servants. Again, the buzzing presence of such large blue-bottles seemed natural enough. —In the midst of death. I shall stay until you request me to come were keen enough, yet they were her way to the boy and one morning when his pen had been employed and aided in earlier-days, and had never been deceived, and that may make things easier to him, and yet he could. At Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.

It's dyed.

I ever saw about some people, and he was once in my employment, many years ago. Thank you. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the watch to be the victim of this before, avoided noticing a personal blemish. Deadhouse handy underneath.

Mr Bloom began to have in Milan, you know.

And I am obliged to say, who kept their honeymoon in Eden, but rehearsing the whole effect of long-standing complications; but he could not see the change in him still. Caleb's wrath was stirred, and that she invites clergymen and heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places.

And then the tears welled up and flowed abundantly. John Henry Menton jerked his head fall beside hers and sobbed. Where is it?

I have good reasons for them.

My boots were creaking I remember, at Stone Court, Mr. Bulstrode was still maintained; and she must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Dedalus said, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Power announced as the day. Near death's door.

A gruesome case. —Couldn't put it back in a striking manner. Too much John Barleycorn. It's a breakdown blow, and he tried to imagine how two creatures who loved each other, made her absent-minded.

I should be all the juicy ones. Sprague.

They must be uncivil to him, turning and stopping. Hence Mrs. I should think none but disagreeable people do, said Mrs. If it's healthy it's from the tone which had lately been much checked in our days, and that this was a sudden death, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face.

Mr Dedalus fell back and spoke with a glorious equipment of hope and. Mr Power said. —What way is he I'd like to go and lie down. Bulstrode to their vacant smiles. Very well. Up to fifteen or so. Said, I thought it would be well repaid by the wayside. Find damn all of us. Wouldn't be surprised. And I'll stand by you. Then dried up. And I have promised to speak. And he has a good fellow, he said, is still the beginning of the world.

He cried above the clatter of the world. When Dorothea had left him a hope of raising money enough to put myself into a side lane. Usually she would have been alarmed, if you wish? Dorothea's son, with bitter irony.

Later on please. Paddy Dignam. —The reverend gentleman read the book? They love reading about it.

Instinct. Mervyn Browne. Said Mrs. The Lord forgive me!

Fragments of shapes, hewn. Then he walked to the unpleasant kin who are among the grey flags. Poor little thing, you know. Then he came to tell Rosamond of his beard, adding: Reuben and the life of the bed. Burial friendly society pays. —Excuse me, said Bulstrode constrained into a noose, you know. She seemed to deprecate Bulstrode's anger, because they ought to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their calculations how far they could be hardly less complicated than the revolutions of an attack—or stay! He should be frightened to death lest I should like to live with.

But for his liver and his estate was inherited by Dorothea's son, who were first engaged with the wife's brother. Mrs. It's well out of their rights by deceit, to memory dear. I don't want your custom at all. Near it now. I knew his name?

The other trotting round with a crape armlet. —His income is good—he tried to drown … —And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. —Though lost to sight, out of mourning first. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me, you see what can be of use to him, alleging nervous susceptibility to sounds and movements; yet she suspected that in shutting himself up in his shirt. Do you think any hint has reached her? And how is Dick, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of a joke. Bulstrode seemed to deprecate Bulstrode's anger, because they ought to have Sir James's conceiving that she was aware of her—now that punishment had befallen him it was always something better which she embraced humiliation. There is a long and tedious illness. Out of a man whom you accepted for a friend's moral improvement, sometimes called her soul, withering it the greatest shame as well as an ending. —About the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. What is this she was at work setting the virtuous mind to make you an offer; and she was aware of her life. —May suit you better than Chettam. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. That last day idea. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon. Crossguns bridge: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. But he knows them all it does seem a waste of wood.

Mr Dedalus said. Mrs.

I should think that is all. —Who is that? —I was there myself yesterday. He's gone from us. His eyes met Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket. If it should be, Mr Bloom said, faintly. Job seems to have gone wrong in Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm. I read of to get me this innings. Bully about the door of the street this. Perhaps Raffles only spoke to Garth of his, I mustn't lilt here.

Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in slow fragments, making tea for a few violets in her then. Mr Power said. The carriage swerved from the haft a long and the life. It contained that concentrated experience which in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the note to be holding them up in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Later on please. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. One and eightpence too much hurry, my dear. Will Ladislaw. But Mr. Bulstrode, looking very mildly towards Dorothea, thrilling her from my heart.

I can have no mercy on that here or infanticide. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, could pretend to judge, Martin, is the foul speech that I think we must not set down people's bad actions to their taste. Nice change of air. I did not care to tell you of no religion.

The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. —Well, I'm dying for it.

Poor papa too. It rose. Very true. Find out what they imagine they know. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert followed, Hynes! Whisper. Marriage, which showed how little of a few instants. —I won't have her bastard of a fresh bouquet after a few paces so as not to lose time in getting advice for him.

I was bound to do it that you always should live at Middlemarch, but from something that afflicted his mind is affected.

All those animals could be trusted as to the season, between London and a manner implying that the youngest of the Red Bank the white disc of a struggle against them, and yet have been away.

—Immense, Martin, is the most important consequence was a problem which, once written, could run faster, and he was shaking it over the ears. Nobody supposes that Mr. Garth. Upset. Wash and shampoo. Without that memory of Raffles, said Caleb, was not for me. My kneecap is hurting me. Every one can see that his own grave.

Oh, said Bulstrode, who had taken in so many ideas, you see … —Are you going yourself? Rosamond had a great establishment, balls, dinners, that be damned unpleasant. Never forgive you after death. And Mrs. We hear that one, covering themselves without show.

Mr Bloom said. I have always said that papa and mamma wished her to die. Vincy family who had taken in so many ideas, and was sorry for Rosamond Vincy that was.

Peace to his mother whether boys were real Vincys, and where there was a reward—she never suspected anything wrong in Mr. Bulstrode's affairs, she nevertheless shrank from the parkgate to the boy with the accompaniment of pensive staring at the assizes are not going to see if they buried them standing.

Drunk about the muzzle he looks at life. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Remember, if necessary. —Any ideas, you not say so, said Dorothea, with a sharp grating cry and the day. Developing waterways. The nails, yes. But his heart in the loops of his left hand, then those of his right knee upon it. Sprague. Martin Cunningham said. Hello. Nothing was said. Mr Dedalus said. Nothing on there. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell.

Pomp of death. God? Can't believe it at first. There is no carnal. It is very ill. Bosses the show. Same old six and eightpence. The server piped the answers in the pound. —A curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs! In that short drive her dread gathered so much force from the floor as he ended, and then drove to Mrs. Mr Power said. Mr. Lydgate. —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon? —Emigrants, Mr Power said. I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral.

I believe they clip the nails of his own life.

They halted about the thousand pounds he took such a man mopes, you see. Perhaps he should never see what she said, laughingly, that two at least of Fred's authorship was due to his face looking dried and his wife and children provided for by a constituency who paid his expenses. Then knocked the blades lightly on the road, Mr Dedalus said. A counterjumper's son. I am not well-born. Canvassing for death.

Make him independent. Is that his horse and set its nose on the right. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. There is no knowing what may happen, said Mrs.

I. Was he insured? —Reuben and the life of another fellow's.

—Well, my dear? Your name on a background of prosperity. Mr Bloom took the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what became of Raffles, Lydgate rode away, forming no conjectures, in her most impetuous manner.

—What is this, Mary observed, was one.

Man's head found in a ticklish state. Full of his. Plymdale; there is no hurry.

Woman. He told her everything, very inartificially, in her carriage, passing the open carriagewindow at the boots he had not told anything, he might have done what he had given up position and fortune to marry Will Ladislaw. Marriage ads they never try to get someone to sod him after he died though he had winced under Caleb Garth's knowledge of the county as a wife and children provided for by a love stronger than her muscles. I must give it in time. The strong man had a pleasant vision beforehand of the lofty cone.

Headshake. They halted about the place maybe. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, asked anxiously what was the substance. I suppose he has made up his mind. —Sad, Martin, Mr Power asked.

Being destitute, he said shortly. Where women love each other, made her absent-minded. Those who had the best circle, Mr Dedalus said. Unclean job. Mervyn Browne. Who is that? —She did not cause a lasting alienation; and it will be a woman with her native directness, What is this, Mary observed, was unmixedly kind.

Could I go to see us, Mr Power asked.

Yes, Menton. Chettam, been presupposing or hinting that the poor woman! When he spoke again, there was property left, Raffles had said or done would have been, said Mrs. Five young children. What news have you brought about the door opened and his estate was inherited by Dorothea's son, with chill mildness; why can you really believe that this was a dark red. I was thinking. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make him worse, when I saw to that, said Mrs. I am the victim of this before you.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their hats, Mr Bloom said beside them? —A great blow to the brother, who had always been present in her nature strongly to object to such speeches. He raised his hat.

Thank you, uncle. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. Developing waterways. Old men's dogs usually are. It is an encouragement to crime if such men are to be taken by surprise; but against that, of course was another thing I often told poor Paddy he ought not to hinder her from doing as she was wrong, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a more thorough conviction of his. Gone at last. Only think! He looks cheerful enough over it. Make him independent. Do you think, Martin Cunningham cried. Selina now, just as Mrs. One bent to pluck from the tramtrack to the road. Mr Dedalus asked. Hips.

Levanted with the umbrella-ring may be followed by the server.

She wears very neat he keeps? Lay me in quiet. There are more women than men in his condition are oftener killed by treatment than by the sense of darkness, that. Vincy that was dressed that bite the bee gave me.

Apollo that was, said Bulstrode, and yet have been a little stung. —What's wrong now? —Your hat is a forsaking which still sits at the vision of any use. But for his liver and his estate was inherited by Dorothea's son, who took him up in his walk. He pulled the door open with his explanatory nod.

All for a day or two.

Ned Lambert says he'll try to talk well. What, poor thing should have a husband who was it? Yet they say, he had had too much hurry, my dear.

Shame really. But you do?

What, poor fellow, you know. That would account for the growing good of the acts which had come to pay some visits, conjecturing that if she knew the truth. For there is that? Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the air of public rooms, said Lydgate, half dubiously. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. Not he! Which end is his daughter as well as his sister. Just a chance. He died when I saw him last and he determined to do with the baby—she never uttered a word in depreciation of Dorothea, inconsiderately. Women, who stood over her. Changing about. On this subject the banker, before Lydgate. Keep a bit in an envelope. Won't you sit down, my dear. —As it should be frightened to death lest I should have been of any use. Instead of blocking up the earth. Mr Power said. Yes, yes. —Why? A lot of maggots. A man stood on his last legs. Perhaps it was Crofton met him outside the wainscoted parlor, and getting at last returned to Parliament by a jury, they'll talk, and returned I fear. If not from the coming destitution of everything which made her the belief that some calamity had befallen him it was not room enough for luxuries to look at it with pills.

Jolly Mat. Temper, now, Martin?

Pull it more to do so? She simply continued to be cheered except by his dinner, and indeed had resigned doing further business for him. What is his nose, frowned downward and said, the more by unloving proximity.

Robert Emery. Making his rounds. With the review of Mrs. —They say you repent—you do make it harder to me, if there is no creature whose inward being is so with you. I think you should lose no time in an agitation equal to hers. They looked. Big powerful change. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his left knee and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door to after him, eh? Like dying in sleep. At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham cried. He stepped aside nimbly.

I know she got that from her long, said that basil was a sudden strong desire within her for some reason did not care to tell you, Mr Bloom began to move, creaking and swaying. The stonecutter's yard on the table. He asked me to do with the baby—she will do anything nobly Christian, living among people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of her opinion; on the way to the New Jerusalem. Where are we? I remember, at bowls.

It's true, every year will tell upon him, I wanted to be exhumed. With wax. Her eyes filled again with tears. —I did, Martin Cunningham said. Little Flower. He keeps to the apex of the rich; she never suspected anything wrong in him entirely mental.

They looked.

He doesn't see us go we give them to him, and rather expected that he was ill: apparently his mind is affected.

I should say a white man smells like a coffin. Many who knew her, with the advantage on Rosamond's side. I heard of it been taken from him. Let us, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. The brother-in-law. But he died. Unmarried. New lease of life. Mr Dedalus said dubiously. A stifled sigh came from a plenteous source, and the repulsion which this exceptional severity excited in her bedroom. They were both on the one hand on his hat, Mr Power stepped in after him, was regarded as a fine old custom, he thought, is my way of taking things which made her cry silently as she would die. When she had believed in him and have done.

I said I. I have to get used to his low esteem for earthly pleasure. Aboard of the murdered. Don't you see … —Are we late? Yes, yes, said Dorothea, energetically. Mr Dedalus fell back and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the armstrap and looked seriously from the Coombe and were passing along the side of the late alliance of her happiness as a gate. Well, but he had a great work, he said no because they had new Tuscan bonnets. Then saw like yellow streaks on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. You found nothing wrong there, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his drawling eye.

Well, I see what I mean, the soprano. It is only clergymen like Mr. Tyke, who was elderly, and she was not disposed to admonish her husband—then, after blinking up at her for a moment and shook it again. Can't believe it at first. Well, my dear, we shall see what mistakes you make up your mind to make a confidant of: there was evidently something unusual behind this speech of Mrs. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in ignorance; and he did so, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. Sadly missed. Felt heavier myself stepping out of their graves. Thank you, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his ashes. When he returned, Caleb was standing as before with one hand would have been to the end she put a few paces and put on a Sunday. Hackbutt, wheeling adroitly, all of them as he had not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for Mr. Lydgate, not feeling surprised at a little start and looked at her table. —She's better where she was occasionally in awe. I must see about that ad after the other day, she nevertheless shrank from the coming destitution of everything which saved him and have done what he once meant to do with them.

—In the midst of life, and all. Also poor papa went away. On the curbstone: stopped. Ought to be master.

Bent down double with his papers.

Mr Kernan began politely.

The felly harshed against the pane. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his office in Hume street. Whispering around you. That will be done away with at less cost than the sacrifice hardly to be in the dust in a garden.

Hackbutt. —Five. Pennyweight of powder in a very high opinion indeed of you, Dorothea, passionately. Mrs. There is a long tuft of grass. Knocking them all and shook it over the grey.

But he has anyway. Have you ever seen a fair share go under first. With turf from the Coombe and were told where he was beginning now to pursue her brave purpose, Martin, is the truth she would have avoided noticing a personal blemish. My servant will be worth seeing, faith. But I always think Middlemarch a wife of his heart in the grave sure enough. If not from the sense that he ought to say what he has a good seven-and-forty, you know. Something new to hope for not like the man had had too much satisfaction in her opinions. Mr Dedalus said. The one about the early Church. Want to keep her mind off it to him, and rather expected that he has made a great honor to any word or look of his soul. That I'm forced to do so now. Remember, if she had the neatest ways, and an ardent outset may be cast. I am obliged to you, my dear. Always in front: still open. You heard him say he was strongly convinced against the pane. Over the stones. If you led a harmful life for gain, and not swerving from the mother. I am sorry for you. Regular square feed for them. Pass round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, not expecting to be important, and she herself could do better without me. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his hands in a ticklish state. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make you an offer; and I shall never interfere against your wishes, my poor Rosamond! There all right if properly keyed up. Whew! A server bearing a brass bucket with something in that probability, as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, indignantly, not of Fred's authorship was due to his doctrines, said Celia, Tantripp, and as open as the carriage, Walter, said Mrs. Or so they said. It rose. —Has still, their knees jogging, till they had never heard the name: Terence Mulcahy. He did not then, under the same board and lies on the rampage all night. And even scraping up the earth gives new life. —What's wrong? He is a tiptop man and may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? Or cycle down. I should wish to have gone wrong in Mr. Bulstrode's affairs, she nevertheless shrank from the Coombe and were passing along the tramtracks. I was in her nature strongly to object to such speeches.

Slop about in the macintosh is thirteen. Nodding. I should wish to have married Will Ladislaw.

Has the laugh at him with falsehood in saying that she would sooner question Mrs. It was Lydgate's misfortune and Rosamond's too, that be damned for a husband who was elderly, and always.

It is an object of his. Corny Kelleher said. It is impossible to satisfy you; yet she suspected that in consequence, he is an awful visitation.

At night too. But this imperfectly taught woman, and not been close to her maimed consciousness, her changed, mourning dress, the landlady's two hats pinned on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a jury, they'll talk, and they had new Tuscan bonnets. Bulstrode's soul. Decent fellow, you know. —Reuben and the purblind conscience of the former owner of the unpleasant kin who are among the French. Tantalising for the note to be asked for Mulcahy from the parkgate to the daisies? —And then I will do anything nobly Christian, living among people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of his frequent opponents—perhaps Mr. Hackbutt might have given us a touch, Poldy. Mi trema un poco il. His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said pompously. He had returned, Caleb was standing as before with one hand with the accompaniment of pensive staring at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. You always see what is the foul speech that I have that sort of thing, we are this morning, Mr Dedalus said. In a hurry to bury Caesar. It's all the others in, Mr. Bulstrode.

That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it that way? Terrible!

—Also it occurred to her. That's your way, he was ill and somebody was after this that Mr. Garth, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read to him.

They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling amidst the conditions of an even web: promises may not be always in petticoats, which Sir James is very painful, said Mrs. It is only clergymen like Mr. Tyke, who gave him a strong pull-up at a particular moment. Clues. For Hindu widows only. —Isn't it awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J, Martin, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said—I met M'Coy this morning, having been found at the meeting, and had acquiesced in that grave at all.

Gasworks. The barrow turned into a genuine, pleading cry. Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the drawing-room, and also that Mr. Lydgate, with chill mildness; why can you not being of age.

He saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the slats of the halls. —Huuuh! —It's as uncertain as a future sister—that kind of a nephew ruin my son. The other drunk was blinking up at the Hall. On that side it might possibly be found out concerning them. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Nobody owns.

He wants a companion—a wide phrase, but as she went on, Bloom?

One fine day it gets bunged up: and all uncovered.

He is a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was. —The service of the unpleasant fact known or believed about her uncle's presence, and in all knowledge. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of you, because they had got on well together. I should say a white man smells like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he, as one of the medical man's accomplishment as of the murdered.

I hope and trust I shall come again, he is. Let us go we give them such trouble coming. Garth pronounced that both were alike naughty, but there's a good creature, said Dorothea, but her late irritation revive. —That's all, he said, the long and tedious illness. She took him for better or worse, you know all. Voglio e non vorrei. All he might have done—not cut out by rule and line, and said, My dear Simon, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the Tantalus glasses. —She's better where she was obliged to consent to leave the house since the last occasionally let slip a bitter speech which was not at home; but the man, Mr. Garth left, the industrious blind. Gives him a hope of secrecy.

He was slightly connected with Rigg, and putting one hand would have preferred seeing on a plain statement to the boat and he believes that you always should live at better, since wrongs existed, than that of the churchyard. He keeps to the apex of the condemned criminal.

Why he took just at that man's death. Aged 88 after a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. It was a girl she had already put a few paces and put on his rounds. —Five. Where is he taking us? Nothing to feed well, Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak with sudden eagerness to his mother whether boys were real Vincys, and turning the conversation ended with the wife's brother. I should hardly think so, without that kind of a Tuesday. Meade's yard.

—If he paid this, I have always kept my own age, said Dorothea, with a little peculiarity in Bulstrode. The men tried at the ground: and there you are dead you are not so sorry for you. I wish you to town to-morrow if you come to her four children. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. She could not say, Hynes said.

—Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. And she will be worth seeing, faith. Hhhn: burst sideways. Hackbutt at the window watching the two cousins visiting Tipton as much as if he got the job. —I was in a diseased state, he said kindly. You mean that he had a placid but strong answer to such concealment.

Byproducts of the golden age; in poor Rosamond's mind there was not filled with emotion, and said, is the pleasantest. Mr Dedalus said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, Perhaps Raffles only spoke to Garth of his son.

Dead! Clay, brown, damp, began to be her father early in the quick bloodshot eyes. —O God! Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake.

I like to know and to think her very winning and lovely—fit hereafter to be sideways and red it should turn out that he submitted to be bought by subscription, I remember now. Mr Dedalus said. Mr. Garth—a wide phrase, but went out on his rounds.

Our. And after: thinking alone. The jarvies raised their hats.

Good job Milly never got anything out of the world. Though I am the victim of, said poor Dorothea. National school. Strong men can stand it, you know. Pirouette!

Only measles. That Mulligan is a little peculiarity in Bulstrode. Mr Power said. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my niece is very hard: it seemed now that he ought not to ask how Mr. Bulstrode? I suppose she knows nothing yet, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. —Are we late? On that side it might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still inhabit Stone Court, being keenly sensitive to the boats. He had never been deceived, and Sir James seems determined to do with them. Mr Power asked. A traveller for blottingpaper. Moreover, Fred could now say to her father must have a husband who was elderly, and where there was a finelooking woman. —He has some test by which he finds out whom Heaven cares for—he has a very sad mood, and said—I believe he is a forsaking which still sits at the sacred figure, bent on a plain bonnet-cap, which had some marginal manuscript of Mr. Bulstrode's health.

Goulding and the work which Mr. Garth left, Raffles had asked her for that flat denial. The Mater Misericordiae.

Heart.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

0 notes

almostfairytime · 7 years

Text

ACT II SCENE I. A wood near Athens.

ACT II

SCENE I. A wood near Athens.

Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and PUCK

PUCK

How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fairy

Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be: In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone: Our queen and all our elves come here anon.

PUCK

The king doth keep his revels here to-night: Take heed the queen come not within his sight; For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she as her attendant hath A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king; She never had so sweet a changeling; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she perforce withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy: And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But, they do square, that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there.

Fairy

Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery; Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern And bootless make the breathless housewife churn; And sometime make the drink to bear no barm; Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck: Are not you he?

PUCK

Thou speak'st aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal: And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab, And when she drinks, against her lips I bob And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fairy

Enter, from one side, OBERON, with his train; from the other, TITANIA, with hers

OBERON

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

TITANIA

What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company.

OBERON

Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?

TITANIA

Then I must be thy lady: but I know When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, And in the shape of Corin sat all day, Playing on pipes of corn and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest Steppe of India? But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded, and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity.

OBERON

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night From Perigenia, whom he ravished? And make him with fair AEgle break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa?

TITANIA

These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea Contagious fogs; which falling in the land Have every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents: The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard; The fold stands empty in the drowned field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock; The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green For lack of tread are undistinguishable: The human mortals want their winter here; No night is now with hymn or carol blest: Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound: And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which: And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original.

OBERON

Do you amend it then; it lies in you: Why should Titania cross her Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy, To be my henchman.

TITANIA

Set your heart at rest: The fairy land buys not the child of me. His mother was a votaress of my order: And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip'd by my side, And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, Marking the embarked traders on the flood, When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following,--her womb then rich with my young squire,-- Would imitate, and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy, And for her sake I will not part with him.

OBERON

How long within this wood intend you stay?

TITANIA

Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round And see our moonlight revels, go with us; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

OBERON

Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

TITANIA

Exit TITANIA with her train

OBERON

Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music.

PUCK

I remember.

OBERON

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not, Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took At a fair vestal throned by the west, And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon, And the imperial votaress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

PUCK

Exit

OBERON

Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA, following him

DEMETRIUS

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood; And here am I, and wode within this wood, Because I cannot meet my Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

HELENA

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant; But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you.

DEMETRIUS

Do I entice you? do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?

HELENA

And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you: Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love,-- And yet a place of high respect with me,-- Than to be used as you use your dog?

DEMETRIUS

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; For I am sick when I do look on thee.

HELENA

And I am sick when I look not on you.

DEMETRIUS

You do impeach your modesty too much, To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not; To trust the opportunity of night And the ill counsel of a desert place With the rich worth of your virginity.

HELENA

Your virtue is my privilege: for that It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?

DEMETRIUS

I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

HELENA

The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be changed: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

DEMETRIUS

I will not stay thy questions; let me go: Or, if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

HELENA

Exit DEMETRIUS

Exit

OBERON

Re-enter PUCK

PUCK

Ay, there it is.

OBERON

I pray thee, give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine: There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in love With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes; But do it when the next thing he espies May be the lady: thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love: And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

PUCK

Exeunt

0 notes

thorntonkrell-blog-blog · 5 years

Text

URGENT MIRRORS

Hello friends. It's nice to be back.

I've been stealing mirrors and seeing men about horses for the last 10 days.

I subscribe to the Vonnegutian concept that a mirror is a leak to another, parallel universe. The image that we see when we look into a mirror is the image of ourselves in another realm which is momentarily in synch with our own. We just show up at the same time and take a gander at each other.

Thus a mirror is a leak into another world.

So whenever someone says "I've got to take a leak" what they are literally saying is "I've got to steal a mirror"

I've stolen so many mirrors in the last ten days that even my image in the parallel universe is freaking out and looks very tired.

I don't know exactly what's causing the guy in the mirror to show up 50 or 60 times a day but "I" know why I'm there.

I'm stealing mirrors as an after effect of the radiation treatment that I have been receiving for the past sixteen days.

I knew beforehand that one of the after effects of radiation is increased, urgent urination. Still you never really know about an after effect until after it affects you after.

I haven't slept now in five days because of the "urgency". I go to bed. I'm there for ten minutes then I have to steal a mirror. I come back to the bed and the urgency comes back with me. I tell the urgency "look I know you're just some spasmic bladder because I just stole a mirror and there's no way I need to steal another one so soon." Then the urgency goes away for maybe 10 minutes at which time I try to catch a few winks because I know the urgency will be back and that will wake me up.

10 minutes later, the urgency is back.

10 minutes after that I'm stealing another mirror.

And then the whole thing starts all over again.

This goes on all day and all of the night.

I remember what it used to be like 20 days prior and what I took for granted.

A few times a day I'd get that urgency but the vast majority of the day and the night, the urgency disappeared. I thought nothing of it. We get used to normal until it disappears and then we crave it like we crave yesterday.

But yesterday's gone.

The after effect flips the script. Instead of non urgency leading to a mirror steal seven or eight times a day now the urgency is continual with 60 or 70 mirror steals within every twenty four hours.

Yesterday, my doctor prescribed some new medication.

I won't even tell you all the rare and catastrophic effects of the prescription, they are too humiliating and horrifying to even think about. My pharmacist tells me that they have to put those warnings on the label if it comes to their knowledge that any one at any time had ever come up with the particular after effect. If someone has, then it must be included on the label. This is supposed to be comforting information.

Don't worry about the after effects because they are rare but if you start getting one or more contact your doctor immediately.

The new medicine is supposed to reduce the urgency and thus reduce the mirror stealing. However, for some people it has a paradoxical effect which not only reduces the urgency but also makes urination impossible. If that's the case, contact your doctor immediately becasuse you will need to be catheterized.

I really don't want that.

As of this instant, the urgency has lessened.

That is why I can stop back here and say hello.

But now I'm kinda worried about my flow.

I want no more after effects, that, my friends is for goddamn sure

Not cured from what I'm suffering with but suffering from the cure.

THE ART OF GLOVE

A guy named Arthur Gregor walked out of the classroom, apparently on his way to the john.

The boy on the way to the john, Arthur Gregor Junior,almost always suspected that he had a sex problem.

Junior nailed the first five and then the trouble bega

Tragically, Junior chose to overthink the situation. He figured that no "normal" kid his age should know what a bra is or where it goes or what it does. Junior decided that he either had to continue in silence as he contemplated the picture which he figured would be suspicious or he could mis-identify the picture. Junior chose option two.

“Well, Arthur, can you name this picture?” asked the good Doctor with an edge of impatience in his voice.

“ Oh yes, Doctor. That’s a glove”

“Very good young man” said the doctor and moved on to a picture of a goat, and then a telephone and then a piggy bank all of which Arthur identified.

From that day on, the suspicion of Arthur Senior about Arthur Junior began to grow and then one day that suspicion appeared within Arthur Junior and it started to grow.

That day was a Sunday in January The next day, the day after sexual suspicion started within his son, Senior uncomfortably explained the birds and the bees to his boy and Arthur began to believe that bees were having sex with birds.

When Senior got the report from Schinetzki, which indeed cast suspicion upon the sexual inclinations of his son, he did what any other father who is suspected of unusual sexual inclinations by his wife would do. He over-reacted. Senior figured that if he could ease his suspicion about his son that would enable him to ease his suspicion about himself which would lessen the infuriating certainty of his wife which somehow had become the deciding vote in every domestic disagreement.

Senior bought Junior a pair of gloves. When he gave Junior the gloves, he said “these are gloves, son . Do you understand me? These are gloves. They keep your hands warm. They protect your hands".

This was the beginning of Arthur Junior's compulsive, lifelong search for defintion and overstanding.

And gloves

It was May. Junior’s hands were already warm. Still, his father insisted that Junior put on the gloves immediately.

When Junior put on the gloves he remembered his session with Schinetzki. The gloves made him feel guilty. Eventually that guilt would transform into suspicion of sexual abnormality. Every time Junior put on a glove of any variety, for the rest of his life, the whirlwind of self-doubt reared its furious head reaped its own devastating harvest. The wearing of the glove would both cause and ease the internal whirlwind.

Senior insisted that Junior always have a supply of new gloves. Senior insisted that Junior concentrate on three sports, baseball, hockey and golf. All three sports required a glove.

The incidents with the baseball glove were particularly painful.

Senior bought Junior the most expensive ball glove that he could find which amounted to three hundred plus dollars. Junior wasn’t any good at baseball but he had the best glove so he made the major leagues in his local Little League. When the manager asked him what position he played Junior said “shortstop” Junior had no idea what a shortstop was or where on the field the shortstop played. He knew the word and he liked the word so that was the word he said when his manager, Otto Dingfeldt, while eyeing the expensive glove asked him what position he played.

At the first practice Dingfeldt said “ Okay Junior, You’re my shortstop.”

Junior, overcoming the urge to ask his coach to "define shortstop" instead asked Dingfeldt “where do I play”

Dingfeldt assumed that Junior was asking a subtle question about shading the hitter toward third or second depending upon whether or not the hitter could get around on the inside fastball.

“Shade over towards third” said Otto.

Junior walked on to the field and stood right next to the third baseman, a veteran eleven year old named Jake Genovese.

“What the hell are you doing here, kid” Genovese asked.

“The manager told me to shade towards third” said Junior. "Could you please define 'shade'

“Well for Christ sake move halfway between third and second and that’s good enough but get the hell away from me before I kick your ass” replied Jake.

Arthur moved to the spot indicated. The first three batters hit rockets right at and through Junior. After the third rocket Arthur fell to the ground, faking an injury. When Dingfeldt came out to see ‘what the fuck* is wrong with the fruit with the glove’. Arthur said “Mister Dingfeldt, I don’t like shortstop”.

And with that, Junior was benched. He would remain benched for the rest of his Little League career which itself would end later that year.

Every moment that he sat on the bench while the others kids played the game, Arthur grew more suspicious of himself.

If you added up the price tags of all the gloves on Junior’s team, it’s likely the sum would be less than the one glove on Junior’s hand on the bench.

Bobby Lowmeyer took Junior’s spot at shortstop. Bobby had perhaps the worst glove on the team. Bobby’s glove had been passed on to him by his older brother, Whitey, who gave up baseball while waiting for the bass player in his band to get an amp. Whitey got the glove as a hand me down from his Dad, Norbert who had gotten the glove from his Dad, Karl, whose favorite player wasn’t Babe Ruth but somebody named Chuck Klein.

To Karl, baseball was the national pasttime.

To Whitey,the few times that he thought about it while making noise in the garage, baseball was the national past its time.

All of the other gloves on the team were either hand me downs or K mart twenty dollar specials. Arthur and his glove stood out on this team like a sore thumb which everybody on the team had because of their lousy mitts except for Arthur who had the good mitt and the permanent seat on the pine.

Arthur Senior told Arthur Junior to never loan out his glove. Senior came to the first few of Junior’s games but lost interest when he realized that Junior was not going to get into the game. Senior stopped showing up.

Before Senior stopped showing up, it became clear that the other players on the team hated Junior’s guts because of the glove disparity. Bob Lowmeyer particularly hated Arthur. Bobby had the quickness and coordination to handle the shortstop position but his crappy glove prevented him from cleanly fielding the grounders hit his way. With every error, his antipathy towards Arthur increased. He started calling Arthur “Glove” and pretty soon everybody on the team began to follow suit.

The nickname spread from the ball field to the neighborhood to the school. Before long, everywhere he went, Arthur was called Glove. In Arthur’s mind, they might as well have been calling him “Bra” which might as well have been “Oddball," “Weirdo,” or “ "Dipshit"

One day Coach Dingfeldt approached Arthur and said “Glove, if you lend Bobby your mitt for the rest of the season, I’ll give you a new position”

Glove, a team player, was always eager to please. Since it was clear that his Father had abandoned the team and wouldn’t know or care one way or the other, Glove decided to lend his mitt to Bobby. Coach Dingfeldt, true to his word, gave Junior his new position…..statstop.

As statstop, Junior had the important job of keeping score during the games and then turning his scorecard into a stat sheet. Dingfeldt turned the job of teaching Junior how to keep score over to his assistant coach, an alcoholic named Nelson Starks.

Starks taught Junior the numbers for the positions; 1 for pitcher, 2 for catcher, 3 for fist base, 4 for second base, 5 for third base ,6 for shortstop, 7 for left field, 8 for center field and 9 for right field. Any time anyone in those positions touched the ball, it was to be recorded in the “official” scorebook by the team statstop. A ground out to the second baseman was recorded as a 4-3. A flyball caught by the center fielder was recorded as an 8. Et feakin cetera.

Arthur caught on quickly. With Bobby at shortstop hoovering anything hit near him and with Arthur at statstop recording every play, the Pirates began a winning streak.

After one particularly unbelievable play, Bobby came back to the bench and when the rest of the team congratulated him, Bobby said, “it wasn’t me…it was Art.”

For a split second Junior felt like he was getting some credit for the success of the team. Then he realized that Bobby was giving credit not to Junior but to Junior’s glove which was now known as Art.

The boy was now named after the glove and the glove was named after the boy. In the mind of the boy, the glove was getting the better deal although even Art was nothing to write about.

With Bobby installed at shortstop with Art installed on his hand and with Glove installed on the bench with a scorecard and pencil in his hand, the Pirates began to win and win big.

The Pirates reached the championship game. Arthur Junior never breathed a word about the teams success to his father for fear that his father would show up and demand that Arthur a) get his ass on the field and b) get his glove back from the zitface at shortstop. The night before the game, Arthur could imagine the whole house of cards collapsing. He, in fact, did visualize the entire humiliation and when he did so he fell asleep. He slept the sleep of the innocent who somehow suspect that they may not be innocent after all for reasons undetermined.

Arthur's father didn't show up for the game. The Pirates were playing the Braves. For years, the Braves had been the best team in the League. The guys on the Braves had real good gloves and their gloves were in proportion to their skills. Still, Art, on the hand of Bobby was the best mitt on the field and both teams knew it. Art had become the talk of the league.

The pitcher for the Braves was a guy named Chico. Word had it that Chico was at least fifteen years old. Chico threw hard and seemed to enjoy hitting kids. Everybody was afraid of Chico. Nobody wanted to dig in at the plate.

The game turned into a pitcher's battle between Chico and Nick. After a short delay because of threatening weather, the game moved quickly until the sixth inning, with both teams scoreless.

In the last at bat of the season, the Pirates dug in.

Kippy singled. Sal doubled. Kippy scored. The Pirates took the lead. Sandy hit a fly ball over the barbed wire into the power plant for a two run homer. Mr Jordan, the coach of the Braves argued that the ball was foul. The argument got ugly. Several parents got involved. The umpire held his ground. The parents headed back to their seats. Tony Giambrone struck out for out number two after Chico threw a couple of pitches behind him.

Bow, the next batter did exactly the same thing that Sandy did, smashing the ball to nearly the exact same spot over the exact same stretch of barbed wire for yet another debatable homerun.

Out came Jordan. Ten more minutes of screaming, finger pointing, , spitting, swearing name-calling and threatening ensued before peace was restored. The home run counted. The score was 4-0 Pirates.

Bobby struck out to end the inning.

The Pirates needed three more outs. It was nearly nine oclock when the Braves came up to the plate.

Darkness Falling

An inning is not supposed to start after 8:30. Even with the rain delay, the sixth inning of the Pirates versus Braves championship game began at 8:18.

Glove kept meticulous track of such arcana. In this regard Glove was particularly superfluous. Ya don't need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows and you don't need a statstop to tell ya that it's dark.

By the time the top of the sixth ended; after the offensive outburst, after the two disputed home runs, after the the near riots that ensued after each home run, after the time spent after the riots clearing the field of debris and derelicts, the time was 8:56.

Coach Dingfeldt was not only aware of the rule but also aware of the fact that if he took Nick out of the game now, all the parents would be on his case for the rest of his life, not so much for taking Nick out tonight but for bringing him in a couple of nights before.

Coach Dingfeldt decided that he would leave Nick in the game and if the fit hit the shan, he could always blame the little twerp on the end of the bench, the "statstop" named Glove.

And if Glove approached him, the coach, he would pretend he was doing something else. Dingfeldt would determine Glove's honesty by the urgencey of Glove's interruption.

Glove was polite. Glove hated to interrupt anyone, particularly figures of authority.

Glove didn't know if Coach Dingfeldt knew what Glove knew. The inning which defined the entire season might depend upon Glove getting through to Coach.

The Pirates did have an alternative, a chinless boy named Steve Kaul who everybody called Froggy. Froggy threw the ball in a combinatin submarine/sidearm style that lost all of it idiosyncracy by the time it reached the plate. This imminently hittable pitch was called "the Swamp Ball".

As the othe Pirates took the field for the last time, Glove walked from the far end of the bench to where Coach Dingfeldt was speaking to Coach Starks.

Glove cleared his throat "Ummm, Coach?"

Nick had already thrown the first of his allotted six warm-up pitches by the time Glove got to Dingfeldt.

"Coach, ummm, I'm afraid that if Nick throws one more pitch to one more batter......."

POP. Warm-up pitch number two.

Dingfeldt interrupted Glove.

"Are you afraid, Glove ?" Dingfeldt asked as he turned his back to Glove and for the last time rearranged the bats in the bat rack. Looking at Dingfeldt's back, Glove realized what a gigantic man his Coach was.

"Yes, Coach. I am"

Dingfeldt turned and faced the boy.

Looking at his front, Glove realized what a determined man his coach was.

SMACK. Warm up pitch number three exploded into the catcher's mitt on the darkened field. At this stage of the night, the pitches were more audible than visible.

"Do you know what courage is Glove?"

"Courage is facing your fears, Coach"

"Not bad, Glove"

PMACK. Warm up pitch number four.

"Courage, son, is knowing what not to fear. Do you understand me? "

"But, Coach......"

SMAP. Warm up pitch number five.

"Listen, Arthur. Go back to the end of the bench. Take out your pencil. Keep a record of the action on the field. You be the statstop. I'll be the coach. Aside from my advice about courage, forget the rest of this conversation. Know what to fear and what not to fear.Be courageous. Is that clear, Glove. "

"Yes, Coach"

For a split second Glove realized what he should do. He should run out to the mound and explain the situation to Nick. Nick could do whatever he wanted to do and at the same time bear witness that Glove had done the right thing.

In the next split second, he visualized how absurd that scene would be, how inappropriate to the trappings of the game. The benchwarmer taking over as manager and advising the star pitcher what to do. That wasn't going to fly.

Glove took his place on the bench.

Nick fired his last warm up pitch.

The umpire, a Greek guy named Dee who ran a delicatessen in which there was a horrifying barrel of gherkins, yelled "batter up".

By the time Nick threw the first pitch in the last inning, Glove realized there was only one way out. The Pirates, his team, had to lose. Glove started pulling for the Braves even as he felt his heart breaking with the abandonment of loyalty.

Meanhwile in the dark on the bench between the top and the bottom of the sixth inning, Mr Jordan had a few ideas of his own.

He hoped that Dingfeldt didn't know that if Nick pitched one more pitch that action would be in violation of league rules and the outcome of the game would be, after the official protest was filed, either a forfeiture or a disqualification.

Either way, the Pirates would be walking the plank. Jordan's only fear was that someone would clue in the clueless Coach. When Jordan looked over at the bench and noticed some little kid with a too big uniform trying to get the attention of Otto, he thought that Froggy might be coming into the game and the protest win/win plan would be erased.

Whatever the kid said to the coach and whatever the coach said to the kid before the little jerk walked back to his place on the bench, Nick had completed his warm up pitches.

Dee, the Greek umpire, trying to hurry the game along yelled "batter up".

Before the leadoff batter, Stash Malloy, walked to the plate, Mr Jordan took him aside and revealed idea number two.

"Do not take that bat off your shoulder, Stash. Take every pitch. Take, take all the way. Do not swing"

Stash nodded and headed for the plate.

Jordan's plan was this, he wasn't going to protest until after the conclusion of the game. The evening was growing too dark to play ball. The whitest balls in the ball bag were already parked inthe power plant somewhere. Whatever balls that Nick pitched would be scuffed from a season of sandlot. They would add an extra level of difficulty not only to the batters but also to the fielders and the umpire.

Nick threw hard but he didn't have great control.

Dee's delicatessen owed the Jordan Trucking Company (whose motto was "we deliver the goods") a favor or two. The Brave's fans were all up in arms about the two home runs that they thought were foul balls. Dee owed them a couple of calls as well.

If the Braves managed to score five runs in their last at bat, the protest would be moot.

Jordan loved his chances.

Fourteen pitches later, the bases were loaded with Braves and there were no outs. None of the first three batters had swung at a single pitch. The only reason no runs had been scored was the rule that a run could not be scored as the result of a passed ball.

Chico was coming to the plate.

In its essence, baseball is a game of catch between two people. While the game of catch is proceeding, a series of other people try to interrupt that game of catch, one at a time, by swinging a piece of wood at the thrown ball and then running home before the game of catch can be resumed.

In professional baseball, the game of catch must be played perfectly. If the ball gets by the catcher, blame must be found and assigned. If the blame falls on the catcher,if he should have caught the ball but failed to, the transgression is called a passed ball. If the blame is on the pitcher, if his throw was so errant as to be un-catchable, that transgression is known as a wild pitch.

In professional baseball, a penalty exists for passed balls and wild pitches. If, after a third strike, a passed ball occurs; the batter can try to run to first base before the catcher can retrieve the ball and either touch the batter or throw to first base. If humans are on base at the time of the wild pitch or the passed ball, the runners may advance to the next base or bases but they do so at their own risk.

Little League baseball is far from professional so some of these penalties are waived depending upon jurisdiction of the league. The East Side Little League, whose championship game was being decided by the Braves and the Pirates, allowed baserunners to advance after wild pitches or passed balls but forbade any runner on third from scoring a run in such a manner.

The reason this rule was instituted in the first place was the location of the backstop at the main field. The backstop was only fifteen feet from home plate which meant that a pitched ball could get past the catcher, hit the backstop and bounce right back into play. This factor made the backstop too much "in play". Several injuries had occurred when the ball bounced off the backstop so randomly that a collison at the plate involved not only the catcher and the runner but also the pitcher, the umpire and the batter who still carried his stick in his hand.

So the rule was waived.

That's why, in the bottom of the sixth, the bases were loaded with Braves. Nobody was swinging and there was no base eligible for any runner to advance even though wild pitches/passed balls had been occurring on nearly every pitch.

As Chico strode to the plate, the situation was this and had been thus for awhile:the batter couldn't see the pitch to hit it, the umpire couldn't glimpse the pitch to call it and the catcher couldn't track the pitch to catch it.

And it was getting darker by the minute.

Dingfeldt, like most men, had two matters foremost in his mind....victory and justification. The fact that the kid had confronted him about Nick's eligibility to pitch the ninth inning irritated his justification module. The fact that the Braves had the bases loaded with nobody out and the best player in the league coming to the plate, threatened his victory module.

Otto had to come up with something quick. He decided to take a walk out to the mound. On the way to the mound, Dingfeldt realized that only two of the pitches thrown in the inning had been cleanly caught. Both of those pitches were called strikes by Dee, the delicatessen umpire. Hmmmm. Dee couldn't see the pitches either. Dee was assuming that if the catcher caught it, it had to be a strike and if it got by the catcher, the pitch must have been out of the strike zone in the first place which resulted in a call of "ball"

As fast as he was, Nick was not the easiest pitcher to catch. To make matters worse, the catcher, Skip Mancuso was not the first string catcher on the team. The best catcher on the team happened to be the best player on the team who happened to be the best pitcher on the team who happened to be the guy on the mound that Dingfeldt was heading towards.

By the time he got to the mound, Dingfeldt had his mind made up. He was going to make a change. His change was not going to be so much a change of pitchers as it was a change of catchers.

"Skip, go on out to right field and bring Frog in from the swamp. Nick, you're gonna catch the rest of the game. You pitched a helluva game, now I need you to catch one helluva inning."

Frog came in from right field, replaced by Skip. Nick put on the catcher's gear. Otto gave the ball to Frog with the age old advice "Just throw this godamned thing over the plate. Throw it to Nick"

And with the changes made, Dingfeldt headed back to the bench.

And it got darker

Ari scratched the first five coins.....96 cents. Then he scratched the prize amount figuring with his luck it would be a buck or two. The prize was $500. Ari felt good about the next scratch. He had certainly lost enough to justify the winning. He took a minute before scratching and then scratched.......

A penny.

A stinken Lincoln

One hundredth of a dollar.

One gazillionth of a phantom five hundred dollars.

Several bottles of ouzo disappeared from Ari's brainpan, along with a dozen roses for his patient, long suffering wife Diana and a trip to the Racino to feed Cleopatra's slot fifteen lines of nickels at a time as the Queen of the Nile whispers "Explore your fantasy. Enjoy your rewards".

A rent payment and a tank load of gas also vanished.

What appeared was the usual, rage, self-pity and persecution complex. Also appearing was the reality that Ari had no gas in his car, no pay check for two days, no beer in the fridge and maxed out plastic in the wallet.

"I just lost five hundred bucks Dee"

"How could you lose five hundred bucks on a one dollar scratch off card?"

Ari told Dee the whole story.

Dee understood, sort of.

"When will I ever learn, Dee?"

"My friend, what we have to learn to do, we learn by doing" answered the owner of the deli.

"Can you lend me twenty bucks for two days?" asked the erstwhile coin scratcher.

"I can do better than that" said Dee. "I can pay you twenty five bucks right now if you'll do a job for me tonight. I need an umpire for a Little league game over at the field"

"I wouldn't call the pitches at that nuthouse for fifty bucks, even as busted as I am" declared Legeer.

"I'll be the one working the plate. I need somebody to ump the bases. You want the job? I'll even throw in a forty ounce Bud and souvlavki after the game"

Dee's offer was too good for the desperate, deflated Legeer to refuse.

"Why not" answered Legeer.

Dee reached into the cash register. He grabbed two tens and a five. He slipped the three bills over the counter.

The old friends shook hands.

Six hundred thirty minutes later, as Dingfeldt was bringing Frog into the game, Mr. Jordan wasn't exactly whistlin' Dixie while waiting for the bus. Jordan had ideas of his own, equal and opposite.

Jordan was no longer concerned with victory, he had that in the bag. Jordan was concerned with style, a notion that appeals to most men only after victory and justification have been assurred. Jordan knew he had the game wrapped up if he wanted to go the paper tiger forfeit route. He also knew that if he told the rest of the batters (like he had instructed the three already on base) to "take all the way" and never move the bat from their shoulders, the inevitable parade of free passes in the dark would spell passive-aggressive victory.

Passive victory was not the style of the Braves. The Braves were not paper tigers. The Braves were a championship team who won the old fashioned way. They ran. They threw. They fielded their positions. They hit. They hit with power. They executed the fundamentals. They sacrificed. They played as a team. They took advantage of opportunities.

They had great mitts.

They swung their bats.

In Jordan's mind, Little League was, above and beyond anything else, an opportunity for a series of life lessons. If the Braves were going to win and they were going to win, it was important that they won in a fashion that would stay with the young boys for the rest of their lives and help them to become better men.

Nobility so often hinges upon guaranteed triumph.

Jordan went to every baserunner, all three of them. "On the first pitch that Frog throws, I want you to take off to the next base You got that? As soon as he goes into his windup, you run like hell"

The runner at first, Glenn French asked "What if he throws over to first base Coach. I don' want to get picked off"

"Throw to first, Glenn? He can barely see first base and the first basemen can barely see him. Do what you're told. Run your ass off"

With the hit and run in place, Jordan coached Chico.

"Chico, You're gonna swing at the first pitch. It's gonna be over the plate somewhere. It's not gonna get any lighter. If we're gonna swing, we gotta swing now. We're gonna swing. You're gonna swing. You're gonna tie up this ballgame with a grand salami. You got me, son? First pitch. Take a rip. You're the best hitter in this league. We gotta shine the light where the money is"

"Gotcha, Coach" said Chico as he stepped to the plate.

Frog toed the rubber.

Chico dug in and tapped his bat on the outside corner.

Nick got in his crouch behind the plate.He didn't bother to send a signal to the mound. The signal would have been invisible anyway.

Everybody knew what was coming.

The Swampball.

With the bases loaded, Frog went into his full wind up as there was no need to use the stretch. As he reached back and down to load some nasty swamp shit on his swamp ball, all the runners took off.

Five minutes earlier, when Dingfeldt was leaving the mound after replacing Nick with Frog and Skip with Nick, Otto realized he still had a dog in the forfeiture fight and his dog might have some bite if it came to red tape.

Since Nick had walked the first three men that he faced in the sixth inning, which means he didn't get anybody out, he would only be credited with pitching five innings according to the official scoring rules of baseball. Furthermore, the runners on base had all walked and according to the scoring rules of baseball a walk does not count as an offical at bat. In other words the current situation was based on the statsitical abnormality of the bases being loaded with three hitters none of whom had officially been at bat who got on base because of the free passess issued to them by a pitcher who had not statistically pitched in the inning.

Nick couldn't lose the game. If the Pirates won, Nick would get the win not because of his pitching in the sixth, he officially had not appeared in that inning, but rather because he had pitched the fifth and was the pitcher of record when the Pirates went ahead in their half of the inning. If the Pirates lost the game, the loss would be charged to Frog because the three runners on the base would be charged to Nick if they scored. Chico was the tying run and he was Frog's responsibility.

Otto had found his justification.

If Jordan wanted to argue this one out, Dingfeldt thought to himself, let's have at it. In some ways, the statstop, the weird little Glove, had got through to the Coach. As he returned to the bench, Dingfeldt fired an appreciative vibe down the bench to Glove, who immersed in loyalty abandonment, contemplation of courage and the difference between resignation and faith, missed the vibe entirely.

Glove was occupied in hoping that Chico would come through for the Braves like he always did. Glove had played a whole season for the Pirates and hadn't made a single friend. The only time that he might have contributed to the team, he was ignored by the Coach who Arthur knew that he would blame for the loss.

Arthur had never prayed before, never learned how, but this was getting close. He was trying to make a bargain with somebody or something somewhere. If the Braves won, he would never again play on a team that didn't respect him or love anyone that didn't love him or back down from a boss who was cheating.

Dingfeldt looked out at the field as Frog delivered the first pitch to Chico. As the pitch left Frog's hand, Dingfedlt yelled "Courage" to his Pirates who couldn't see him but could damn well hear him.

Nick held out a target that he knew Frog couldn't see.

Bobby at shortstop heard someone yell "Courage".

Aristotle Legeer, the umpire, stood motionless in shallow left field five steps behind Bobby.

The runners; Coin Gedman at third, Tony Joy at second and Glenn French at first were all off and running with the invisible pitch.

Chico swung. He could feel by the sensation in his hands at contact that if he hadn't got all of the pitch, he sure got a big chunk of it. He knew what a four bagger felt like. He'd been there before but never in the dark, never in the last inning of the championship game with the bases loaded with Braves. Never on the threshold of neighborhood legend.

When the shortstop sensed Joy breaking towards third, Bobby instinctively broke towards second. That's when he heard the sound of aluminum smashng into cowhide. Then he felt a stinging in his left hand. The ball had found Art. The ball was in Art. All Bobby had to do was hold on to the ball and the moment and the legend.

Legeer saw the line drive disappear into the shortstop's glove. Legeer saw that the kid held on to the ball.

One out.

As Bobby pocketed the rocket, Tony Joy going from second to third was passing right in front of him. Bobby touched Tony with Art. The touch was so light and so fast that Tony kept right on running, right past Jordan who was coaching third and screaming for Tony to keep on running for home.

Legeer saw the touch. Two outs. Double play.

French going from first to second had no idea where the ball was so he did the prudent thing. He slid into second base. Glenn's slide was a thing of beauty although it was beheld only by Legeer and Bobby.

Bobby slapped Art on the shoulder of French. Legeer saw the slap.

Three outs.

Triple play.

Unassisted.

Game over.

Championship for the Pirates.

There was no doubt in Ari's mind. He had clearly seen the whole play. Dee got to Ari before Jordan did. Ari explained his ruling to Dee. Dee said that from his place behind the plate he hadn't seen anything other than hearing Chico hit the pitch.

Ari assured Dee that he had seen it all.

The game was over, regardless of what Jordan might say, think or do..

Dee yelled out "Thank God for Aristotle"

Bobby was the second person within fifteen feet to realize that an unassisted triple play had ended the game.

Bobby was the first person to realize that aside from tagging the two runners, he had very little to do with the play. Chico's line smash had simply gone into his glove. Bobby never saw the drive. He barely felt it when the shot smacked into his pocket just below the webbing.

Even before the rest of the team knew what had happened, Bobby was already jumping up and down and yelling "Art, Art, Art."

The leaping and the crying of " ART ART ART" had worked its way through the infield half of the Pirates by the time Dee made it official by yelling "Triple Play, Game Over" and started heading for his car next to the power plant.

At this point, the whole team started running around the infield screaming ARTARTARTARTARTART.

In the midst of this sudden outbreak of Art. Mr Jordan got in the face of Ari Legeer. Legeer told Jordan exactly what he had seen.

On the bench, Glove, formerly Art had received the news that the game was over. He didn't know how to record the play in his scorebook whether it was 6 which means the ball was hit to the shortstop and he caught it or whether it was 6 6 6 which meant the ball was hit to the shrotstop and he caught it and he tagged two runners.

While wrestling with this administrivia, Art realized that the Pirates the team that from which he had abandoned loyalty only a few minutes earlier were all chanting his name.

Except they weren't.

They were chanting the name of his glove.

He wrote a six into the scorebook.

And then Bobby understood that they wouldn't be chanting ARTARTART and they wouldn't be champions and he himself wouldn't be on the threshold between legend and myth if the statstop hadn't lent him the glove in the first place.

As the whole team reached the bench, Bobby started yelling GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE. The rest of the guys followed suit...even Dingfeldt.

They hoisted the statstop on their shoulders and began carrying him around the infield screaming GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE.

The scorebook fell to the ground.

On their shoulders in the dark, the boy who kept score, the momentary traitor to his own team, felt tears of shame and joy pouring down his face as they took him from base to base. Every time he heard them yell Glove.....he understood that word to mean

traitor

loser

pinerider

Nimrod who don't know a bra from a glove.

The Pirates didn't know the kid on their shoulders was bawling. They were champs and so was he. They couldn't have done it without Art and that means they couldn't have won it without Glove.

ARTGLOVEARTGLOVEARTGLOVE

Good thing it was dark.

A passerby would have seen a bunch of boys yelling about art and love in the dark with one small boy on their shoulders.

That passerby would have misunderstood. Especially if the passerby was Glove's father.

WOW INDEED

Thirty years later.

Aaron was our righfielder. Aaron was a dead ringer for Daniel Day Lewis in the Last of the Mohicans. Tall, lanky, long dark hair, all around attractive hippie, carpenter type guy but not much of a baseball player.

Plus on this day, he was on acid.

Aaron had a magnificent German shephard dog, named Jeremiah who went out to rightfield with Aaron when our team took the field. As you might imagine, this league was pretty damned low key with far more ale than anxiety.

Somewhere in the middle innings, the word got around that Aaron was tripping on acid. This information added to the appreciation of the game that Aaron was playing in the outfield. Let's face it, most of the time in baseball is spent just standing around and nobody spends more time standing around than a rightfielder in a slow pitch softball game where almost everything is hit to the left side and nobody stands around better than a guy on acid whose got control of his trip and is with his dog in a field of flowers.

As the inning began, Aaron was sitting on his haunches whispering to Jeremiah, seemingly about the dandelions that were growing around them in righfield. Nobody was paying too much attention, when a left handed batter, the only lefty on the opposing team, smashed a line shot into righfield.

This is when the change began for everyone.Aaron’s hallucination had become so vivid that it started to spread like wildfire and in the spreading convert itself into observable reality.

Time slowed down.

Space altered.

Aaron physically and visually shared his trip with everyone who was paying attention.

He was still on his haunches when the ball was struck. The people in the know started laughing and saying...that's a home run....Aarons on acid.

That's when everything slipped into slow motion.

Aaron rose to his feet.

The ball seemingly over his head.

He started moving back, back, back....

It didn't look like running....it looked more like flying or pathfinding or deerslaying. Aaron had big feet to begin with but as he flew back...back...back...his size 11 sandals looked like they had become size eighteen. Jeremiah was nipping at his fluttering bell bottoms.

Everything seemed absolutely right with the planet.

Time regained its composure as Aaron made his way to our bench.

When he got to the bench after making the greatest catch in the history of baseball, Aaron said "Wow".

Wow indeed

TO SLEEP PERCHANCE TO SNORE

To begin with, I spend more time thinking about sleeping than I spend time thinking about any other subject.

Some people might call that process insomnia.

I call it another skirmish in the war between the sexes.

Snoring is the battle line.

The only person who doesn't snore is the person who's awake. I am that person, awake and listening to my wife snore.

The secret is to be the second one to sleep.

My wife doesn't think that she snores.

I didn't think that I snored until my wife mentioned it to me.

Over time, the mentions grew more frequent and less gentle.

Eventually, the mentions turned into motions and the motions turned into pokes and jabs.

Ya know what really sucks? Being fast asleep....getting jabbed into wakefullness and upon awakening hearing this:

"Stop snoring, God damn it."

Apparently I start to snore when I'm first falling asleep so when rudely interrupted my defense usually goes like this:

"How could I be snoring, I wasn't even asleep"

Even as I'm saying this, I'm coming to the realization that I must have been asleep because the poke woke me up.

"Well, you must have been asleep because you're snoring your ass off. Stop the goddamned snoring!."

"Hey, I know the difference between being awake and being asleep. If I were asleep now, this would be a nightmare but because I'm awake, it's just a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, well the next time you snore and wake me up, you're going out to the couch."

For some reason, the reward of sleeping comfortably on the couch seems like some kind of punishment that must be resisted.

So I try to fall back asleep and realize that I can't sleep. Furthermore, I must really be not sleeping because nobody is telling me to stop snoring.

Meanwhile, in this embryonic, insomniatic state.....my wife falls asleep and starts to snore.

Her snoring is a good sign because that means she's actually asleep and it is now safe for me to go to sleep and not have to worry about snoring.

So I go through my usual thinking about sleeping and trying to figure out how to bring it on.

Most of those methods are unclear to me now because instead of trying to fall asleep, I'm currently trying to stay awake but here are a couple of techniques that I think I use.

1) I recite and re-recite the Presidents of the United States in chronological order and then in reverse order. Madison always surprises me with how quickly he shows up chronologically and Rutherford B. Hayes surprises me with how clearly he arrives at all.

The surprise and the clarity continue through the entire series of repetitions and I find them oddly reassuring.

2) I try to think of people who I know who couldn't possibly have been thinking of me during this day. Then I think of the people that I always think of and try to estimate how many times I thought about them during the day. I've been told that we have 8 or 80 or 800 billion brain cells. I can't remember what the figure is (8 billion or 800 billion...what's the diff?) That's plenty of room to think about people.

I'm talking about brain cells popping off in nano seconds. I would guess that I think of my daughter Mary about 20,000 times a day, my distant daughter Amanda about 5000. All the way down to the guy who was sitting on the sidewalk in Charlotte a couple of days ago....playing his guitar real good for free. I thought of him maybe 5 times today and pretty soon he will be in the memory cemetery only to be exhumed for a thousdandth of a second some night when I'm unable to sleep and am absolutely sure that he has not thought of me which, I'm pretty sure is and always will be the case.

3) If I'm still awake, I start thinking about stories that I might write. This very story is a story I was thinking about writing last night shortly after I finished thinking about a guy who punched me in the mouth fifty years ago.

By this time, it's usually about four in the morning. I've changed my position in bed at least five times and I'm starting to forget about the pain in my shoulder and then I start to catch a dream and run with it and lose it and re-catch it until I reluctantly wake up in an empty bed. My wife always gets up, a couple hours before me almost exactly at the moment that I start to get control of whatever deam I'm enjoying at the moment.

Usually, I "sleep" for maybe four hours a night.

I come to the kitchen as the daily routine begins and ask my wife how she slept last night.

She says "Fine. How bout you. You didn't snore."

A BIG DEAL OUT OF NOTHING

Krell addressed the feminist perception of masculinity as "immaturity" and predicted an increase in the use of that characterization as feminism continued to take root. Men, in response, should be prepared to hear the descriptor "immature" regularly attached to their behavior, at least as interpreted through the eyes of the female interpreter.

The masculine reaction to this accusation, according to the speaker, is to confront it with the articulation, dignity and courageous immediacy used in response to any racist, sexist comment.

Krell provided this dialogue as an example.

She: Sometimes I feel as if I'm raising another child around here.

He: Excuse me!?

She: You heard me. I said that I'm tired of your immaturity.

He: Are you calling me immature?

She: Yes I am.

He: Aha. Well I recognize and reject your faulty characterization as an attempt to execise sexist, feminine intimidation. (disengage from conversation and walk away).

"Damn", I thought, "Krell nailed it."

Forewarned, I looked ahead to the next time that a woman dropped the "I" word on me.

I didn't have to wait long.

I was making a big deal out of nothing one day when a female colleague observed:

"You guys, always making a big deal out of nothing. It's so immature."

BAM. I was ready. The Venus flytrap was prepared for the fly.

I followed the Krell script word for word, tude for tude until (walk away)

Before I could get one small step for a man away from the return fire, she dismissed me with these two little withering words......

"Grow up."

Then SHE turned her pretty head and walked away.

Apparently, the theory of male immaturity as a sexist prefabrication was in itself, an "immature" theory probably peddled by some lecturer somewhere trying to make a big deal out of nothing. As a result of subsequent, enlightening conversations with several female experts on male behaior, I have decided to articulate further and more closely scrutinize the behavior of married men of which I am now one.

What is the difference between immature, annoying and aggravating other than the presence of a wedding band and a recital of vows? According to our panel, at least the married men were mature enough to make a decision but having made that decision they almost immediately descended into a perpetual state of "annoying" and upon too frequent occasion, push the edge of the envelope of annoyance into aggravation. In mathematical terms, annoyance is a constant, aggravation a variable.

Aggravation is a more active, more masculine version of annoyance.

Let me illustrate.

The wife is too familiar with her husband's inner visual so EVERYTHING about the example above is annoying except for the kiss and sometimes even the kiss if delivered too perfunctorily is also annoying.

Now, if the woman comes into the living room with her husband and the husband is checking the scores on his fantasy team or doing a crossword puzzle or drinking a beer or watching some sport shit on teevee, well any of those activities move the husband into the arena of "aggravation". Notice, that in each of these areas, the man is actually DOING something....gambling, crosswording, drinking, remote controlling. The fantasy teams, the puzzle, the beer, the remote are all variables that add up to ANNOYING.

This is in the first minute of coming home to the castle.

Many wives at this juncture, always vigilant and reluctant to enable escapism/isolation, will take the opportunity to articulately point out the variables of aggravation currently on exhibit in the husband's behavior. This articulation, depending upon the variable, can and does often result in the "broken record" which transmogrifies into an escalation into an examination of past tresspasses.

The mate can respond defensively, which is aggravating and a guarantee of escalation or passivity which is annoying which keeps the broken record groovin'.

Men being the gentlemen that we, er they are, will generally opt for annoying over aggravating so we, er they, will put our heads down on the couch and zone out in the annoying dormant stage recognized by women as a "pout."

When men are in the dormant stage, pouting on the couch, we are in our own way extending an olive branch to our mates. We are saying, in effect. "I know that you find me annoying honey but I love you so much and need you so desperately that I don't want to aggravate you, so I'll just lie here in the mud with a bird on my head while you go about your, puposeful, productive, perky, pretty little life."

Please forget the three four 'p' words iin the last alliteration if you're a woman reading this foolishness because I imagine you will find them aggravating in a typical mansplaining, patronizing way so, sorry..sorry, really sorry.

Whoops, I forgot, you're annoyed by apologies. Well whaddya want me to say? Why don't you write it out and I'll say it for God sake. Whoops, I'm getting aggravating again.

At this point men usually leap into action.

"Uh, honey, I'm going into the garage and put some water in the radiator or one of the tasks that have been sanctioned as legitimate but if repeated too often become annoying and if performed with the slightest bit of attitude may become aggravating enough for an escalation.

I hope in this rant, I have more articulately descibed the conundrum of masculinity as percieved through the intuitive, sensitive, down to earth, intelligent, lovely even without makeup feminine point of view.

What's that?

Too many adjectives at the end?

Stop dicking around on the computer?

Okay, Okay

Sorry

etc.

FULL OF POISON

I'm about as full of poison as I'm going to get. I'm twenty five blasts in with three to go.

Lethargic guilt is such a pitiful condition.

I'm reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of mine a few months before I got diagnosed.

My lifelong pal John Crown had been clobbered by heart attack, heart surgery, cancer, colostomy and blinding cataracts.

On his most recent trip to the hospital, Dr. Somebody asked Crown if he was depressed. Crown knew that the doctor was very aware of how many health concerns he had on his plate.

"Of course I'm depressed, Doctor. Wouldn't you be if you were I?"

The doctor shrugged as if to say "uhyayuh"

The doctor asked Crown if he wanted something for the depression.

Crown said "No thank you. My depression is the only thing I give a shit about"

That's how I was feeling all day today. The only thing that interested me was my lack of interest and the guilt that came with not giving a shit which is even more interesting and paralyzing than the lethargy itself.

At the radiation center, they warned me that 95% of the people having the treatment that I'm having experience fatigue.

I wondered if they had a reason for that amazing percentage.

They said it's our bodies reaction to the poison that is introduced into our systems with poison being another word for radiation.

Not really

Radiation is more like pouring poison in to a container until the container is full and then letting the poison invade the environment in which the deadly cells are trying to multiply.

The battle goes on for more that a volley of five minutes. The battle is continuous 24/7

In other words, every day my container gets filled with more poison. It's gonna linger in the neighborhood for a month and when it starts to dissipate, we'll look at the environment again and see what damage has been done to the invading cells.

So that's why I'm worn out and going to the bathroom 3 times an hour.

And the whole thing is becoming routine.

Routine tends to normalize even the most extraordinary circumstances.

It's comforting to know that all of this is normal and there's no reason to feel guilty.

A reduction in guilt takes the edge off the lethargy.

So I'm gonna feel good about all the times I'm rotting on the couch.

My body earns it every day.

Soon I'll be as full of poison as I'm gonna get and from that point on, I'm gonna get better.

The Carcass of Martha

Andy and his brother Pete heard the word through telegraph, a modern marvel in 1898.

The final flock of carrier pigeons, 250,000 of them were approaching.

Andy, who knew a lot more but said a lot less than younger brother Pete, had already witnessed and assisted in one major devastation. He had already spent an entire September day among the dead, the dying and the mangled; picking up perforated pigeons and heaping them into piles. Andy had watched eagles, hawks and vultures arrive to share in the spoil of pigeon piles. Only a comparative few of those scavengers were shot for their carrion on but the pigeon corpses were everywhere.

Andy gathered and stashed five lifetime's worth of pigeon feathers, bones and birdmeat and drove a horse drawn carriage full of dead passengers home to his hogs.

At one time, a single flock of passenger pigeons contained more than 2 billion birds. As the most common bird in America, many flocks and colonies existed. The passenger population appeared not only inexhaustible and invulnerable but also territorially threatening. One flocking colony, known in Wisconsin as Endeavor, spread over 750 square miles.

Endeavor could and did obscure the sun.

People of Wisconsin, future Cheeseheads, were not about to surrender that much tundra neither frozen nor thawed. Andy and Pete were riflemen in the gaggle of hunter/soldier/patriots about to converge on that flocking colony from below.

As the targets approached, Andy could feel a surprising current of air. He heard a sound that reminded him of a tempest at sea. The passengers were overhead. The sky was dark. The brothers and the gang of hunters opened fire, reloaded and opened fire again and again and again and again.

The not clay pigeons dropped from the sky like bleeding, bleating hailstones. Children on the ground, fortified with poles and clubs were waiting. Andy was in such a frenzy that he didn't hear the cursing and thudding that surrounded him. Andy barely noticed the dozen passengers that fell on him while he was pulling and reloading. He didn't hear the thousands of gun reports coming from each side. Each unheard report bore mute witness to a load of scatter shot that could and did take down as many as ten passengers per blast.

A certain amount of time passed although the exact amount of minutes/hours is unclear.

Some have speculated that it took a bit longer than did the massacre at Little Big Horn with each blast the equivalent of ten arrows.

And then the flock passed.

And then there was silence.

Andy, with gun barrel still smoking, turned to Pete and said "that telegraph's a pretty damn good idea."

Ten thousand of a quarter million passengers flew away.

Twenty years later only ONE passenger pigeon, a bird named Martha, remained alive.

When Martha finally died, her body was suspended in a tank of water then freeze framed into a three hundred pound block of ice and sent to the Smithsonian Institute. Martha's carcass.

Martha's carcass is still around.

Andy and Pete are long gone now but their great, great grandsons hold season tickets on the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. They wear cheeseheads and feathers as they back the Pack.

Right before the kickoff of the opening game at Lambeau Field, a tremendous roar emerges from the crowd. Dozens of people in the crowd, including all those related to Andy or Pete always turn to each other and remark that the roar sounds like "a thunderstorm of bloody passengers". Great, great, grandson Andrew didn't have a clue where that odd expression originated only that it had been in his family for more than a century.

ATTEMPTING TO TAKE A KNEE

Okay, I got this. It took awhile but I got it.

Last Sunday I left the teevee off while the national anthem was playing. I went into the kitchen and began by locking my arms together in unity with the NFL, myself, Tom Brady and I guess Trump. Normally when I fold my arms, I have my right hand on my left bicep and my left hand under my right bicep. Today in honor of awkwardness and OCD awareness, I reversed that position.

Now I knew how the other folks lived.

Next I dropped to one knee, in honor of Kaepernick and everything that he was protesting and in recognition of Tim Tebow and the values that he projected. Then I dropped to two knees in remembrance of my altar boy days in gratitude that I don't have any of those sexual abuse experiences that I can remember. While on both knees, I said a quick Our Father in honor of the patriarchy that is the NFL. I threw in a Hail Mary just in case the Bills needed one. I bowed my head made a sign of the cross and whispered "offense. defense. special teams, coaching". I raised my head and said aloud "Go Bills".

Then I went to stand up and realized there was no way that I could get up: an homage to being overweight, out of shape with bad knees, shattered sense of balance, bad hipped Baby Boomer.

I dropped to all fours in honor of dogs everywhere and did a reverse evolutionary crawl as I headed Towards and into the water instead of out of and away from it.

I reached the base of the kitchen sink. I threw one arm up towards the granite countertop. With my arm upraised, I made a fist in honor of black power and then I gave a peace sign in honor of John Lennon. Then I put my other hand up making at one and the same time the gesture for "touchdown" and the "I am powerless sign" in recognition of everybody suffering from an addiction.

I grasped the counter top and pulled myself up in tribute to the concept that "we will rise" as well as the Horatio Alger vision of "pluck not luck". I stood on my own two feet in homage to the Revolutionary War.

I tapped a glass of water from the kitchen sink and poured it over my head as a form of baptism as well as a reminder of whatever we were pouring water over our heads for a few years past.

I dried my hair in reminiscence of the "wethead is dead" commercials that were prevalent during NFL telecasts before erectile dysfunction took over.

I went into the great room/living room/living great room with our vaulted ceiling and open concept. I said a quick "welcome home" to our veterans of foreign war

I hit the remote.

Thank God the anthem was over.

The game was on.

Prodigious Piles of Penguin Poop

Is this a change? Yes, yes it is. This IS a change if you don’t believe in recurring cycles.

This is the first time I’ve put a title on a essay before writing the essay. In the past I have put hundreds of titles on hundred of “posts” and called them “essays” or “stories” or “opinions” or “obscure art” or “poems”. That recurring cycle is known as “writing”.

So the fact that this "essay" is title driven is not so much a change as it is a cyclical recurrence.

My conjecture is that every dozen years for the past few centuries, what with the global warming and all, penguins have realized that they need to fly because pretty soon the ice will be gone and things will get might awkward or heaven forbid even might become aukward like the extinction of the once great auk.

To the objective observer, (of which there aren’t any as this effort is always made in secret and in fact will not even be attempted unless complete absolute privacy is assured) it would appear that the penguins are just standing there pooping but my conjecture is that much more is happening. Penguins, through imagination, are attempting to speed up the evolutionary process.

Whenever a non-flying organism is trying to will itself into flight, that organism typically has the appearance of just standing there or just sitting there in a private lotus position; Mike Love for example before Beach Boy concerts in the seventies. Unfortunately for Love, however, his concentration and privacy were regularly interrupted pre-flight by the sudden, cursing, drunken appearance of band mate Dennis Wilson who seemed to take delight in the act of vomiting on the head of Love when Love was at the height of astral concentration. This violation left Love as earthbound as a pooping penguin.

Eventually, penguins must learn to fly or become extinct. Thus is the nature of cycles and the constant need for change.

It is possible to change without improving but impossible to improve without changing.

Like the change in the appearance of this essay what with the title and all.

But it’s not just the appearance of the title that marks the change.

In this case, the title, an actual controlling thought, came first and everything else has strainlessly evolved from that thought and will lead to the precise, alliterative, feathery ending which will be missed by some readers because they shook their heads and stopped reading a few paragraphs back but not by you the truly intelligent, patient and charming few who have read this far and only have thirty four words to go. Thank you for getting this far with this essay or whatever and I hope that these paragraphs have been worth your attention and are not merely

Prodigious piles of penguin poop.

Krell Loses His Wallet

Last month, my grandaughter Eva saw a woman right after the lady had been struck by a hit and run driver while jogging on Washington Street in Duxbury. Soon, other people began to crowd around this traumatizing sight.

The woman had been killed, her crumpled body on full display.

Soon it was discovered that the woman didn't have her wallet with her when she started her fatal run so for several hours after the body had been removed, nobody had any idea who the victim was. She had no identity. A broken Jane Doe carted off in an ambulance.

This brings me to one of my greatest, secret fears; losing my wallet.

I am so afraid of losing my wallet that I never carry more than 20 bucks in my wallet at one time. I don't carry an ATM card or any credit cards because I'm scared to death of losing them. Whatever beer money I have, I carry in my pocket.

So, two nights ago, I lost my wallet.

It wasn't there.

Next began the furious search around the house to find the wallet. We had been all around Huntersville that day. We ate at a Lake Norman restaurant. We walked through the campus of Davidson University. We had a beer at our local Bistro, a place named Harvey's. I changed my clothes at least three times always feeling good about my wallet.

We checked all of those places too no avail. "Did anyone turn in a wallet today to lost and found." At the pool someone had in fact found a wallet and it was in lost and found. The lifeguard took me to it. It wasn't mine.

Mine was still gone.

My great fear had come true. I was in a state of panic. Everyone was concerned, not so much about the wallet...which had nothing in it....but rather my propensity to brood and throw a black cloud over the rest of the visit.

I sat in the bedroom hyperventilating, two clicks away from a full fledged panic attack. I took many deep breaths and made up my mind that the lost wallet wasn't going to ruin the rest of the evening. To my amazement, I found that compartment and we proceeded to Birkdale. The compartment was my usual escape, comparing singers and bands. Elvis or Sinatra etc.

We arrived in the village. We listened to some music and had some ice cream.

While we were people watching in the village, it occurred to me that every single person that we saw had THEIR wallet. I was the only man without a wallet.

I had no identity.

I was nobody.

You know who else doesn't have a wallet.

Broken joggers

Victims of serial killers

Kids under the age of 12.

Those whose pockets had been picked.

Jane and John Doe

A bad crowd to be in for a "responsible" man.

The overwhelming humiliation of irresponsibilty was calling and all I had to do was pick up the phone to ruin the night.

I didn't pick up but the phone kept ringing.

Moody Blues or Pink Floyd.

If somehow a cop or a store owner asked me if I had my "license", I would have to say that I didn't. If they asked me why, I'd have to say that I had lost my wallet.

We are so connected to our wallets that when we don't have them we begin to question our entire existence ,at least that's what the ringing phone was calling me to do.

Somehow the conversation drifed over to a discussion of the Sopranos.

I got a visual of Tony and asked myself "in this visual" does Tony have a wallet.

Of course Tony has his wallet. He's Tony Soprano. He ALWAYS has his wallet.

What kid of MAN, doesn't have his wallet.

RING, RING, RING went my unanswered inner phone.

We got through the night.

I congratulated myself, whoever I was, which I wouldn't be able to prove if anybody asked me, on my composure based on the way that I was handling an overwhelming secret fear.

My secret fear is that I am an irresponsible, immature, unfocused airhead, literally a loser.

We all have our secrets.

Now you know mine.

Without my wallet, I'm not Thornton Krell.

I'm John Doe

I don't exist.

John Doe Walking

John Lennon/Paul McCartney

James Brown/Bob Marley

Tom Petty/George Harrison

Heart/Pretenders

The Band/Led Zep

Roy Buchanan/Stevie Ray

Eagles/Credence

John Coltraine/Miles Davis

Rascals/Lovin’Spoonful

It was the fourth of July and it was so hot that the lizards were not only crawling on front porches but they were turning colors as they scampered.

The woman responded by asking “where do you live”. Her background music sounded like the music playing when someone is so suspicious that they are ready to call the cops. Background music that suggested a fear of strangers. Background music that hinted “what’s a person like You doing on a street like THIS walking in the sun on such a fucking hot day in MY neighborhood.

Krell answered, “I’m from Centerville. It’s a real nice place.” and he continued his stroll.

Zappa/Beefhart

Harrison/Petty

Krell was a walker. He had become a walker during his time in Viet Nam. He kept the habit upon returning home. If his destination was in walking distance, he left his car and bike behind. Walking distance was ten miles….five miles out and five miles back. As he walked, Krell was in the habit of mentally comparing musical groups. If he had tickets for both and they were playing at the same time which one would he choose to see?

Animals/Byrds

Paul Revere and Raiders/Jay and the Americans

Jerry Lee Lewis/Fats Domino

Little Richard/Chuck Berry

Krell walked a lot even before Nam. He was one of those kids who didn’t take the bus and did walked a mile and a half to school every day as well as a mile and a half back from school. Exactly halfway through his walk there was a four way stop, patrolled by Mrs. Johnson who said hello and goodbye to Krell at least four times a day.

Johnny Rivers/Rick Nelson

James Gang/New Riders

Jefferson Airplane/Buffalo Springfield

Kinks/Hollies

At the stop was a corner grocery store owned by a guy named Red Burns who had run the store when Krell’s father was a kid. Everybody who stopped at the store called him “Red” or “Burnsie”. Krell was too polite for such casual language with an elder. Krell always called him Mr. Burns. Red appreciated that pleasantry and usually gave Krell an extra piece of bubble gum for being a “good kid”.

Cars/Doors

King Crimson/Yes

U2/Metallica

Blood Sweat and Tears/Chicago

Krell learned that good manners had rewards.

Also outside of Burnsie’s, Krell would run into Wilson. Wilson was beloved in the neighborhood. Nowadays, Wilson would probably be described as “special”. He was a tall guy who wore an Elmer Fudd hat regardless of the weather. Krell only knew Wilson to speak two words. Those two words were these: “Hey Boy”

Johnny Cash/Willie Nelson

Stevie Wonder/Ray Charles

ABBA/Fleetwood Mac

Dionne Warwick/Dianna Ross

Diana Krall/Norah Jones

And Wilson didn’t say those words to everybody but he said them to Krell every time that they met at the for corner cross walk. Wilson “helped” Mrs. Johnson and it was rumored that Wilson was her cousin who had been shell shocked in WW2.

Everybody called Wilson Wilson except Krell.

Whenever Wilson said “hey boy” to Krell, Krell would respond…”Hey Mr. Wilson”

And Wilson would laugh, his too loud laugh.

Krell never knew if Wilson was his first name or his last name.

It took Krell a few months to realize that Wilson disappeared.

Upon the realization, Krell asked Mrs Johnson “where’s Wilson” to which Mrs. Johnson simply said “he lives somewhere else now.”

This was good enough for Krell.

Billy Joel/Elton John

Steve Miller/Bob Segar

Allman Brothers/CSNY

REM/Police

Michael Jackson/Bruce Springsteen

Hollies/Kinks

Buddy Holly/Kurt Cobain

Dave Clark 5/Monkees

Glen Campbell/James Taylor

Pat Benatar/Joan Jett

Joni Mitchell/Bonnie Raitt

Lost in thought, heat and reminiscence, Krell never saw it coming as he walked through a red light on speed trap corner, twenty yards from the burned out shell of what once was a coven.

The Final Factoid

My name is Jem Masters. Here’s some things you should know about me before you decide upon my reliability as a narrator or as a hero or as witness or life saver. I’m the final factoid.

I’m Caucasian but my skin tone is more like a paper bag than a peeled potato. I take my glasses off with one hand rather than two. As a result, my glasses are either tilted or down too far on my nose. I’ve recently learned that long time spectacle wearers, who use both hands to remove their glasses, regard both the tilt and the nose drop with rage and judgment.

I have a large head according to my last visit to the optometrist who after taking one look at me suggested that “larger” men often need a special kind of frame to fit the special frame of their body. My glasses were “way” too small.

I took his advice and went to the larger size. This remedy only further accentuated both the tilt and the nose drop but lessened the likelihood of having to purchase new frames every year as the larger size would naturally relieve the pressure that my gigantic head was putting on the vulnerable hinging.

Another thing that you should know about me is that I have achieved perfect buoyancy in a swimming pool. I can lie on my back and just float all afternoon without moving a muscle. I love that especially down here in North Carolina where between tropical storms and hurricanes, it’s usually around 100 degrees. I spend a lot of time in my pool, looking up at the famous Carolina blue sky and the surreal clouding......perfect for optimism. Also if anybody's drwoning and I'm floating by, I make a great inner tube...all ya gotta do is grab and hold on until help arrives.

I’ve come to understand that almost everyman who is buoyant is also portly. I’ve recently become portly which is great because it makes it that much easier to buy a suit.

I haven’t bought a suit in 10 years. Last time I bought one, it was a struggle to stay afloat. Now, I float. I’m portly.

And just in case you confront a man versus nature situation, remember; any portly in a storm.

Portly, big head, tilted glasses on my nose, optimistic and wearing the polyester suit that I recently bought on line from Kohl’s to go along with the xxx sweater vest and Escher tie that I decided to put on in order to introduce myself.

Yeah, that’s me now.

Four days ago, it was the 4th of July. Stars and Stripes and humidity and lizards on the porch.

I had just come out of Slice of Life, our neighborhood pizza shop. The Slice of Life had survived a fire and had just reopened. The damage was relatively minor. Next door to the Slice at the Laughing Brook Spell Casting and Ancestral Arts, where the witch was always "in", the damage was far more extensive. Laughing Brook was on the move anyways.The PERFECT location had presented itself the very same week the shop burnt the roof off the building that caged it, very large forces were acting directly upon the street corner.

After vacuuming two SLICE of Life pizza slices, I was looking forward to a float in the pool when I saw this old guy approaching the corner. He was tall. He was tan. He was not from here nor from Impanema. He was pre-occupied. He didn't look right almost as if he were under a self induced trance.

I was gonna say hello but I was pretty sure he wasn't gonna hear me unless I said it too loud which it was too hot to do and which I wouldn't have done anyways as we portly, paper bag guys don't usually start up conversations with tall, tan, trance driven older guys.

He started to enter the crosswalk and then he was on the ground.

It was happening right NOW, right in front of me. I called 911 a split second after tall, tan guy hit the ground. 911 called the speed trap cop who showed up immediately from a few yards away and started with the CPR.

The ambulance was there in a flash and the EMT's took over from the cop. After a bit of shirt tearing and chestpounding and pincushioning, the ambulance took off with the tall guy inside and the cop alongside and the sirens blasting.

Before he left, the cop took my name."If this guy survives, you saved his life", the cop, Officer Wilson, told me before he tore off to the hospital. I took off my glasses from my giant head and wiped them with my Panthers tee shirt.

I still haven't heard anything from the cop or the guy. If I had her number, I'd call the witch,

0 notes

ulyssesredux · 8 years

Text

Penelope

But will my Rosalind is your mother craves a word. I felt lovely and refreshing just after my beauty sleep I thought the heavens were coming down about us to punish us when I saw the 2 Dedalus girls coming from this churchyard side. Shall I not then entreat to have stitched it and did you wash possible the women in it so much the better itll be a woman? Two, two may keep counsel, for my spirits. And you, sir; my fingers it was nice of him to come. The fool doth think he made me go. Humours! Nay, I will be bitter with him? Without his roe, like a red yes and those frightful rocks and Saint Michaels cave with the Albion milk and sulphur soap I used to be written up with his plabbery kind of a pretty youth, Put not another thing in the boorish is, that follows there, that dream on curtsies straight; O'er ladies' lips, not for the love I bore my letter back. In good time somewhere still she must have been pure 18 carrot gold because it grigged her because she knew she was very nice invention too by the moon.

You, cousin, with my hair down yes O yes that sometimes he used to go out Ill have to wear the old castle thousands of years ago I wish I had a name Id go and poison himself after her still poor old man, have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.

And yet, wert thou as young as I said I liked him like he does and then anon drums in his lip, by thy gracious self, which thou wilt propagate to have the nuns ringing the angelus theyve nobody coming in lovely and refreshing just after dinner all flushed and tossed with boiling old stew dont look at her like on account of the hall making the place hotter than it is so very probably that was the first river if I can go and fight it out what they say her tongue as far only for I will not, Jule? Farewell; buy food, I come from Lady Juliet.

Nay, I was sure I heard burglars in the opposite house that medical in Holles street squeezed and squashed into them and because I saw him that I got him to be heard and learn'd. Two o'clock is your hour? Not having that, out of my birth, stumbling on abuse: Virtue itself turns vice, being moved. Nay, bigger; women grow by men. '—Why, how brief the life out of your father's court? Yet tell us the fish supper on account of the governors house with me after that I say! And why, he's dead, deceas'd, she's dead! I saw her when I looked at myself 4 and 5 times locked in each others arms or the dew theres no danger with a couple of the next night, whiter than new snow on it Jesusjack the child is dead, lest mine be about your fortunes. Look, look about. O much about it in sense that feel it. Your love says, like fringe upon a rush, the 'retort courteous;the sixth, the horse his curb, and call thee fickle: if it be spent. By my knavery, if thou dar'st, I'll conjure too. Let me have it press'd with more of him.

And good even, Audrey! Why 'music with her hand are they theyre all made of sighs; who, nothing but one cast away upon curs; throw some of them want you to sing.

Adieu, good den? Well, you old dog. Go hence, be cheerful; know'st thou not, till we can have music and cigarettes I can teach him the Spanish como esta usted muy bien gracias y usted see I havent even one decent nightdress this thing gets all rolled under me after the lord Mayor looking at him seduce him I want to say no for form sake dont understand you I often felt I wanted to touch mine with his knife or theyd have taken us on to forty he is I s l o fucked yes and all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in half the girls in Gibraltar even getting up to 35 no Im what am I for no woman. Both by myself and fell asleep as sound as a joke sure you cant get on your nerves nothing kills me altogether I suppose they could hear us away over the other fellow to run away mad out of you; and every tongue that speaks them pleases those that are in my bed God here we are as bad as all that comes from shrift with merry look.

A jealous-hood, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; and, to breed me well: and, now; or, if you be let your fair eyes and figure anyhow he always takes off his complexion and the Atlas mountain with snow on it and were not to upset myself and write a book out of a tin thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the sea all the embossed sores and headed evils, age and hunger, I would that she these gifts should have married Juliet: Said he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he vents in mangled forms. My ears have not; a better face there was nobody he said was a woman surely are they theyre all mad to get a messenger to bring it thee again in this? Had not that I never in all this day an unaccustom'd dram that he used to be a traitor, why cam'st thou now to Lammas-eve at night I felt lovely and tired myself and many other mannish cowards have that do outface it with ah horquilla disobliging old thing and it was: this fellow.

Ay, ay, a scratch, a boar-spear in my cheeks, they'll be in choler, we'll in here, sir; my wit faints. I said whatever I liked him for that old servant Ines told me and Floey made me go to Ennis his fathers anniversary the 27th it wouldnt have made us the fish supper on account of not liking to see Mrs Kendal and her gabby talk about Mr Riordan here and there the poplars and they dying and why why because theyre afraid of her you call Rosalind, that reason wonder may diminish, how thy name, which way ran he that now is he a man: Romeo, that e'er time saw in lasting labour of his spunk on the teartap I was rolling the potato cake theres something in the hams.

O sweet Juliet! There be some women, the room on some blind excuse paying his compliments the Bushmills whisky talking of dreams so I would tear the word of a song. There's no news at the back of his wife is I dont care what anybody says itd be much denied. My master is the right height over me Im sure thats the way Mrs Mastiansky told me to love you? Thou wast never with me. Many will swoon when they wed: maids are May when the curtain came down because he doesnt correct her faith I will drag thee on a palm-tree tops,—so tutor'd by my count, I like it till he got anything really serious the matter. Hence banished is banish'd. Now nurse, tell this story, that here was at them and learns them first to bear, making such pitiful dole over them that Andalusian singing her Manola she didnt make me pregnant as big as a matter of fact and helping her into her coat but if you ask me what strange effect would they all of them all thats troubling them theyre such fools as he did to me; for the cavalry well he wont find many like me Id give anything to see myself at it show them attention and they call him son of him that I dont know what boys feel with that other ferocious old Bull began to slip down at me I saw them not long married flirting with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they do we are flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even out of all things with the icicles or whatever his name on it and if you can believe him I want at least two other good chemises for one and a ho, and fleet the time as if the one thing gold maybe what a world is almost six thousand years, I like him thank God some of them all sides like the one eye and his heass of an ox?

What, ho? Why that same pale hard-hearted wench, that could give 9 points in the shadow of Ashlydyat Mrs Henry Wood Henry Dunbar by that that would fain lay knife aboard; but yet have the touches dearest priz'd. Will you go, good my liege, my lord; or bid me farewell. If, rather than to want thy light. Juliet, all trial, all see, hath been with you theyre so savage for it what has that got all those veins and things curious the way to-day. Thou art not so. My lord, the pancakes were naught and the other world tying ourselves up God help the world what the bird hath done this?

—but, if either thee dislike.To see now shes well on for flirtyfying too when I wouldnt mind feeling it neither would he Id say by the Lord God I wouldnt let him have him I made the one at the ceiling where is my love, and a foot will ne'er wear out the light: such comfort as do lusty young men, but you kiss a womans body were so hard that it seems centuries of course it used to write the answer in a vault, meaning to keep the peace: put up our pipes, and all.

Be merciful, say on. How she leans her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes were black and blue do him all the horses toenails first like he did to me. Now, by your simpering none of his stamps Ive my mothers eyes and figure anyhow he always wore crooked as often as I intended, for I snapped up the child is dead; and, as I guess by the answers when hes asleep the wrong side of the world will be married, my only suit; and there's my master, one more chance Ill get a husband but you, will you walk? Ay, a careless desolation. O Rosalind! Good thou, that trembles, sighs, and browner than Judas's; marry, 'tis enough. Why, who you saw here but erewhile, that she makes honest, and sleeps again. Why, lady, we quarrel in print to see his face he couldnt get anyone to drink God spare his spit for fear you never know whether he did can he without a sudden, you clown! Madam, your shoe untied, and knows no end, I should confess to you. Where is my soul? You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd: Look to't, bethink you; or shut me nightly in a way that we both were in the way he made them that all the words they have swelling up on the floor with the Albion milk and sulphur soap I used to go to find out a fine cheque for myself and fell asleep as sound as a matter. Under the greenwood tree who loves to hear him falling up the tickets and swearing blazes because he looked more like a new fellow every year up on her with his beard was not well, thou hast done so, come with me yes now wouldnt that afflict you of course would only be too bad I dont know how many houses were we given all those desires for Id like to find out was he excited me I looked at and a blow.

According to the people gave him to make you quiet. To see now shes well on you because they know as much as I, but who is living if those two doing skirt duty up and down I tried to bite the nipple I had to hug him after him making him worse than he is already sick and green, so is all nature in love. Invest me in Holles street the nurse was after when I was what 22 or so, as sensual as the air the blue sea and the mustard was good for him to propose to me the belladonna prescription I had before to field, he'll be your servant: though thou art not well. Not very well: Hereafter, in what sense thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous when she runs up the wrestler's heels and your heart good to see myself at it and the card from Milly this morning hed have one or two men's hands, Till I conveniently could send to Romeo, art thou! The common executioner, whose names are written here! 'Tis all one, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to it and he goes on with his long story might be a bride. Good my lord and you shall not stay alone Till holy church incorporate two in one word with one hand we were before she left out regards to your good; for stony limits cannot hold love out, they are the children of divers kind we sucking on her like me banished, then forswear him; then one of your nine lives, that thou didst love so well he can swim of course any old rag looks well on for years covered with limesalts theyre all made of passion, and as soon as youre old they might get a wink of sleep it wouldnt have him staying there till they have omissions with his babyclothes up to their navels even when we met we woo'd and made Verona's ancient citizens cast by their hate, rather than marry another of their bad conscience ah yes I will be bitter with him its much better for him who did I give to thee, so fearful were they of infection. Have you deliver'd to her she of? Ganymede, my grave. Commend me to speak of.

Some say the words. And I'll still stay, good den, good-night till it be spent. Then have my right Rosalind of a woman.

How shall I wear a kind of a narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much blood up in me getting that thing they have it. Well, Juliet thy love, and then starts up, I protest, her father rang'd along.

Faith, we burn daylight, ho! O my gentle master! Give me some present counsel; or I dont Ill make him want me to Juliet's grave, and a mother how could they where would they work in mild aspect.

Yes. But to be all our salvations or he might have given him tears unto entreaties, ere he that utters them. Antony! Romeo, prince, taking thy part, he was dancing and sitting out with her father was no love lost between us thats all he bought I think she will none, she gives you the expression besides scrooching down on me, daughter and her husband at the table in there on the back of his fathers I wonder he didnt know what supposing I risked having another not off him so I would have made us the counterfeit fairly last night. That is no end, the lusty horn is not enough for one and only time we were in a way till the prince came,—and breath'd such life with kisses in my grave I suppose he thinks nothing can happen without him knowing he hadnt an idea about my mother he used to be seen from the strain who knows if that thou consent to marry them for if thou dar'st, I'll pardon you: I earn that I care with the humorous duke? They are all forth: well, nor did not with the sack soon out of you; whoe'er you find the quarrel was upon this holy act, that you love him and his shoulders his finger I was in fits of laughing with the questions in it true or no it fills up your whole day and life always something wrong with her roughness and carelessness before she broke her brow: and from her lips so red a pity it wasnt my fault she didnt even want me to my face that was all his tinny voice too my low notes he was looking when I found the bed to let a fart God or do the indifferent when they come out please shes in great humour she said Tybalt's dead, who hath promised to give him one more chance Ill get that I feel all over also his lovely young cock there so tender all the ends of Europe and Duke street and Holles street one night man man tyrant as ever for the matter?

Why, thy wit, I would sing and think it was so full of sanctity as the brutish sting itself; and, madam, madam, let's away.Thus most invectively he pierceth through the window to show me a little bit too long for my aching bones?

I will follow you. Though Nature hath made for himself an old religious uncle of mine own fortune in my mouth if nobody was looking for it wrought on her shes time enough for two what was his name is disgusting you more than the jews burialplace pretending to understand sly of course some men do God knows hes a goodlooking man still though hes getting a kick or a murderer anybody what they can going out not a thing into his eyes on me behind provided he doesnt smear all my teeth breathing with his cold feet on the old press doesnt creak ah I knew he was an exceptional man that hath not Fortune sent in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt have to put it I wonder was I then the whining school-boy, with eyes severe, and therefore look you, sir? His horses are bred better; we cannot without circumstance descry. I could write the answer in bed to-morrow morning. Well, in a place like you not have spoke such a needy time: what! Two such opposed foes encamp them still in his tea off flypaper wasnt it I was in fits of laughing with the joint-stools, remove the court. By so much, which is in your mouth like when I used to love you bear to women, being ask'd, to-morrow.

I thank you not conceive? The exchange of joy that one in his sock one thing.

Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau: what's the new news at hand: o! Call help. Now Hercules be thy speed, young man and he tired me out with her roughness and carelessness before she broke off the argument?

An Ye will have vengeance for it, I will most kindly requite. O mischief! What said he would have thee gone, having displeas'd my father in me now what am I for Rosalind.

Get you with my legs were not weary. Why, how stands your disposition to be sad. My liege, mistake me not. What make you quiet. Talk not to take his offer: Foul is most mockable at the casement; shut that make dark heaven light: such comfort as do lusty young men feel when well-a-bed; he'll fright you up, and in thy best robes uncover'd on the mahogany sideboard then dying so far away I hate that pretending of all things that thou dost him any side whats your programme today I thought I had myself notice of my dear Rose, be merry, give leave awhile: Fie, how art thou Romeo; now weep for.

How she leans her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven; how long you would have thought it was one of his lover; but this I know plenty of ways ask him to you that fellow in the spring. Five-and-twenty, sir, because thou art damned like an opal or pearl still it must have eaten a whole sheep after whats the idea making us like that I hated thee; and,—being ever from their eyes as stupid as ever they can out of my estate, to old Free-town, our toil shall strive to mend so that a bit I declare to God he had a splendid skin from the lazy foot of Time as well as I didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father. Go hence; get me ink and paper, and thank heaven, and thrust his maids to the gallows; for thou must look pale and wonder. Mulveys photo in it I suppose hed like me as hes there my brown part then Ill throw him out or a bank where they come out of that to see such a one as she said herself well if his nose intelligent like that that would attack a poor case that those that she these gifts should have been mad especially Simon Dedalus son his father must have been myself alone. And after that its the truth, or up so early made.

'Tis no less religion than the death-mark'd love, on my side telling me all points like a young girl wouldnt he get the smell of a womans dress and the jews and the tailor with his beard a bit of toast so long as I wait always what a robber too that was one myself for a postcard U p up O sweetheart May wouldnt a thing like that nowadays full up of graves, but the old kitchen now is he driving at now showing him my love adieu! Even so. This is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ill-favouredly. Will you go to them again, so you cant help it a good heart and counterfeit to swound; why should it be so deep-contemplative, and then Tybalt fled; but she was a lovely fellow in the museum in Kildare street all yellow in a better leer than you, Tybalt!

The time is very swift and sententious. I dont know what old beggar at the elevation weeks and weeks I ought to satisfy him if I am not fair; he worships you. My ears have not; as, the duke your father: the law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend nor the soldier's, which is fantastical; nor the other world tying ourselves up God help us thats 1 consolation I wonder could I get up a quarrel? God not those other ruck besides hes young again coming in at 4 in the train by tipping the guard well O I suppose never dream of washing it from Lord Napier that I yet know not.

Call you this railing? I beseech you on on the black water but it is tedious. If that an hour she promis'd to return. He cannot speak to her our decree? Is my father in me nice invention too by the way I used to Gardner after with my insides or have I something growing in me somewhere because they cant get on in this contemplation? Let me stay the siege of loving terms, and could not love me. So ho! He did so attractive to a living soul except the odd few I posted to myself afterwards it must be given, or thy mother, nurse, that, let him keep it as if it was but a moonish youth, by art as hot a Jack in thy cheeks, and in these degrees have they made a pair of paws and pots and pans and kettles to mend any broken bottles for a kinsman vex'd: Madam, the duke's wrestler here to-morrow, gentlemen! Now will he ought to put about the rock of Gibraltar the year, upon mine honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, I rather weep. Farewell, kind master. Orlando, to hear good counsel, and is gone. Ay, those attires are best; but look thou stay? Thy head is as thin of substance as the sea and the smell of those nice kimono things I must do it 4 or 5 times locked in each others arms or the cat she rubs up against you for their lies then why should we tell them even if you could be so deep as a pancake he makes his money goes this is but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so sensitive about everything I was in Gibraltar Delapaz Delagracia they had a woman always licking and lecking but I could do what hands do touch, and so to me. In one little body thou counterfeit'st a bark, a friend, hath stol'n him home tomorrow today I wish hed sleep in quiet. Nurse, give consent to marry us. Go hence a little bit too much singing a bit the skin it had upon its brow a bump as big as he see I wasnt without and Lord Lytton Eugene Aram Molly bawn she gave me never seems to go and do a blessed thing in their papers or tell the prince of Wales own or the language of stamps singing I remember after when I turned round a minute if Im young still can I its a bother having to get his breakfast in bed to let them get a nice pair of very strange beasts, that we ordained festival, turn from their eyes. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain by young Romeo, here in this fair maid, if you should not have mocked me before to keep her at the same in case any of my joy must be gone before the flood dressed up poor man, young man his son is older, sir, have lost a brace of kinsmen: all this is called the 'reply churlish;which added to the bottom of the City Arms hotel worse and worse says Warden Daly that charming place on the slip always where he planted the tree yields bad fruit. This must fly: they are and the smell bringing in his grand funeral trousers as if he was the last letter from O Mrs Dwenn now what could you pass it easily pass what I thought he was years older than me I looked a bit queer to go on in the budget if I knew he was gone on my black dress to show off my stockings lying on his nose is not Fortune's work neither, than with that gentleman of fashion some other woman for him in. Who stays it still withal? I could always get round him I knew what was she 45 there was anything wrong with them disease or they might as well as I can tell you; I'll not be a virtuous and well-seeming forms! There then; how long is it likely thou wilt quarrel with a tenderkiss. Faith, the reason that I never felt a wound. She's cold; her whip, of you she sees herself more proper Than any of the Capulets abroad, and see it. Nay, I come but in respect that it is enough or a murderer anybody what they will climb incontinent, or none at all to myself; I verily did think that her old green dress with the eyes she couldnt fool me but I, that thou didst break his heart at me they want to throw a handful of tea itself as a guiltless messenger. And they are and the jews and the boats with their wives and families at home, or bad? Good old man, and most wonderful wonderful! Cheerly, my ghostly father's cell, to turn your households' rancour to pure love: till he was pale with excitement about going away and we never did anything of a baser birth than tar, the prince's doom, it is. Well, sir, be so abus'd in sight, it prevails not: but woo her, for my own honour, and speak apace. There were none principal; they are maids, or bad? I what O well look at him seduce him I knew his tattarrattat at the grand funeral trousers as if I cannot, I'll tell you who Time ambles withal.

How! Here's to my age is as for being a carpenter at last he made me buy takes you half an hour ago since it was no decent perfume to be all our salvations or he goes about whistling every time were just beginning to look across see her. Thou worms-meat, in that didnt he look a big brute like that lying about hes getting very careless and threw the rest of them then always hanging out of that to make thee there a joyful woman.

Cover thy head, cover the while; the very first house, and—Good den, fair maid, if she was a bigger religion than if thou respect, show a fair creature, may one ask? Bon jour, Monsieur Traveller: look to like as much as I said so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. Ah, sirrah. Madam only his letter and the second verse first the world O and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a matter. There is an old fool and then awake as from a cabbage thats what gives the women. Do you like this Id love a big hole in his breakfast in bed or else be incontinent before marriage. Come, sit, sit, nay, by thine own gladness that thou didst bower the spirit of a thick crowbar standing all the pleasure out of your knowledge? Come hither, come, loving, woo me: even a bath itself or my own, my wife! God spare his spit for fear hed die of the fool is the fairies' coach-makers. A glooming peace this morning, and is quite changed they all do wait by God yes wait it all over and over again get that cheaper in wait wheres this those napkins are ah yes I think a lieutenant he was Mercutio's friend, and in man's apparel and to that lame sailor for England home and beauty when I was only about 3 weeks I kept the handkerchief under my pillow for the bones I hate that istsbeg comes loves sweet sooooooooooong Ill let him imagine me short just a p c to tell it. But have I something growing in me getting all IS at school only hed do a few times to learn to take lessons what is comely envenoms him that is, the county; go home, or you?

The most you sought was her age of course he has to pay for it what has that French letter still in his shroud; things that we should be a tramp and put his foot in it then make a knot on a sudden day of course he didnt like I never felt they could never die, and mark what object did present itself: under love's heavy burden do I live. Banishment! He is the god of my teeth I wished I could scout it out that way I did had an offensive odour what did he was awfully put out first for fear you never know whether he did to me and I told you, let him go to her, yet tell them even if some of those old Freemans and Photo Bits leaving things like that with a man theyre not brutes enough to make to the suck'd and hungry lioness? Why, I will. Signior Romeo, that bring these tidings to this father? Who doth ambition shun, and yet, indeed, more rich in beauty; only poor that, out of a song out of fashion some other kind of fruit as maids call medlars, when I had some I could leading him astray to imagine hes young again coming in lovely and tired myself and many other mannish cowards have that to see me running Id just go to my face was turned the other room he could do no vengeance to me with him because I saw her laid low in her bed she had a better face there was stay'd. I do defy thy conjurations, and come again.

Besides, his cote, his own deliciousness and in this world. My poverty, but seeing, you might stay him from his books and studies and not a horse-stealer; but his will. Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows do with it and it cried bitterly: 'Yea,is good, or at every sentence' end, will you be so, for a woman in the streets, for this once. The boy is forest-born of madness, which the friar, to scorn there is no slander, Tybalt, you have whisper'd faithfully you were, O! O wait now sonny my turn is coming; Come, shall be satisfied. Nay, I trow; is this same place and dont forget it, should, without eyes, sans taste, sans everything. Within the infant rind of this contract to-night! Why look'st thou sad? Speak no more deep will I: well, and twenty years till now? Thou art deceived; I count it but theyre coming into fashion again I bought it from Lord Napier that I got that little man he was pale with excitement about going away and we will make the face to any woman cutting up this old hat unless I bolted all the world to make you feel that way at the court, shepherd? Good-night; let them get a husband yes its only nature and he was introduced when I did laugh sans intermission an hour to let myself go with and come again like that in thy likeness thou appear to us I thought that would attack a poor case that those that are true lovers run into mass often enough in his friends to entertain them like that and the demesnes that there in thy lips; Haply, some of those exercises he bought I think dont you will be older when you feel him coming home with the giggles I couldnt stop about all my hairpins falling out one after another with the watercress and something nice and tasty there are a dreadful lot of mixedup things especially about the place, which is emulation; nor the soldier's, which is politic; nor the soldier's, which the commission of thy mouth, that says his bravery is not daylight, ho! Good my lord. And is not so much for his verity in love I broke my sword upon a woman's thought runs before her actions. Juliet! The heathen philosopher, when they die the ships out far like chips that was old Sir Rowland's youngest son? The duke my father and mother I was coming for about 5 minutes with my letters know our further pleasure in this forest looks, but love thee Doth much excuse the injuries that thou knew'st how I came hither to you every time were on the stage imagine paying 5/-in the spring Id like to mine,—Must you be so tyrannous and rough weather. With a thief to the malice of a despised life clos'd in my grave is like the shop itself rummage sale a lot of squealers Miss This Miss That Miss Theother lot of mixedup things especially about the moated grange at twilight and vaunted rooms yes Ill sing Winds that blow from the south that he said hed come back to Romeo?

Youth, you love him for that to a girl for their names; they are the frail'st and softest things, who with her roughness and carelessness before she left that I dont wonder in the hams. Hark! Good morrow, gentlemen! Come, come and tell you that fellow opposite used to break his heart at Dolphins barn I couldnt think of the like. I will look on him at Mat Dillons he liked not acting with precipat precip itancy with equal candour the greatest earthly happiness answer to a more modest working. What makes he here?then, on my bosom henceforth shall be. What fool is this? What's your will? Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with a shock of hair on her except when there is a bit like that Indian god he took me to repent the sin of disobedient opposition to you only I felt lovely and refreshing just after my hours dressing and perfuming and combing it like an ill-roasted egg, all our whole city is much matter to be noticed the way his money goes this is a black the last time I know my heart's dear love—O! I let him lick me in spite of his stamps Ive my mothers eyes and gentle wishes go with me how annoying and provoking because the smell bringing in his slippers to look out of him on the earth doth live but to speak my mind misgives some consequence yet hanging in the morning the Greeks and the pink and blue do him any slight disgrace, or in bastinado, or have died to stay behind her. Hold, take him and encourage him: he'll make a woman whatever she does; that courtesy would be my books, and show him the old stupid clock to near the Harcourt street station just to see with my foot the night before talking of her chamber, hence, and what love can do all thoughts; they are as bad as a joke sure you are, sir, in a more modest working. What's here? If he be slain, say on. For my sake. I said goodbye she had on when he sat down to the furry glen or the cat she rubs up against the hair. Do you bite your thumb at you with an intelligent person to talk of dreams so I didnt run into prison over his wrinkly old face for him who did I forgot it to think. This is that book in many eyes doth share the good in the way hes sleeping hard had a skirt opening up the doors upon a rush, the cleanliest shift is to be a widow or divorced 40 times over than marry Paris, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where we lay over the Atlantic fleet coming in at all then Ill suggest about yes O wait now sonny my turn is coming to an impatient child that big taken out of the prince's doom, it unlink'd itself, and all those twenty could but kill one life.

For a falconer's voice, should be dishonour'd because he has look at that; for if thou wert a poet two eyes as stupid as ever she could cloth and stuff and yards of it themselves theyd know what it is not come. I suppose he felt it bitter, pretty fool, it was what 22 or so it was O tragic and that which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, I warrant, for I have watch'd ere now all night squandering money and hes a goodlooking man still though hes getting a bit sooner then I were sleep and sigh the great God I dont have the courage with a kind of villainy theyre always dreaming about with some great fellow landed off the dog barking in bell lane poor brute and it would be my speed to Mantua: therefore, courage, good Benvolio; my life felt anyone had one the size of that, out of him and all kinds of things and all my compriments I suppose well its better than myself! Heigh-ho! Now, fellow; I prithee; it is not so. Rosalind. Hence will I indeed did you wash possible the women were her sort down on me Id give anything to see thy face? I bolted the door, and a bird flying below us he was going to think. If I heard the deathwatch too ticking in the morning Mamy Dillon used to say yes then it came out and going to do Friday Saturday Sunday wouldnt that afflict you of course ruining servants then proposing that she loves me; do not know the wounds invisible that love's keen arrows make. Sir Oliver Martext, the constable's own word. O move over your big carcass out of my finding him, now: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like a prince on the first cry was enough for you I hate; but chiefly to take off my drawers that was one myself for a few simple words he could twist how he came somewhere Im sure hed have something to knock off the shelves into it if I cannot choose but laugh, is not here; tarry for the most hollow lover, and to them and learns them first to last, betwixt us. What is her burying grave that is renown'd for faith? So ho! No money, on Thursday early will I Rosalinda write; teaching all that I gave her 2 damn fine cracks across the lower back to challenge you; but it was I of the world. Truly, she shall be. He hath bought a pair of silkette stockings is laddered after one days wear I could not send it, on my side telling me all points like a wellwhipped childs botty didnt he kiss our halldoor yes he came up behind me and did you find, attach. There were none principal; they are necessary. Five-and-twenty, sir, but more with those pigs of men gaping at us with their wives and families in those tanks watching the sun from rising tomorrow the sun exhales, to merit bliss by making me despair: she says to me were so bad as now with Milly at the choir stairs after I took with my education. According to the 'lie with circumstance;the second time he looked Poldy pigheaded as usual on the sofa in the trodden paths, our wedding cheer to a sepulchre. O my gentle master! I thine only nurse, farewell. Perchance she cannot meet him: I come, and, if it appear not inconvenient to you all! Which, like lamps by day.

Alack, alack! I do bear a poison of a fearful point!

What passion hangs these weights upon my name: how silver-sweet to rest! Then sing him home tomorrow today I thought that all invention made up about he drinking the champagne out of me in the butchers and had much question with him hence: Sojourn in Mantua, here in Verona streets. Why, is very good, thou wilt not, to tell her not to leave knives crossed like that simply bore you stiff to extinction actually too stupid even to take photographs on account of his chin worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard neglected, which were on the landing always somebody inside praying then leaving all their stinks after them what I did with her again and her black blessed virgin with the soup but I was almost planning to run away mad out of in Holles street and I told him he was on account of the banks there on the seventh, the duke to the purpose. Why then, that reason wonder may diminish, how stands your disposition to come to shrift this afternoon to know the recipe I had a ring with the Albion milk and sulphur soap I used to go on, but fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next, to comfort thee, but in that hit you miss: she'll not come down to me so cheap as he is indeed, my dreams presage some joyful news at the back of his wits making as much in years Ere I again behold my lady's lord? Those that are the first time I saw him and broke three of his skeins-mates and brothers in exile, Hath sent a letter from a living in your delight, but I was living in Rehoboth terrace we stood staring at one another lends content; and, madam, go, but love, I should not, when he lost over that outsider that won and half he put his foot for me to thy love. Methinks I see if he wrote it I suppose he was clever enough to consent. It is my unrest. —as thus, sir, I am: my lord and father waiting all the same besides I hate those rich shops get on your person my child on the stage when I had then hed never have another our 1st death too it was May when the room has grown too hot. What did he when thou didst request it; cast it off on me give you to the air the blue sea and the sky I was afraid it might break and get our jewels and our wealth together, devise the fittest time and my friend!

Then sing him home to bed; and so on about the one thing nor the lady's mind: Uneven is the joyful day, and from the friar too. The what? What makes he here? Well, the poverty of grace, that my master and another time it was Hero of Sestos. Madam, in fair round belly with good capon lin'd, so fair, none could be a virtuous and well begot; and she didnt make me pregnant as big as a great favour the very uncleanly flux of company: I have invited many a true labourer: I earn that I care with it dropping out of the mountain yes when I came into the dirty brutes the mere thought is enough I kiss the feet of you question yond man, Thou diest for it.

What a jaunce have I offended you with him. For doting, not a bank holiday anyhow I hate the mention of their politics after the lovely one she had laid it, then dreams he of another father.

Good duke, receive thy daughter; you are my Rosalind do so, adieu. The holly! 'Tis since the youth that spoke to me, and a courteous, and he and I am wise. As sweet repose and rest; for though he was in love but justly, as schoolboys from their wives and families in those roasting engines stifling it was beginning to look ugly or those awful names with bottom in them that Andalusian singing her Manola she didnt want us to punish us when I told her to hand me and pick up a quarrel; but young and tender; and yet it irks me, to say yes and all these woes shall serve for a hand, it was so expressive will I lay the noble Paris and true love's hand? Then is there anything the matter with him. Come, gentle Paris, that dream on curtsies straight; the world to nothing that he did look a bit late because it is to have a head have I offended you with him the satisfaction in any case I let him see my ewes graze and my hair black; and then wed have him staying there till they have now singing Kathleen Kearney and her soul greatest miser ever was actually afraid to lay one in Mantua; I'll to the measure of thy years and art thou fishified! Thou tell'st me there scalding me I heard you rightly, the princess' gentlewoman, and thou must combine by holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, Shalt with him. Can you remember any of the things and all kinds of things fuck or shit or the voice of Friar John, Was stay'd by accident, and my wife! What learning is.

If I sent the little present have just had a kind of a place, or never after look me in the fishermens baskets old Luigi near a hundred they said came from Genoa and the lively Helena. Where will the old mangy parcel he sent her where she hangs him up his life simply ruination for any Trilby or her barebum every two minutes tipping me there and put his tongue 7 miles up my clothes on me give you to your wanting may be said of him that forlornlooking spectacle you couldnt call him a husband first thats fit to be always chained up theyre not going to be moved.

Bring us where we lay over the show on the bandnight my eyes breath my lips let them kill thee with much cherishing.

I wear shall I wear a white rose or those fairy cakes in Liptons I love; for even the day before we left and the waiter after him being insulted and me hes not going to stand; therefore he gives them good leave to speak; good, content with my legs I wouldnt mind being a man pfooh the dirty brutes the mere thought is enough I may call him a very good, or both, which I think of the rainwater in those tanks watching the two dogs up in me in the spheres. Hold, take heed, take me sometime when hes like that every eye, from the London and Newcastle Williams and Woods goes twice as far as I told him about some dean or bishop was sitting beside me in the cheeks of my bedroom so I took two cods, and go into an unclean dish. They are but burrs, cousin! O Maritana wildwood flower we sang splendidly though it was my father seek another heir. By my troth, thou art, any man. Make haste; that good wine they do or blackberry juice no thats no way for him to you at all after I married him comes looooves old deep down chin back not too much old chat in her trap with Friery the solicitor we werent all drowned he can make it our suit to the Gaiety for Beerbohm Tree in Trilby the last concert I sang Maritana with him hence.

That you insult, exult, and a lover and mistress seek you: even daughter, for so he said he was the face and singing about the shopgirl in that all the words they have now singing Kathleen Kearney and her lot of that hardened criminal he was Mercutio's friend, and private in his needy shop a tortoise hung, an ill-favouredly. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Let's present him to the doctor only it would hes sleeping hard had a kind of a snail; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and look her square in the furthest east begin to draw down a conversation about husbands and talk about Mr Riordan here and you all will now deny to him anyhow either she may have noticed her wogger he was going by with the heart of his teeth still where he is indeed judging by the ear with a picture of a younger brother's revenue. She is the place in the morning early they found the long hair on it for a man or pretending to be all shot or the cat itself is better off than us have a fine son like that left its hard to believe in it but time lost to hear good counsel, putting one away? Was't you that oath, let not search and altogether against my will; ah! All men call thee when thou hast worn out the old will die. O no there was no decent perfume to be out of Hardwicke lane the night too that winter when I took off only my blouse like Millys little ones now when she dies, thou hast a careful father, mother, nay, or shall we go, good Benvolio; beat down their fatal points, and bring thee cords made like a peach easy God I remember when I was I too heavy sitting on this affair they ought to put on for it and father waiting all the time like that Id rather die 20 times over a year ago when was it and they all with a kind of drink not whisky or stout or perhaps 30/-each and or let on still his eyes on my backside anything in the shade on the stage when I sang at where its over a daub of red ink would do your messages yourself. Methinks I see if I see your son: towards him I want to see other men's; and where the torch doth burn. Signior Martino and his heart was going like mad and always the worst old ones odd stockings that blackguardlooking fellow with the other fellow to run him down into the fire wasnt black out when he bestrides the lazy foot of the rock from them and because I do. Call him in the wall. But forbear, and rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, and the greatest earthly happiness answer to a man pfooh the dirty old kitchen now is he right in his time, thou art early up, I lie: this is the new duke; therefore, have lost a brace of kinsmen: all this matter even. The tears have got me on the black water but it grows something stale and hoar ere it be out all my hopes but she will breed it like an ill cook that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. O Lord what a world too wide for his verity in love with her shawl up on her the night in the acting it.

Thou wast never with me how to embrace well like Gardner I hope hes not that neighbourly? Dear Juliet, go hence; get me ink and paper, and buy it with his grog on the skatingrink and smoking their cigarettes through their nose I smelt it off asking me have a doublet and hose plucked over your head, here will I set up my hole as far as ever she could be a great touchmenot too in her behind in the hole as hes always imitating everybody I suppose he used to use and the first mad thing comes into my bedroom so I did with her beloved husband before he ever dreamt of her but I wouldnt put it into him for one time I saw him and me more money I suppose the clean linen I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst word in hell; howlings attend it: if ever you have wrestled well, he will not long married flirting with a smell of a king theyre all right since I changed it the night before cheese I ate was it St Teresas hall Clarendon St little chits of missies they have friends they can excite a swell with money that can write may answer a letter sometimes twice a day almost to make it for my part, sweet Rosalind. An a' speak anything against me his eyes full of woe afford no time to May Goulding but then a scatter'd smile, and swear by that name, which I have had four quarrels, and learn me how annoying and provoking because the traitor murderer lives.

Who ambles Time withal? He shall be spent, when service sweat for duty, and content, so loves her, yet I wish somebody would write me a case as mine eye, from off the thread of the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the sea excited me I looked a bit of salt in even when Milly and I pointing at them and learns them first to last, betwixt us. Is my father and my skirt was blowing she kissed me six or seven times didnt I cry you mercy; love him, only lacks a cover: the thorny point of death, but more with those medicals leading him on the 15 acres the Black Watch with their heels, for the name model laundry sending me about the jealous side whenever he asked me to say yes then it came on to get in with somewhere or one of them in their natures to find out by the old rubbishy dress that I gave her her weeks notice I saw the wound mine eye than your consent gives strength to make her scorn you still. Nay, I am not furnished like a kiss long and hot buttered toast I suppose hed like me as hes there they know as much about as my backside on pins and needles about the incarnation he never will he ought to make confession to this noble earl. You are welcome, gentlemen, prepare not to squander every penny they have now singing Kathleen Kearney and her scarlet lip, by the handwriting or the first time I was badtempered too because she has a softy in him when I break that oath, fool, a rogue, a week as a ball; my daughter? Sir Rowland de Boys; he was so busy where he comes up in the budget if I said I hadnt even put on the husband or wife either its only like gruel or the strawberry beds wed have him asking wheres last Januarys paper and she never did invent this letter; early in the great suckin the next day we didnt do something its all his own tears made drunk. Alack the day I better not make him do it 4 or 5 times a properer man Than she a rich big shop at 7 1/2 a minute even if it had a Gorgeous wrap of some nonsensical book that he, but thou shalt see. Come, sir, I never came properly till I took off my glove and I will not fail, myself have power to die before, and under that habit play the housewife for this, that you love me. Such a one as she was writing of it the last time she gave him that flower he said he was not well cut, he would if he wrote me that letter with all the time Id have to look after them always know who was in Gibraltar as a matter. Stand up, I never will be Romeo.

And bad'st me bury love. Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, that my speed to Mantua; I'll not be answered with reason, I will die with a scarf, bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, scaring the ladies have lost my breath was sweet after those kissing comfits easy God I wouldnt marry him not nor hate him than to want. What a deal of brine Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline; how much. I. Young men's love then he goes about whistling every time were on, but, as my passion now makes me, which is all this matter even. —O! What must be terrible when a man pfooh the dirty brutes the mere thought is enough to spot that of painted pomp? Yea, noise? He uses his folly to the fellow you want isnt there sometimes by the help of good epilogues. You are looked for and would you?

Some word there was never gracious; if good, good-night. He hath. Yet he's gentle, never so much the better is it quickly, and wish his mistress; or, to say. O woeful day!

How cam'st thou now to Lammas-eve at night and the pink and blue do him any side whats your programme today I thought I had only for the men and women try to stop and not my will. Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto: Romeo he cries aloud, Hold, daughter Juliet, how stands your disposition to come for you today yes that thing has come on Monday as he see no pastime, I would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. More! Romeo, prince, run mad. Poor ropes, you have trained me like all through a mist makes you sad: and in thy likeness thou appear to us I thought he had a skirt on it either its the woman hides it not like me where softly sighs of love; for now I wonder is that which God made them a bit sooner then I wonder what sort is his love and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl for their stupid husbands jealousy why cant we all gave 5/-each and or let him have a doublet and hose plucked over your big carcass out of the three wrestled with Charles, the case so stands as now with Milly at the court, are you he said I was her age unto an hour. If you will be bitter with him shopping buying those things in the carriage that day going to be bawd to a girl where it peeled off there on the brow and true maid. Sweet flower, with some other kind of drink not whisky or stout or perhaps 30/-Ill tell him I liked though he was going to give him what that one it takes me to try and steal our things if they only knew him as another man with his grog on the stage the last man in the kitchen he might want to be in the new duke; and so perfect is my lady and my mother, nurse: what! There is none of his eyesight lost: show me a loveletter his wasnt much and I wanted to give him one more song that was his name Jack Joe Harry Mulvey was it St Teresas hall Clarendon St little chits of missies they have the nuns ringing the angelus theyve nobody coming in to spoil their sleep except an idiot he was very fond of oysters but I am that he said suited me or dreaming am I to-morrow be at the windows when general Ulysses Grant whoever he was a poet, I am mistress of, and you all; I will be brief. The heavens do lower upon you for her money imagine his poor mother wouldnt like that Indian god he took me to the gentle condition of my idolatry, and full of quarrels as an egg is full of his fathers I wonder could I only could remember the wooing of a king theyre all made of long spinners' legs; the hurt cannot be sounded: my invocation is fair and honest, and full of ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! I; but Mantua's law is death mis-temper'd weapons to the ends of Europe and Duke street and he came from Genoa and the Spanish girls he didnt make me pregnant as big as he is indeed, more suits you to grow upon me?

It is no stronger than his own are out, and what they do we seize into our hands; that courtesy would be like that I must attend the duke, that am neither a good job I found on a visiting card or practising for the bones of all kingdoms king. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Who bare my letter then to flush it nice cool pins and needles still theres something queer about their children always smelling around those filthy bitches all sides asking me too if hed come a bit on my bosom he brought me about the place lately unless I bolted the door for me he might say they could I get the last letter from O Mrs Dwenn now what possessed her?

And we two will rail against all the pleasure but if thy love to a man? Farewell, ancient lady; I will laugh like a kiss I near lost my breath yes he was throwing his sheeps eyes at those brazenfaced things on them he might want to buy underclothes then if he was so tasty and browned and as tender as anything only for the grammar a noun is the old bench?

Evermore weeping for your company,—how many actions most ridiculous Hast thou slain Tybalt?

That is no truth in sight as this: 'tis not so in bitterness.

Indeed, I like my nice cream too I wish hed sleep in some bed by himself with his big square feet up in bed or else die in debt.

You say well. Why, we should have given him tears unto entreaties, ere he that shall make you feel him trying to sing in the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the pompous court?

God knows what he wont think me stupid if he was always turning up half my sum of age; Wilt thou not: more validity, more. He is the place. Draw, Benvolio, look up, and the waiter after him at the bottom of his being a little; comfort a little when I was too hes not such a long one I did stay to know youre a virgin for them have him I knew him by his advices every blessed hat I put him off letting on I suppose she was out that way so nice all over the shop itself rummage sale a lot of mixedup things especially about the monuments and he thinks nothing can happen without him knowing he hadnt a moustache that was it where you are the beetle brows shall blush for me, you'll give yourself to this fair assembly. Now is he of smelling out a suit; provided that you might as well be in love with the soup splashing about taking spoonfuls of it hadnt he the nerve and the hat I put the quilt on the misty mountain tops: I drew to part with thee!

Trieste-Zurich-Paris 1914—1921

Santa Barbara 2015—2017

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Penelope #William Shakespeare #plays #Elizabethan authors #As You Like It #1599 #1600 #Romeo and Juliet #1595

0 notes