Love's proper antidote
fiction
edward w pritchard
Thoughts and emotions routinely arise in us; we know that. Love, compassion and altruistic behavior are thought to be among the highest emotions and are praised as an end to be achieved; a highest order goal for developed mature individual, leading to a tranquil soul.
Negative emotions such as anger and hatred are thought to be curable by cultivation of our noble emotions, such as love, compassion and altruistic behavior toward strangers.
If one does not think philosophically that a force such as Karma or sin causes or rules our thinking and emotions, is there any justification that the positive emotions are of the highest order, as if it is a ranking, or as a value judgment among the emotions.
If emotions and thoughts in humans are dictated by survival and as a proper reaction to circumstance, are the positive emotions more sacred or more legitimate than the destructive ones?
Nietzsche might speculate that Love and Hatred are beyond value judgments and beyond good and evil. The middle way, to seek a balance between your anger and altruism, might be examined. The stoic would not try to be good, but to strike a balance within themselves between good and evil.
What then our intentions? Does nature have rules that if we follow them we will be in harmony and achieve a tranquil soul? And God; has he updated the rule book lately? Does our world have an order?
Love's proper antidote? Contemplate impermanence and time's fast flying arrow and adopt the universal perspective. Put your self interests aside; as long as there is enough rice and beans to fill our corn tacos, peace reigns.
end
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Time's not real it's only in the mind
Time's not real it's only in the mind
fiction
edward w pritchard
Time's not real it's only in the mind, a category, devised by us as thinking creatures to organize what we find around us. That seems to be the consensus, except when confused by the theories of physics.
What of God? Part of his supernatural nature is his being outside of time, part of eternity. The alpha and the omega. Is God's reality eternally the present moment. Does God experience duration? Can an omnipotent being, experience anything as partially realized or incomplete?
Now as for space, God obviously ...
to be continued
fiction
edward w pritchard
Time's not real it's only in the mind, a category, devised by us as thinking creatures to organize what we find around us. That seems to be the consensus, except when confused by the theories of physics.
What of God? Part of his supernatural nature is his being outside of time, part of eternity. The alpha and the omega. Is God's reality eternally the present moment. Does God experience duration? Can an omnipotent being, experience anything as partially realized or incomplete?
Now as for space, God obviously ...
to be continued
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
reflections of Juliet
reflections of Juliet
fiction
edward w pritchard
Juliet, the actress had played Juliet the heroine of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet on and off Broadway for eleven years; and she was tonight thoroughly weary of her role. Romeo's bad breathe, her nurse's trite advice and the predictable ending to the angst and pains of her love life were sapping her will to continue playing the role of Juliet.
Tonight, far off Broadway, in the theater district of Cleveland, Ohio, here called playhouse square, Juliet did the unthinkable. Juliet left the stage about twenty minutes before showtime and took a seat in the third row of the audience. Sitting in the best seats, among the well dressed theater patrons, Juliet relaxed and prepared to enjoy the play. To Juliet's surprise when the curtain rose, she was staring at a large mirror, running completely across the front of the stage. Apparently every theater patron would watch themselves and their reflected image during the complete performance of Romeo and Juliet. Startled, Juliet wondered if in fact, in all the performances she had appeared in as Juliet, for the last eleven years, if the audience had been indeed staring at a large mirror of their own reflection; instead of watching her inspired performances.
With a long sigh, Juliet returned backstage and prepared for her entrance as Juliet, tonight here in Cleveland.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Juliet, the actress had played Juliet the heroine of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet on and off Broadway for eleven years; and she was tonight thoroughly weary of her role. Romeo's bad breathe, her nurse's trite advice and the predictable ending to the angst and pains of her love life were sapping her will to continue playing the role of Juliet.
Tonight, far off Broadway, in the theater district of Cleveland, Ohio, here called playhouse square, Juliet did the unthinkable. Juliet left the stage about twenty minutes before showtime and took a seat in the third row of the audience. Sitting in the best seats, among the well dressed theater patrons, Juliet relaxed and prepared to enjoy the play. To Juliet's surprise when the curtain rose, she was staring at a large mirror, running completely across the front of the stage. Apparently every theater patron would watch themselves and their reflected image during the complete performance of Romeo and Juliet. Startled, Juliet wondered if in fact, in all the performances she had appeared in as Juliet, for the last eleven years, if the audience had been indeed staring at a large mirror of their own reflection; instead of watching her inspired performances.
With a long sigh, Juliet returned backstage and prepared for her entrance as Juliet, tonight here in Cleveland.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Christmas in the field
Christmas in the field
fiction
edward w pritchard
Le Generale is very strict with us about appropriating supplies from the locals. We have been in the field for four full months and a soldier tends to loose his extra baggage over time. I was cold and lonely starring up at the stars and feeling a little pensive. It's surprising how cold it gets out here in the desert at night.
I had just found the bright planet Jupiter in the sky when the three other Welshmen in the unit came over to cheer me up. Edwards brought me a blanket, Pritchard brought me some wood he had scrounged up and Williams brought me some chocolate for cocoa. Those Welshmen, they will do about anything for a friend.
A couple hours later I woke up warm by my little fire, and wrapped in my new blanket. I began to fret about the comfort of my three Welsh friends. I made that long trek over to C Company and found Edwards, Pritchard and Williams and spent about an hour reading to them from my Gospel of Saint Matthew. Williams and Edwards sang a couple of songs and even the Muslims in the unit joined in singing traditional Christmas songs.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Le Generale is very strict with us about appropriating supplies from the locals. We have been in the field for four full months and a soldier tends to loose his extra baggage over time. I was cold and lonely starring up at the stars and feeling a little pensive. It's surprising how cold it gets out here in the desert at night.
I had just found the bright planet Jupiter in the sky when the three other Welshmen in the unit came over to cheer me up. Edwards brought me a blanket, Pritchard brought me some wood he had scrounged up and Williams brought me some chocolate for cocoa. Those Welshmen, they will do about anything for a friend.
A couple hours later I woke up warm by my little fire, and wrapped in my new blanket. I began to fret about the comfort of my three Welsh friends. I made that long trek over to C Company and found Edwards, Pritchard and Williams and spent about an hour reading to them from my Gospel of Saint Matthew. Williams and Edwards sang a couple of songs and even the Muslims in the unit joined in singing traditional Christmas songs.
end
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas, December 25, 1683
Christmas, December 25, 1683
fiction
edward w pritchard
I am here to bless you my son said the Priest as he rolled the blanket down covering my nose and mouth. The Doctor had covered my face with the blanket, probably to keep me warm, after he deemed me too far gone to treat. For the last ten minutes despite my wounds and pain and the severe bleeding the thing that was bothering me was my treatment at the hands of the Doctor and his assistant. He is only a captain, I am a Colonel, imagine leaving a wool blanket over a man's mouth.
The Priest is no better. He's not even French, Spanish Basque I think. He has mistaken my attempts to communicate with religious fervor on my part. I cannot talk and my struggling to tell him about the Doctor's treatment has been misinterpreted by him as me trying to make amends with God. I can tell by the ridiculous look in his eyes. He's choking with glee.
Is this how I am to leave this world. The bleeding to death from three wounds is not so bad, our enemy were just doing their job, I have done the same many times
to others. It's the mistreatment and disrespect by your comrades that really hurts. Gods what a way to leave this world. I Henri, Leclerc deserve a better sendoff.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
I am here to bless you my son said the Priest as he rolled the blanket down covering my nose and mouth. The Doctor had covered my face with the blanket, probably to keep me warm, after he deemed me too far gone to treat. For the last ten minutes despite my wounds and pain and the severe bleeding the thing that was bothering me was my treatment at the hands of the Doctor and his assistant. He is only a captain, I am a Colonel, imagine leaving a wool blanket over a man's mouth.
The Priest is no better. He's not even French, Spanish Basque I think. He has mistaken my attempts to communicate with religious fervor on my part. I cannot talk and my struggling to tell him about the Doctor's treatment has been misinterpreted by him as me trying to make amends with God. I can tell by the ridiculous look in his eyes. He's choking with glee.
Is this how I am to leave this world. The bleeding to death from three wounds is not so bad, our enemy were just doing their job, I have done the same many times
to others. It's the mistreatment and disrespect by your comrades that really hurts. Gods what a way to leave this world. I Henri, Leclerc deserve a better sendoff.
end
Just a clerk at the convenience store
just a clerk at the convenience store
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was that special hour for those of us on the over-night shift. After the late late bar traffic finally somehow got home and before the old people started their day; 3:25AM to 4:25AM. Darci, a convenience store clerk after the hustle and bustle and constant stream of weird and sad people who inhabited the over night hours in Queens New York, looked forward to her hour of well deserved solitude.
A dozen people had stopped for directions, and five or six sneaked in to try to sell Darci valuable watches, for only five dollars each, from a display inside of the right side of their over coats. Darci was glad it was bitter cold tonight, it would drive the good people inside.
Sitting down, Darci had just began to thumb through one of the convenient stores magazines when a drunk and dis-shoveled man stumbled in about 3;30AM. He didn't look dangerous but he had been fighting, he had the remnants of a bloody nose and his army jacket was torn, as if some-one had held one side of it and thrown and twirled the man, presumably to the ground for his blue jeans were torn and dirty at the seat and knees. His wire rim glasses were bent and cracked.
The man wanted rum, coke and scotch. At least she surmised he did for he had a heavy British accent and was drunk and irritable. Every other thing he said was sarcastic and he made a lot of odd comments. He was a little unsure where he was, although he looked to be in his thirties, and kept joking about the date, December 23,1973. He kept saying it should be 1963.
There was no scotch so he asked for wine, Beaujolais 62, an inside joke he said. Finally he bought a few dollars worth of mints and candy bars and tried to pay with a hundred dollar bill. Rather he tried to pay with eleven hundred dollar bills because they came tumbling out of his pocket when he tried to find his wallet. Actually 2200 dollars in hundreds came out of the man's pocket in total, just before Darci got him to lay down for a few minutes in "her office", the small room behind the cash register at the convenience store there in Queens. She took the man's car keys out of habit for Darci had a lot of friends who drank a lot too, like this man, a mean drunk, and she wanted to protect him. Dropping hundred dollar bills wasn't safe in this neighborhood and the police would put him in the tank if they found him like this.
Darci had to move the car. A 1972 Chrysler Station Wagon. He had said there was a five in the glove box so Darci looked in. Three rolls of hundred dollar bills greeted her in the glove box. Each roll said 400 times 100, three rolls times $40,000 that's $120,000, he had $120,000 in his car. A to do list in the glove box said 1974 goals. There were three. Reconnect with true friends, Begin to write music again, and cut back on the drinking. A business card said John Lennon, ex-Beatle of New York and Liverpool. Darci hadn't recognized him.
Darci awoke Mr. Lennon about twenty minutes before the end of her shift, She helped him clean up his face a little and politely refused a few of the hundreds he tried to give her. Darci just a convenience store clerk was a fan and merely said take good care of yourself John, then he left.
Darci only visited once the Strawberry Fields Memorial to John Lennon in Central Park, New York, about a year after his death and continues to enjoy his music although she no longer works at a convenience store.
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was that special hour for those of us on the over-night shift. After the late late bar traffic finally somehow got home and before the old people started their day; 3:25AM to 4:25AM. Darci, a convenience store clerk after the hustle and bustle and constant stream of weird and sad people who inhabited the over night hours in Queens New York, looked forward to her hour of well deserved solitude.
A dozen people had stopped for directions, and five or six sneaked in to try to sell Darci valuable watches, for only five dollars each, from a display inside of the right side of their over coats. Darci was glad it was bitter cold tonight, it would drive the good people inside.
Sitting down, Darci had just began to thumb through one of the convenient stores magazines when a drunk and dis-shoveled man stumbled in about 3;30AM. He didn't look dangerous but he had been fighting, he had the remnants of a bloody nose and his army jacket was torn, as if some-one had held one side of it and thrown and twirled the man, presumably to the ground for his blue jeans were torn and dirty at the seat and knees. His wire rim glasses were bent and cracked.
The man wanted rum, coke and scotch. At least she surmised he did for he had a heavy British accent and was drunk and irritable. Every other thing he said was sarcastic and he made a lot of odd comments. He was a little unsure where he was, although he looked to be in his thirties, and kept joking about the date, December 23,1973. He kept saying it should be 1963.
There was no scotch so he asked for wine, Beaujolais 62, an inside joke he said. Finally he bought a few dollars worth of mints and candy bars and tried to pay with a hundred dollar bill. Rather he tried to pay with eleven hundred dollar bills because they came tumbling out of his pocket when he tried to find his wallet. Actually 2200 dollars in hundreds came out of the man's pocket in total, just before Darci got him to lay down for a few minutes in "her office", the small room behind the cash register at the convenience store there in Queens. She took the man's car keys out of habit for Darci had a lot of friends who drank a lot too, like this man, a mean drunk, and she wanted to protect him. Dropping hundred dollar bills wasn't safe in this neighborhood and the police would put him in the tank if they found him like this.
Darci had to move the car. A 1972 Chrysler Station Wagon. He had said there was a five in the glove box so Darci looked in. Three rolls of hundred dollar bills greeted her in the glove box. Each roll said 400 times 100, three rolls times $40,000 that's $120,000, he had $120,000 in his car. A to do list in the glove box said 1974 goals. There were three. Reconnect with true friends, Begin to write music again, and cut back on the drinking. A business card said John Lennon, ex-Beatle of New York and Liverpool. Darci hadn't recognized him.
Darci awoke Mr. Lennon about twenty minutes before the end of her shift, She helped him clean up his face a little and politely refused a few of the hundreds he tried to give her. Darci just a convenience store clerk was a fan and merely said take good care of yourself John, then he left.
Darci only visited once the Strawberry Fields Memorial to John Lennon in Central Park, New York, about a year after his death and continues to enjoy his music although she no longer works at a convenience store.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Frank and Joe Hardy plan to kill their friend Chet Morton
Frank and Joe Hardy plan to kill their friend Chet Morton
fiction
edward w pritchard
the following is a brief critical analysis of a certain genre of stories for boys, names and relationship are used solely as example, for literary criticism
Frank and Joe Hardy were planning how to kill their chums. Working feverishly in the 3rd floor kitchen, over the garage behind the house, and consulting their father's, the internationally known chef, Lorenzo's famous secret cook book, they planned revenge on the fat man, Chet Morton for going too far and his sneaky friend Italian Tony as well.
Chet had plans of his own. He and Tony swam underwater and entered the Frank and Joe's families mausoleum/boathouse and working in the freezing water began to remove most of the screws and nails holding the high powered boat together. Chuckling as he worked the good natured but fiendish Chet thought back on all the insults the two Hardy hooligans had laid on him. Many times his strong arms had saved those two when one or the other toppled over the rail into space but still they continued to dis- him. Let them try to race in this boat now, the "Sleuth" will disintegrate in mid race, Tony thought and laughed demonically as Italian's were wont to do especially, when working underwater.
Joe added the fifth layer of high calorie icing to the fat kids surprise cake and wondered how many slices it would take to kill the fiendish joker Chet Morton of hyper tension. No matter he would eat all the cake as usual. Hurry Joe, Frank exclaimed, we have to get to the boathouse before we go to the caves, and then the old mill and then the underground reservoir to find poison mushrooms for Chet's soup.
Chet and Tony's work was finished so Chet wrapped a large fish in Frank's football Jersey and headed for the high school in his prized jalopy the Queen, even though it had no transmission or rear wheels because it was as usual "all over the garage". As he drove Chet noticed proudly all the real estate for sale signs in the yards that bore his father's, the real estate broker's moniker. Maybe his Dad could get him a deal on plots for Frank and Joe to be buried in after he killed them, Chet thought.
Joe and Frank likewise headed for the high school with the cake for their obese chum. Joe carried the cake and Frank grabbed a shotgun to shoot Chet and Tony with in case their overly elaborate plan with the cake didn't work. Both drove a high powered motorcycle with one hand, Joe carrying a cake and Frank a shotgun, and so they waved only briefly to their favorite two chicks, pretty but demur Iola, Chet's sister, and the other girl Callie, Frank's chick,who were walking along the roadway, and taking chicken soup to a poor but deserving elderly citizen, They also saw a third older woman Aunt Gertrude heading out to meet the truck drivers at the no tell motel. As they rode background music played easy rider. As he rode Joe's cell rang and it was his dutiful and diminutive Mother, Laura reminding the lads that a delicious dinner would be late because their Father Lorenzo had been kidnapped again. Driving along, Joe said to Frank, its neat we got these motorcycles for coming up with a cure for cancer and riding along looking out at the gentle green ocean both chaps agreed that life was grand here in Bayport and life here was as it always should be.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
the following is a brief critical analysis of a certain genre of stories for boys, names and relationship are used solely as example, for literary criticism
Frank and Joe Hardy were planning how to kill their chums. Working feverishly in the 3rd floor kitchen, over the garage behind the house, and consulting their father's, the internationally known chef, Lorenzo's famous secret cook book, they planned revenge on the fat man, Chet Morton for going too far and his sneaky friend Italian Tony as well.
Chet had plans of his own. He and Tony swam underwater and entered the Frank and Joe's families mausoleum/boathouse and working in the freezing water began to remove most of the screws and nails holding the high powered boat together. Chuckling as he worked the good natured but fiendish Chet thought back on all the insults the two Hardy hooligans had laid on him. Many times his strong arms had saved those two when one or the other toppled over the rail into space but still they continued to dis- him. Let them try to race in this boat now, the "Sleuth" will disintegrate in mid race, Tony thought and laughed demonically as Italian's were wont to do especially, when working underwater.
Joe added the fifth layer of high calorie icing to the fat kids surprise cake and wondered how many slices it would take to kill the fiendish joker Chet Morton of hyper tension. No matter he would eat all the cake as usual. Hurry Joe, Frank exclaimed, we have to get to the boathouse before we go to the caves, and then the old mill and then the underground reservoir to find poison mushrooms for Chet's soup.
Chet and Tony's work was finished so Chet wrapped a large fish in Frank's football Jersey and headed for the high school in his prized jalopy the Queen, even though it had no transmission or rear wheels because it was as usual "all over the garage". As he drove Chet noticed proudly all the real estate for sale signs in the yards that bore his father's, the real estate broker's moniker. Maybe his Dad could get him a deal on plots for Frank and Joe to be buried in after he killed them, Chet thought.
Joe and Frank likewise headed for the high school with the cake for their obese chum. Joe carried the cake and Frank grabbed a shotgun to shoot Chet and Tony with in case their overly elaborate plan with the cake didn't work. Both drove a high powered motorcycle with one hand, Joe carrying a cake and Frank a shotgun, and so they waved only briefly to their favorite two chicks, pretty but demur Iola, Chet's sister, and the other girl Callie, Frank's chick,who were walking along the roadway, and taking chicken soup to a poor but deserving elderly citizen, They also saw a third older woman Aunt Gertrude heading out to meet the truck drivers at the no tell motel. As they rode background music played easy rider. As he rode Joe's cell rang and it was his dutiful and diminutive Mother, Laura reminding the lads that a delicious dinner would be late because their Father Lorenzo had been kidnapped again. Driving along, Joe said to Frank, its neat we got these motorcycles for coming up with a cure for cancer and riding along looking out at the gentle green ocean both chaps agreed that life was grand here in Bayport and life here was as it always should be.
end
Ginger achieves fame and fortune/ a porno tale
Ginger achieves fame and fortune/ a porno tale
another irreverent and somewhat perverse story, read on with caution
fiction
edward w pritchard
an existential dilemma
Two days after Christmas all the presents had been opened, returns and exchanges completed, and a tired sadness filled the mall where Ginger worked part-time. It was after work for Ginger and she was slowly heading toward her car, far out in the employees section of the parking lot. As Ginger exited the mall, one final red charity kettle hung by three gold painted chains from a three legged stand. A diminutive but authentic looking Santa was ringing a bell and heartily smiled at a tired Ginger as she walked past. Out of instinct, Ginger dropped a few coins from her pocket into the kettle, the coins falling in with a crisp clink.
Santa held out a small but powerful left hand and firmly squeezed Ginger's left hand and told her to make a wish. Surprised forty year old Ginger asked for fame and fortune.
The next morning when she applied her make-up Ginger noticed that two gold coins now were firmly permanently affixed to her breasts. The coins were double eagle twenty dollar gold pieces dated 1891 and across the front; one coin was labeled fame and the other fortune. The coins were regal and splendid looking and enhanced the appearance of her attractive breasts.
Bewildered Ginger laid back down for twenty minutes hoping the incident just a bad dream. Alas, on waking Ginger found it was no dream and began to deal with the repercussions from the new additions to her body.
end part 1
another irreverent and somewhat perverse story, read on with caution
fiction
edward w pritchard
an existential dilemma
Two days after Christmas all the presents had been opened, returns and exchanges completed, and a tired sadness filled the mall where Ginger worked part-time. It was after work for Ginger and she was slowly heading toward her car, far out in the employees section of the parking lot. As Ginger exited the mall, one final red charity kettle hung by three gold painted chains from a three legged stand. A diminutive but authentic looking Santa was ringing a bell and heartily smiled at a tired Ginger as she walked past. Out of instinct, Ginger dropped a few coins from her pocket into the kettle, the coins falling in with a crisp clink.
Santa held out a small but powerful left hand and firmly squeezed Ginger's left hand and told her to make a wish. Surprised forty year old Ginger asked for fame and fortune.
The next morning when she applied her make-up Ginger noticed that two gold coins now were firmly permanently affixed to her breasts. The coins were double eagle twenty dollar gold pieces dated 1891 and across the front; one coin was labeled fame and the other fortune. The coins were regal and splendid looking and enhanced the appearance of her attractive breasts.
Bewildered Ginger laid back down for twenty minutes hoping the incident just a bad dream. Alas, on waking Ginger found it was no dream and began to deal with the repercussions from the new additions to her body.
end part 1
The Ghats of West Virginia
The Ghats of West Virginia-part 1
note - this story is irreverent and not for the squeamish, read on at own risk
fiction
edward w pritchard
The telemarketing industry in Akron, Ohio was in a slump and Bihar, a supervisor was laid off. Unemployed in America, a devout Hindu, and still wanting to send money home to his family in India, after a few weeks of idleness and without pay; Bihar became desperate for work.
Back in India, near Vasari, on the sacred Ganges Ma, Bihar's family had worked in the preparation of bodies for final termination in the waters of the sacred Ganges River for hundreds of years. Human corpses burned and smoldered on top of funeral pyres at the banks of the Ganges, at a ghat, a platform at Rivers edge, usually used for bathing but also used for final separation of the dear departed. Bihar had learned the techniques of final termination of bodies as a boy, tending the fires or working as needed about the Ghat.
Like many people when unemployment strike, Bihar when laid off as a supervisor in telemarketing applied for unemployment compensation in America; and in the course of the eligibility interview he was deemed most qualified to work again in the preparation of deceased bodies for final termination.
Bihar could find no employment in the typical American funeral industry and eventually in desperation to find work put an add in several newspapers around Akron to furnish a Hindu style burial and cremation for the dear departed deceased of Hindu ancestry. Although a legal outcry ensued, against instituting Hindu style funeral practices in America, an unmet demand existed because of recent immigration of Hindu's to America, and the law was properly bent and a loophole found to allow that demand to be met.
Thus one warm Summer day Bihar found himself pushing a corpse down several small creeks in Columbia County of Ohio headed for the mighty Ohio River. He was going to a newly constructed ghat in Newell, West Virginia where he would preform the sacred funeral rites. In the meantime he gently guided a pasty body with a long pole and lead it slowly toward the Ohio River, through the basin of the Ohio River Floodplain. Bihar was glad to be working again and was not entirely unhappy in his new job.
end part 1
note - this story is irreverent and not for the squeamish, read on at own risk
fiction
edward w pritchard
The telemarketing industry in Akron, Ohio was in a slump and Bihar, a supervisor was laid off. Unemployed in America, a devout Hindu, and still wanting to send money home to his family in India, after a few weeks of idleness and without pay; Bihar became desperate for work.
Back in India, near Vasari, on the sacred Ganges Ma, Bihar's family had worked in the preparation of bodies for final termination in the waters of the sacred Ganges River for hundreds of years. Human corpses burned and smoldered on top of funeral pyres at the banks of the Ganges, at a ghat, a platform at Rivers edge, usually used for bathing but also used for final separation of the dear departed. Bihar had learned the techniques of final termination of bodies as a boy, tending the fires or working as needed about the Ghat.
Like many people when unemployment strike, Bihar when laid off as a supervisor in telemarketing applied for unemployment compensation in America; and in the course of the eligibility interview he was deemed most qualified to work again in the preparation of deceased bodies for final termination.
Bihar could find no employment in the typical American funeral industry and eventually in desperation to find work put an add in several newspapers around Akron to furnish a Hindu style burial and cremation for the dear departed deceased of Hindu ancestry. Although a legal outcry ensued, against instituting Hindu style funeral practices in America, an unmet demand existed because of recent immigration of Hindu's to America, and the law was properly bent and a loophole found to allow that demand to be met.
Thus one warm Summer day Bihar found himself pushing a corpse down several small creeks in Columbia County of Ohio headed for the mighty Ohio River. He was going to a newly constructed ghat in Newell, West Virginia where he would preform the sacred funeral rites. In the meantime he gently guided a pasty body with a long pole and lead it slowly toward the Ohio River, through the basin of the Ohio River Floodplain. Bihar was glad to be working again and was not entirely unhappy in his new job.
end part 1
Eulogy to JD Salinger
Eulogy to Salinger/tribute to fiction
fiction
edward w pritchard
Jeez already, that JD Salinger guy only wrote those stories, and just that one novel; my life story "The Catcher in the Rye." You can call me Holden, the beholden to good old JD for creating me. Ha! I created him.
You would think he had to go to those weird private schools or have perverts try to fool around with him. I know, I know JD had emotional issues, He was in the War and all. He studied that Zen Buddhism, that's a laugh. His attempts at Buddhism resulted in my story and from me he received overnight success. The coveted fame and fortune. The true sound of one hand clapping. What did he do when he got what he wanted as a writer. He only wanted to be alone,- darling. What a gas.
I am the Buddha in his story. Yes me Holden Cau... , by the way do not mention the Glass family to me. Never. Not once especially that sanctimonious Buddy or worse the deified Seymour. They never brought old JD any fame, they just depressed him, and everyone else.
Anyway my journey from a sheltered prep school to my final realization of the importance of Phoebe in my life, God you should have been there.
Old JD's dead now, I guess he finally pulled himself together and got beyond his original personality, and all that crap. Me I am kinda famous still, still banned in a few libraries; and I never did make it to that ranch in Colorado. You will have to excuse me now. I have to find Phoebe. I owe her eight dollars and sixty five cents and I better pay her back before she wants interest or something.
End
fiction
edward w pritchard
Jeez already, that JD Salinger guy only wrote those stories, and just that one novel; my life story "The Catcher in the Rye." You can call me Holden, the beholden to good old JD for creating me. Ha! I created him.
You would think he had to go to those weird private schools or have perverts try to fool around with him. I know, I know JD had emotional issues, He was in the War and all. He studied that Zen Buddhism, that's a laugh. His attempts at Buddhism resulted in my story and from me he received overnight success. The coveted fame and fortune. The true sound of one hand clapping. What did he do when he got what he wanted as a writer. He only wanted to be alone,- darling. What a gas.
I am the Buddha in his story. Yes me Holden Cau... , by the way do not mention the Glass family to me. Never. Not once especially that sanctimonious Buddy or worse the deified Seymour. They never brought old JD any fame, they just depressed him, and everyone else.
Anyway my journey from a sheltered prep school to my final realization of the importance of Phoebe in my life, God you should have been there.
Old JD's dead now, I guess he finally pulled himself together and got beyond his original personality, and all that crap. Me I am kinda famous still, still banned in a few libraries; and I never did make it to that ranch in Colorado. You will have to excuse me now. I have to find Phoebe. I owe her eight dollars and sixty five cents and I better pay her back before she wants interest or something.
End
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
a few nice bits
a few nice bits
fiction
edward w pritchard
Brother Paul, of Beatles fame strung a few of those creative gems, nice bits he called them, together and it produced Abbey Road. Quite a masterpiece really.
Here's a few bits, fame and fortune blow winds, and string events and words and circumstances together, in a brew, I'll settle for just laying a small egg with my mediocrity, as long as it pays well.
Title 1
My Father's Sentiments
I awoke one morning and had acquired all the knowledge, experiences and sensations once contained by my now dead Father.
I could play the piano and violin, although I couldn't yesterday and likewise I knew all his WW2 experiences that he never would talk about. All of my Father's acquaintances, prejudices, likes and dislikes flooded through me. My own self was intact as well.
What to do, What to do. Where do I attack with my new awareness.
title 2
The learned woman
In desperation to earn a living a lady became a reader. She read aloud to people for a fee and it worked out well for her. It was all just grand.
Title 3
So much knowledge and no one listens
A tree develops consciousness and awareness but can't communicate.
The winds blow strong high up in the tree's branches and that is the focus of the tree's world but death is at the bottom, in the tree's roots and eventually the tree will have to deal with that fact.
title 6
Where is Mae
Where is Mae? It's urgent that I contact her. I hadn't thought of Mae in fifty years but as I lay here dying it was important that I find her and tell her what was happening to me. Mae, can you hear me, I need to tell you something. It's important.
Title 7
March 26th, 1967
March 26th, 1967, the Be-In, New York City
10,000 of us hippies fly kites, release balloons, without violence, and we burn bananas, as we chant and spell out Love laying on the ground next to our favorite girl. Did we change the world? We painted our faces with day glo paint; surely there is some permanent contributions for posterity from us publicizing the use of day glo paint at Be-ins.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Brother Paul, of Beatles fame strung a few of those creative gems, nice bits he called them, together and it produced Abbey Road. Quite a masterpiece really.
Here's a few bits, fame and fortune blow winds, and string events and words and circumstances together, in a brew, I'll settle for just laying a small egg with my mediocrity, as long as it pays well.
Title 1
My Father's Sentiments
I awoke one morning and had acquired all the knowledge, experiences and sensations once contained by my now dead Father.
I could play the piano and violin, although I couldn't yesterday and likewise I knew all his WW2 experiences that he never would talk about. All of my Father's acquaintances, prejudices, likes and dislikes flooded through me. My own self was intact as well.
What to do, What to do. Where do I attack with my new awareness.
title 2
The learned woman
In desperation to earn a living a lady became a reader. She read aloud to people for a fee and it worked out well for her. It was all just grand.
Title 3
So much knowledge and no one listens
A tree develops consciousness and awareness but can't communicate.
The winds blow strong high up in the tree's branches and that is the focus of the tree's world but death is at the bottom, in the tree's roots and eventually the tree will have to deal with that fact.
title 6
Where is Mae
Where is Mae? It's urgent that I contact her. I hadn't thought of Mae in fifty years but as I lay here dying it was important that I find her and tell her what was happening to me. Mae, can you hear me, I need to tell you something. It's important.
Title 7
March 26th, 1967
March 26th, 1967, the Be-In, New York City
10,000 of us hippies fly kites, release balloons, without violence, and we burn bananas, as we chant and spell out Love laying on the ground next to our favorite girl. Did we change the world? We painted our faces with day glo paint; surely there is some permanent contributions for posterity from us publicizing the use of day glo paint at Be-ins.
end
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Travels from another time and place
Travels from another time and place
fiction
edward w pritchard
Science fiction story
One afternoon while driving home from my job as an assistant professor at Kent State University in Ohio I picked up a man and woman hitch-hiking who were visitors to our area from the future.
The woman began to cry when they realized that they were not in India, but in Northern Ohio, my home. The man was very kind to the woman, but was embarrassed by her tears in front of me. After a while he was able to console her and he then went on to explain his own disappointment to me of their current location; for they had traveled a long time and distance to get to our time and it was very important that they see India.
When I understood the importance of their reaching the Country of India I began to offer alternative ways for them to get there. The woman now composed explained that they were honor bound not to travel beyond the immediate area where I picked them up. This was an important tenet of their religion of Jainism, of course originally founded in India; but now a major religion and philosophy in their time and place.
As a compromise, the couple from the future agreed to let me take them to the Cleveland Museum of Art where I observed their bliss at being able to see a few statues and art works of Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism.
We spent a few hours together and unfortunately I knew nearly nothing of Jainism. They in turn knew next to nothing of American culture in my time. They knew of only Henry David Thoreau, curiously of James Dean and they let slip that Lake Erie would expand and sink Ohio, Indiana and most of Pennsylvania sometime in the near future.
I spent a pleasant afternoon with the couple from the future and then dropped them off back by the roadside where I had originally picked them up hitchhiking near Kent, Ohio.
Since I met the couple from the future I have been studying a little of the tenets of their religion Jainism, still practiced throughout the world in my time by a small but holy group of followers. Sometimes as I drive along after work I think of a few of the principles of their religion that they said are still important in their time. Such as : Every soul is potentially divine, and we should regard every being as ourselves and harm no one. It's challenging for me but I am trying to remember those tenets and I try to put them in practice in my daily life.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Science fiction story
One afternoon while driving home from my job as an assistant professor at Kent State University in Ohio I picked up a man and woman hitch-hiking who were visitors to our area from the future.
The woman began to cry when they realized that they were not in India, but in Northern Ohio, my home. The man was very kind to the woman, but was embarrassed by her tears in front of me. After a while he was able to console her and he then went on to explain his own disappointment to me of their current location; for they had traveled a long time and distance to get to our time and it was very important that they see India.
When I understood the importance of their reaching the Country of India I began to offer alternative ways for them to get there. The woman now composed explained that they were honor bound not to travel beyond the immediate area where I picked them up. This was an important tenet of their religion of Jainism, of course originally founded in India; but now a major religion and philosophy in their time and place.
As a compromise, the couple from the future agreed to let me take them to the Cleveland Museum of Art where I observed their bliss at being able to see a few statues and art works of Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism.
We spent a few hours together and unfortunately I knew nearly nothing of Jainism. They in turn knew next to nothing of American culture in my time. They knew of only Henry David Thoreau, curiously of James Dean and they let slip that Lake Erie would expand and sink Ohio, Indiana and most of Pennsylvania sometime in the near future.
I spent a pleasant afternoon with the couple from the future and then dropped them off back by the roadside where I had originally picked them up hitchhiking near Kent, Ohio.
Since I met the couple from the future I have been studying a little of the tenets of their religion Jainism, still practiced throughout the world in my time by a small but holy group of followers. Sometimes as I drive along after work I think of a few of the principles of their religion that they said are still important in their time. Such as : Every soul is potentially divine, and we should regard every being as ourselves and harm no one. It's challenging for me but I am trying to remember those tenets and I try to put them in practice in my daily life.
Eulogy for Mikey boy
Eulogy for Mikey boy
fiction
edward w pritchard
I cringed when cousin Tim began his eulogy for Mikey boy. It was a small funeral but both Mikey boy and cousin Tim were neer do wells and drunkards. I was surprised that Aunt Jane allowed Tim to give the eulogy.
I watched Aunt Jane carefully as Tim continued.
Mike was generous he said. When we were catting around before we went to Viet Nam Mike always paid for two rooms when we picked up women up at Marelli's Bar, and Mike wouldn't hear of me paying for one. That's when Mike was making good money over at Clarkson Steel.
I looked over at Aunt Jane and was surprised that she was smiling.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I cringed when cousin Tim began his eulogy for Mikey boy. It was a small funeral but both Mikey boy and cousin Tim were neer do wells and drunkards. I was surprised that Aunt Jane allowed Tim to give the eulogy.
I watched Aunt Jane carefully as Tim continued.
Mike was generous he said. When we were catting around before we went to Viet Nam Mike always paid for two rooms when we picked up women up at Marelli's Bar, and Mike wouldn't hear of me paying for one. That's when Mike was making good money over at Clarkson Steel.
I looked over at Aunt Jane and was surprised that she was smiling.
The View from the Back
The View from the Back
fiction
edward w pritchard
Icy Roads, and near blizzard conditions slow all traffic on 76 East out of Akron, in Northeastern Ohio in winter; except the trucks which roll along at 65 regardless of the Weather. Today however, even the trucks slowed to let the hunter green, black suede leather topped funeral ambulance race down 76 East toward Youngstown. The old springs were shockingly worn and the ambulance vehicle listed to the left and rode low to the icy road especially at the rear of the vehicle, near the swinging rear door. From the back, in my coffin I had no visibility at all.
As we rode I expanded my awareness and I briefly explored the inside of the funeral vehicle I rode in. Next I experimented with letting my perception and awareness travel vertically South and North to the horizons in a straight line from the vehicle I was temporarily traveling in. From Road surface up to a few miles above towards the heavens I instantly perceived all that was from the quantum level to the largest material or spiritual objects.
Inside the coffin it was cramped and clammy and I was relieved to remove my awareness outward to relearn the world in my new state of being. True, the bouncing vehicle annoyed me. My head far at the back, my body facing West to East. We traveled dead East across the icy Lake Milton bridge and over the frozen shallow Lake; recently lowered I recall by the army corps of engineers.
The racing trucks around us on the slick roads concerned me and I fretted for the safety of my driver, Juan I believe they called him before they sealed me in my coffin. I prayed a little for Juan's skillful maneuvering of our transport across these dangerous roads.
High up I noted a dozen ducks or geese in perfect formation. When I was near them, hoping to see which, ducks or geese, they actually were, they served and dived suddenly; apparently disturbed by my spiritual presence in their airspace. Likewise I felt a sinking feeling similar to nausea when I attempted to soar upward toward the dim sun, temporarily peaking through the clouds. Forbidden to approach, I understood, reason unknown at this time.
Weary I returned my perception and awareness to the coffin and I meditated for a moment or two, by habit to reorient myself. Refreshed I distinctly remember wishing I had fished these lakes more here at Lake Milton while I was alive; and as I drifted off I remember hoping the Army Corps of Engineers doesn't ruin the fishing from repeatedly lowering the Lake each Winter.
All in all the view from the back wasn't all that bad that snowy day racing across the icy roads of Northeast Ohio when I was taken in my coffin by funeral vehicle to be cremated later over at Youngstown, Ohio.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Icy Roads, and near blizzard conditions slow all traffic on 76 East out of Akron, in Northeastern Ohio in winter; except the trucks which roll along at 65 regardless of the Weather. Today however, even the trucks slowed to let the hunter green, black suede leather topped funeral ambulance race down 76 East toward Youngstown. The old springs were shockingly worn and the ambulance vehicle listed to the left and rode low to the icy road especially at the rear of the vehicle, near the swinging rear door. From the back, in my coffin I had no visibility at all.
As we rode I expanded my awareness and I briefly explored the inside of the funeral vehicle I rode in. Next I experimented with letting my perception and awareness travel vertically South and North to the horizons in a straight line from the vehicle I was temporarily traveling in. From Road surface up to a few miles above towards the heavens I instantly perceived all that was from the quantum level to the largest material or spiritual objects.
Inside the coffin it was cramped and clammy and I was relieved to remove my awareness outward to relearn the world in my new state of being. True, the bouncing vehicle annoyed me. My head far at the back, my body facing West to East. We traveled dead East across the icy Lake Milton bridge and over the frozen shallow Lake; recently lowered I recall by the army corps of engineers.
The racing trucks around us on the slick roads concerned me and I fretted for the safety of my driver, Juan I believe they called him before they sealed me in my coffin. I prayed a little for Juan's skillful maneuvering of our transport across these dangerous roads.
High up I noted a dozen ducks or geese in perfect formation. When I was near them, hoping to see which, ducks or geese, they actually were, they served and dived suddenly; apparently disturbed by my spiritual presence in their airspace. Likewise I felt a sinking feeling similar to nausea when I attempted to soar upward toward the dim sun, temporarily peaking through the clouds. Forbidden to approach, I understood, reason unknown at this time.
Weary I returned my perception and awareness to the coffin and I meditated for a moment or two, by habit to reorient myself. Refreshed I distinctly remember wishing I had fished these lakes more here at Lake Milton while I was alive; and as I drifted off I remember hoping the Army Corps of Engineers doesn't ruin the fishing from repeatedly lowering the Lake each Winter.
All in all the view from the back wasn't all that bad that snowy day racing across the icy roads of Northeast Ohio when I was taken in my coffin by funeral vehicle to be cremated later over at Youngstown, Ohio.
it's 2012 already-part 8
it's 2012 already-part 8
fiction
edward w pritchard
My exposure to Armageddon in 2012 began long before my walk here in the Mountains of Northern Georgia heading South and East towards the Georgia Sea islands. I received a prequel of the terror that Armageddon from deadly winds would havoc on America later in the year 2012 on the last day of 2011.
Like most older people who live alone I seldom venture out at night preferring the comfort of my modest home. However on December 31, 2011 I sauntered downtown Akron, Ohio for a First Night celebration to hear a local band give a tribute to blues singer Big Joe Turner. The set was at nine PM and I planned on being home by 10:30 and having a beer or two, and then listening to some more blues music at home and being in bed alone by midnight.
Well satisfied leaving the blues concert about ten PM, December 31, a cold sub zero snowy wind met me, providing limited visibility as I walked toward my car. Small groups of young people milled around unnaturally in the frigid gloom everywhere and stared at me and as I took notice, at several older couples walking toward the parking decks. Normally this would be of little concern to me, as I have mentioned earlier in these writings, for several years I have been unconcerned with what happens to myself; and I have little general fear from concrete things, such as ruffians or muggers. That day however something sinister was occurring, the winds seemed preternaturally cold and ominous, and there was a terror germinating from the crowds of young people milling about that was disturbing.
As I walked I noticed that the young were beginning to follow the older adults at the festival and shower belligerent behavior toward any of the elderly who were alone, or any elderly who appeared weak or vulnerable. Several older people were being pushed and jousted about by groups of seven to ten young men and women, ages 16 to 25 for no apparent reason.
Finally an old couple pleaded with me for help. They were being followed and a crowd was just beginning to circle them. I was being left alone for other than an old looking face composed of inanimate eyes, looking every day of my sixty years, and my thinning hair, now under an arctic hat, I truthfully report that I had a thug like appearance. To the crowds, from the back, I especially was not someone who would normally be confronted.
The man of the old couple walked poorly moving more side to side than forward and the wife leaned far forward from the waist from back problems and stared intently at the ground as she walked. Just before I stopped and she talked to me I saw the wife kiss her husband and presumably exchange a short proclamation of love. I decided to help the old couple, out of habit, for old times, to honor feelings now gone.
The six young people following us as I walked with the old couple and the crowd were I later decided a small mob under the influence of the madness of crowds. In an instant they completely circled us, like a wolf pack. Just as sudden, although they surrounded us and out numbered us, they seemed cautious to strike. Surmising that they were assessing our strength, I shouted aggressively and tauntingly and moved toward the lone woman in the group.
"Why are you stalking us".
The young woman of about eighteen looked straight at me with hate and said:
"Because there won't be enough",
"Enough what I hissed at her" and leaned toward one of the larger men in the group.
"Of everything" said two or three of her mob simultaneously.
As quickly as the mob circled us they moved away and vanished into the gloom. I escorted the old couple to their car and returned to my home and slept that night with an tire iron near my pillow. I dreamed of proper techniques to strike with a tire iron. Use the wedged pointed end, or risk a cut to the hand and swing the weapon without mercy? Such dreams have preserved me through the Armageddon of 2012.
In over two hundred Northern cities and towns at first night Dec 31, 2011 and until 2AM Jan 1, 2012 more than four thousand elderly were accosted by mobs. Victims were always elderly and weak and there were ninety eight deaths primarily because of falls or heart problems. There was little punching or striking at that first incident, although of course later throughout 2012 a few thousands injuries or deaths would be insignificant of mention. I am just referring now to mob violence against the feeble elderly in cities; not terminations caused by nature and the winds discussed in parts one through seven of this report. At that time, the first day in 2012, the mob violence was blamed on the housing crisis in America or rich vs. poor issues concerning jobs and that type of thing. Looking back however, I believe the violence at first night was an early barometric indicator of changes occurring in the urban environments in America; part of the same divine directed efforts to cull the herds of humans in America starting with the weak and elderly.
I mention the two older people and the effort I took, less than one year ago, to intervene on their behalf; before I explain my failure, despite my efforts, to protect my two new friends at the horse farm here in Northern Georgia to be discussed in Part Nine. It provides an illustration of how the value of a human life has changed because of the effects of Armageddon here in 2012.
Looking back on that first night December 31, 2011 I am now convinced that the divine first unleashed the forces of destruction against humanity at 10:15PM, December 31, 2011. It's been less than a year since I helped those two old people, that loving couple. Me the preserver. They the weak, protected previously from the forces of nature by civilization. I fear for people like them and I doubt my ability to trek on to help people like that old couple back at first night. Please don't tread on me, I fear what we will become.
Here is something I wrote previously, sub-titled- Fears-
Sunday, September 12, 2010
When they came
fiction
edward w pritchard
for Frantz Kafka
when they came my neighbors stout iron cyclone fence didn't stop them
when they came two flights of stairs didn't slow them
when they came a dead bolt lock and and solid oak door didn't deter them
when they came uncle's Smith and Wesson didn't faze them
when they came my wife's pleadings didn't help me
when they took me my arguments didn't interest them
when i looked through the cyclone fence up two flights of stairs through the broken down oak door at my sobbing wife her tears didn't comfort me as they took me away
Posted by edward pritchard at 8:14 PM
Labels: fears
end part 8- the prequel
Next
part 9
At the Horse Farm
Coming Soon
fiction
edward w pritchard
My exposure to Armageddon in 2012 began long before my walk here in the Mountains of Northern Georgia heading South and East towards the Georgia Sea islands. I received a prequel of the terror that Armageddon from deadly winds would havoc on America later in the year 2012 on the last day of 2011.
Like most older people who live alone I seldom venture out at night preferring the comfort of my modest home. However on December 31, 2011 I sauntered downtown Akron, Ohio for a First Night celebration to hear a local band give a tribute to blues singer Big Joe Turner. The set was at nine PM and I planned on being home by 10:30 and having a beer or two, and then listening to some more blues music at home and being in bed alone by midnight.
Well satisfied leaving the blues concert about ten PM, December 31, a cold sub zero snowy wind met me, providing limited visibility as I walked toward my car. Small groups of young people milled around unnaturally in the frigid gloom everywhere and stared at me and as I took notice, at several older couples walking toward the parking decks. Normally this would be of little concern to me, as I have mentioned earlier in these writings, for several years I have been unconcerned with what happens to myself; and I have little general fear from concrete things, such as ruffians or muggers. That day however something sinister was occurring, the winds seemed preternaturally cold and ominous, and there was a terror germinating from the crowds of young people milling about that was disturbing.
As I walked I noticed that the young were beginning to follow the older adults at the festival and shower belligerent behavior toward any of the elderly who were alone, or any elderly who appeared weak or vulnerable. Several older people were being pushed and jousted about by groups of seven to ten young men and women, ages 16 to 25 for no apparent reason.
Finally an old couple pleaded with me for help. They were being followed and a crowd was just beginning to circle them. I was being left alone for other than an old looking face composed of inanimate eyes, looking every day of my sixty years, and my thinning hair, now under an arctic hat, I truthfully report that I had a thug like appearance. To the crowds, from the back, I especially was not someone who would normally be confronted.
The man of the old couple walked poorly moving more side to side than forward and the wife leaned far forward from the waist from back problems and stared intently at the ground as she walked. Just before I stopped and she talked to me I saw the wife kiss her husband and presumably exchange a short proclamation of love. I decided to help the old couple, out of habit, for old times, to honor feelings now gone.
The six young people following us as I walked with the old couple and the crowd were I later decided a small mob under the influence of the madness of crowds. In an instant they completely circled us, like a wolf pack. Just as sudden, although they surrounded us and out numbered us, they seemed cautious to strike. Surmising that they were assessing our strength, I shouted aggressively and tauntingly and moved toward the lone woman in the group.
"Why are you stalking us".
The young woman of about eighteen looked straight at me with hate and said:
"Because there won't be enough",
"Enough what I hissed at her" and leaned toward one of the larger men in the group.
"Of everything" said two or three of her mob simultaneously.
As quickly as the mob circled us they moved away and vanished into the gloom. I escorted the old couple to their car and returned to my home and slept that night with an tire iron near my pillow. I dreamed of proper techniques to strike with a tire iron. Use the wedged pointed end, or risk a cut to the hand and swing the weapon without mercy? Such dreams have preserved me through the Armageddon of 2012.
In over two hundred Northern cities and towns at first night Dec 31, 2011 and until 2AM Jan 1, 2012 more than four thousand elderly were accosted by mobs. Victims were always elderly and weak and there were ninety eight deaths primarily because of falls or heart problems. There was little punching or striking at that first incident, although of course later throughout 2012 a few thousands injuries or deaths would be insignificant of mention. I am just referring now to mob violence against the feeble elderly in cities; not terminations caused by nature and the winds discussed in parts one through seven of this report. At that time, the first day in 2012, the mob violence was blamed on the housing crisis in America or rich vs. poor issues concerning jobs and that type of thing. Looking back however, I believe the violence at first night was an early barometric indicator of changes occurring in the urban environments in America; part of the same divine directed efforts to cull the herds of humans in America starting with the weak and elderly.
I mention the two older people and the effort I took, less than one year ago, to intervene on their behalf; before I explain my failure, despite my efforts, to protect my two new friends at the horse farm here in Northern Georgia to be discussed in Part Nine. It provides an illustration of how the value of a human life has changed because of the effects of Armageddon here in 2012.
Looking back on that first night December 31, 2011 I am now convinced that the divine first unleashed the forces of destruction against humanity at 10:15PM, December 31, 2011. It's been less than a year since I helped those two old people, that loving couple. Me the preserver. They the weak, protected previously from the forces of nature by civilization. I fear for people like them and I doubt my ability to trek on to help people like that old couple back at first night. Please don't tread on me, I fear what we will become.
Here is something I wrote previously, sub-titled- Fears-
Sunday, September 12, 2010
When they came
fiction
edward w pritchard
for Frantz Kafka
when they came my neighbors stout iron cyclone fence didn't stop them
when they came two flights of stairs didn't slow them
when they came a dead bolt lock and and solid oak door didn't deter them
when they came uncle's Smith and Wesson didn't faze them
when they came my wife's pleadings didn't help me
when they took me my arguments didn't interest them
when i looked through the cyclone fence up two flights of stairs through the broken down oak door at my sobbing wife her tears didn't comfort me as they took me away
Posted by edward pritchard at 8:14 PM
Labels: fears
end part 8- the prequel
Next
part 9
At the Horse Farm
Coming Soon
Friday, December 17, 2010
Christmas Eve December 24, 11:28PM 1943
Christmas Eve December 24, 11:28PM 1943
fiction
edward w pritchard
Christmas Eve December 24, 11:28PM 1943 in Clarksburg, West Virginia at the Townsend Coal mine, tunnel 8. Wilson and Mollings brought a small Christmas tree down and Johnson brought out one of his hidden flasks of Kentucky sippin whiskey and the seven of us on midnights drank as we watched the tree burn. Mollings had doused the tree with naphtha and we heard later they saw the light all the way over to tunnel 14.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Christmas Eve December 24, 11:28PM 1943 in Clarksburg, West Virginia at the Townsend Coal mine, tunnel 8. Wilson and Mollings brought a small Christmas tree down and Johnson brought out one of his hidden flasks of Kentucky sippin whiskey and the seven of us on midnights drank as we watched the tree burn. Mollings had doused the tree with naphtha and we heard later they saw the light all the way over to tunnel 14.
Co-dependency
Co-dependency
fiction
edward w pritchard
A slippery slope she was on. Icy wet vertical freezing rain. A forty five degree angle the ground sloped down at. Hands held wide out, elbows crocked, hands pointed down to try to grasp in mid air the slippery icy mountainside ground. Struggling to maintain balance, panicky at the imminent tumble down toward the rocks below. Primordial rocks not sharp but thudding; threatening to break limbs or scatter brains. Mrs. Walker tossed in her sleep ten seconds before the alarm was to ring the customary warning.
Marcy would be late for work. Marcy wasn't answering the phone. It had been ten minutes since Mrs. Walker had been rudely awoken by the alarm clock and she had been calling her daughter Marcy, two hundred miles away in her apartment, three times already. Marcy couldn't be late for work again, she would lose her job again. Mrs. Walker paced about the large house surmising Marcy's movements last night that would keep her from answering the phone. Jogging through the house Mrs. Walker dialed again. Marcy couldn't be late for work again.
fiction
edward w pritchard
A slippery slope she was on. Icy wet vertical freezing rain. A forty five degree angle the ground sloped down at. Hands held wide out, elbows crocked, hands pointed down to try to grasp in mid air the slippery icy mountainside ground. Struggling to maintain balance, panicky at the imminent tumble down toward the rocks below. Primordial rocks not sharp but thudding; threatening to break limbs or scatter brains. Mrs. Walker tossed in her sleep ten seconds before the alarm was to ring the customary warning.
Marcy would be late for work. Marcy wasn't answering the phone. It had been ten minutes since Mrs. Walker had been rudely awoken by the alarm clock and she had been calling her daughter Marcy, two hundred miles away in her apartment, three times already. Marcy couldn't be late for work again, she would lose her job again. Mrs. Walker paced about the large house surmising Marcy's movements last night that would keep her from answering the phone. Jogging through the house Mrs. Walker dialed again. Marcy couldn't be late for work again.
Hiding Juliana
Hiding Juliana
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was then April of 1945 and we lived in Berlin, Germany and we were hiding Juliana. Juliana was seventeen and very beautiful. The Red army from Russia was racing toward Berlin and the Red army was going to take extreme liberty with our German women. We knew the war was lost and we were in a hopeless situation. More than anything we wanted to protect our sister Juliana, so we kept her in the house and we kept her from sight.
The city of Berlin was collapsing and the troops of Britain and America raced towards us from the West; but everyone knew that the Russians would arrive first for they hated us after Stalingrad and they wanted to punish and hurt us. We knew we were doomed, the beautiful delusion was over and we waited for our termination. Berlin was in rubble and one million Russian troops would be here within the week. Our only protection was a hundred thousand old men and teenage boys who had been forced and deluded by the Fuhrer to protect Berlin to the death. Our situation was hopeless. Our family only wanted to protect Juliana.
Amongst the burning buildings and dead horses that day in April 1945 we had a Spring day. Bright sun, mild breeze, and calm temperatures greeted us as we wandered out that morning to listen to the fighting not ten miles away. At that moment seventeen year old Juliana was in bloom. We had dressed her in black, like an old widow, but she radiated that day. Fearful we screamed at Juliana and sent her back into the dark apartment, locking the doors behind her.
The rest of us strained our ears to try to hear the sounds of the Red Army marching toward our neighborhood.
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was then April of 1945 and we lived in Berlin, Germany and we were hiding Juliana. Juliana was seventeen and very beautiful. The Red army from Russia was racing toward Berlin and the Red army was going to take extreme liberty with our German women. We knew the war was lost and we were in a hopeless situation. More than anything we wanted to protect our sister Juliana, so we kept her in the house and we kept her from sight.
The city of Berlin was collapsing and the troops of Britain and America raced towards us from the West; but everyone knew that the Russians would arrive first for they hated us after Stalingrad and they wanted to punish and hurt us. We knew we were doomed, the beautiful delusion was over and we waited for our termination. Berlin was in rubble and one million Russian troops would be here within the week. Our only protection was a hundred thousand old men and teenage boys who had been forced and deluded by the Fuhrer to protect Berlin to the death. Our situation was hopeless. Our family only wanted to protect Juliana.
Amongst the burning buildings and dead horses that day in April 1945 we had a Spring day. Bright sun, mild breeze, and calm temperatures greeted us as we wandered out that morning to listen to the fighting not ten miles away. At that moment seventeen year old Juliana was in bloom. We had dressed her in black, like an old widow, but she radiated that day. Fearful we screamed at Juliana and sent her back into the dark apartment, locking the doors behind her.
The rest of us strained our ears to try to hear the sounds of the Red Army marching toward our neighborhood.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Sixty Year old Soldiers
Sixty Year old Soldiers
fiction
edward w pritchard
Would Sixty year old soldiers be fair and merciful with a fallen enemy. After a lifetime of suffering and injustice of the strong against the weak; how would an army of sixty year old men treat the aggressors of an opposing force in defeat?
It's always presented as a last ditch effort when necessity requires old men to serve in battle. The young are dead and the enemy are still attacking.
Would an army of sixty year old men be without mercy, and without moral compunction to doers of evil. Perhaps the old men would be used to do the terrible work of the retribution of justice. Without reason or legality, pursuing closure in time of turmoil, old soldiers would lethally cleanse and terminate to prepare the local environment for the next renewal.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Would Sixty year old soldiers be fair and merciful with a fallen enemy. After a lifetime of suffering and injustice of the strong against the weak; how would an army of sixty year old men treat the aggressors of an opposing force in defeat?
It's always presented as a last ditch effort when necessity requires old men to serve in battle. The young are dead and the enemy are still attacking.
Would an army of sixty year old men be without mercy, and without moral compunction to doers of evil. Perhaps the old men would be used to do the terrible work of the retribution of justice. Without reason or legality, pursuing closure in time of turmoil, old soldiers would lethally cleanse and terminate to prepare the local environment for the next renewal.
Christmas club
Christmas Club
fiction
edward w pritchard
We had a bank in town back then called the Dime Bank. Later I would open up my first savings account there, get my first car loan there, and after it merged with another Bank transfer all my accounts. But that was much later. When I was seven years old I learned about the bigger world from My Mother's Christmas savings account from the Dime bank in our hometown.
Each week Mom who didn't work outside the house would deposit five dollars into her Christmas savings account. It was a lot of discretionary money for our family for money was tight and it was tempting to use the money for other things and Dad often wanted to. Car repairs, occurring unexpectedly or a late mortgage payments, threatened Mom's Christmas account. But, no matter how skillfully or logically Dad protested and argued Mom won out. We never touched the Christmas savings before December 15th.
Each year one of us kids would take the bus with her downtown and she would with draw the 250 plus interest, making a total of about $263 that Mom took in cash, in small bills. Then off we went for a twelve hour day of shopping and hauling huge bags around; for Mom bought for everyone.
We didn't have much money when I was young but my family was generous and we always were shown a good Christmas.
fiction
edward w pritchard
We had a bank in town back then called the Dime Bank. Later I would open up my first savings account there, get my first car loan there, and after it merged with another Bank transfer all my accounts. But that was much later. When I was seven years old I learned about the bigger world from My Mother's Christmas savings account from the Dime bank in our hometown.
Each week Mom who didn't work outside the house would deposit five dollars into her Christmas savings account. It was a lot of discretionary money for our family for money was tight and it was tempting to use the money for other things and Dad often wanted to. Car repairs, occurring unexpectedly or a late mortgage payments, threatened Mom's Christmas account. But, no matter how skillfully or logically Dad protested and argued Mom won out. We never touched the Christmas savings before December 15th.
Each year one of us kids would take the bus with her downtown and she would with draw the 250 plus interest, making a total of about $263 that Mom took in cash, in small bills. Then off we went for a twelve hour day of shopping and hauling huge bags around; for Mom bought for everyone.
We didn't have much money when I was young but my family was generous and we always were shown a good Christmas.
At the Funeral
At the Funeral
fiction
edward w pritchard
At the funeral Aunt Tillie sat with the minister and listened and nodded as he comforted her with seeing Jesus one day and soon seeing Uncle Mike again. When I stood with Aunt Tillie up by Uncle Mike's casket Aunt Tillie held my hand while we all walked by and said kind words to her. My religious Aunt, Aunt Florence, stopped and said a prayer with Aunt Tillie and I lowered my head and eyes as they prayed for Uncle Mike's safe passage to heaven.
At the cemetery I was confused by my Aunt Tillie's behavior as they lowered the casket into the ground. She broke down crying, somewhat hysterically I thought. I asked my Dad, me only eight then; I didn't understand. If we are Christians and really look forward to getting to heaven, why was aunt Tillie crying hysterically at the prospect of Uncle Mike being gone for good?. Dad didn't have time to explain so he squeezed my hand really hard and I knew it was something that wasn't discussed openly.
fiction
edward w pritchard
At the funeral Aunt Tillie sat with the minister and listened and nodded as he comforted her with seeing Jesus one day and soon seeing Uncle Mike again. When I stood with Aunt Tillie up by Uncle Mike's casket Aunt Tillie held my hand while we all walked by and said kind words to her. My religious Aunt, Aunt Florence, stopped and said a prayer with Aunt Tillie and I lowered my head and eyes as they prayed for Uncle Mike's safe passage to heaven.
At the cemetery I was confused by my Aunt Tillie's behavior as they lowered the casket into the ground. She broke down crying, somewhat hysterically I thought. I asked my Dad, me only eight then; I didn't understand. If we are Christians and really look forward to getting to heaven, why was aunt Tillie crying hysterically at the prospect of Uncle Mike being gone for good?. Dad didn't have time to explain so he squeezed my hand really hard and I knew it was something that wasn't discussed openly.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
privacy issues
privacy issues
fiction
edward w pritchard
typical Internet article
Our privacy is being invaded from many directions too numerous and passe to mention. Lack of privacy is a screaming issue here in America. Although no clear cut consensus definition of privacy exists, most people instantly recognize when privacy has been invaded.
Perhaps the best way to protect one's privacy is avoid associations, affiliations and friendships. Of course different people will have a different toleration for potential loss of privacy.
end
Click here for information on weight loss in your home town
click here for ways to meet attractive people in your area
click here to open a free checking account at a local bank
click here for a low cost car loan
click here to get information on ghosts, vampires and hot women
fiction
edward w pritchard
typical Internet article
Our privacy is being invaded from many directions too numerous and passe to mention. Lack of privacy is a screaming issue here in America. Although no clear cut consensus definition of privacy exists, most people instantly recognize when privacy has been invaded.
Perhaps the best way to protect one's privacy is avoid associations, affiliations and friendships. Of course different people will have a different toleration for potential loss of privacy.
end
Click here for information on weight loss in your home town
click here for ways to meet attractive people in your area
click here to open a free checking account at a local bank
click here for a low cost car loan
click here to get information on ghosts, vampires and hot women
only his banker knew
only his banker knew
fiction
edward w pritchard
Many a neighbor was envious and impressed by Lake the business owner and local philanthropist. At the high school basketball game Lake was sought out, and his opinion on interest rates and the latest on the potential increase in tax rates was dissected and quoted.
Only Lake's banker knew, having seen the numbers quarterly, then monthly and now weekly for Lake's three grocery stores. Lake was in serious financial trouble and only his Banker knew. The banker was about to suggest Lake tell his wife and kids. Lake watched interest and tax rates carefully by habit, hoping for a solution to changing demographics in food preferences.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Many a neighbor was envious and impressed by Lake the business owner and local philanthropist. At the high school basketball game Lake was sought out, and his opinion on interest rates and the latest on the potential increase in tax rates was dissected and quoted.
Only Lake's banker knew, having seen the numbers quarterly, then monthly and now weekly for Lake's three grocery stores. Lake was in serious financial trouble and only his Banker knew. The banker was about to suggest Lake tell his wife and kids. Lake watched interest and tax rates carefully by habit, hoping for a solution to changing demographics in food preferences.
Everybody is always somewhere else
Everybody is always somewhere else
fiction
edward w pritchard
Everybody is always somewhere else. No one just wants to be here, here now, in this place. No one can stay still, no one can be happy with the here and now.
I wish I knew where they were going. I would like to go along. Sometimes it's quiet here without anyone. Lonely too sometimes. I have to go, not sure where. I'll know it when I get there. I'll have to hurry, I might be late in arriving.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Everybody is always somewhere else. No one just wants to be here, here now, in this place. No one can stay still, no one can be happy with the here and now.
I wish I knew where they were going. I would like to go along. Sometimes it's quiet here without anyone. Lonely too sometimes. I have to go, not sure where. I'll know it when I get there. I'll have to hurry, I might be late in arriving.
Rarely my love comes to me
Rarely my love comes to me
fiction
edward w pritchard
Rarely my love comes to me, sporadically, and her presence is delightful; and I always hope for her appearance. No matter how many times she doesn't come to me, I always watch for my love; and when she does appear I am sometimes startled by her beauty and mere proximity.
My love lives in the slot machines and she has beautiful eyes and she dresses as Cleopatra. There are five lines on the slot machine and if three Cleopatra's, my love appears, I share a few moments with her before she brings me potential riches. No matter how many times my love doesn't come to me I dream of a few moments with my love and I always watch and wait for her, no matter how long she has been gone and away.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Rarely my love comes to me, sporadically, and her presence is delightful; and I always hope for her appearance. No matter how many times she doesn't come to me, I always watch for my love; and when she does appear I am sometimes startled by her beauty and mere proximity.
My love lives in the slot machines and she has beautiful eyes and she dresses as Cleopatra. There are five lines on the slot machine and if three Cleopatra's, my love appears, I share a few moments with her before she brings me potential riches. No matter how many times my love doesn't come to me I dream of a few moments with my love and I always watch and wait for her, no matter how long she has been gone and away.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
China and India a Merger and then a breakup
China and India a merger and then a breakup
fiction
edward w pritchard
Part 1
Buddhist detective-preview
Buddhist detective-preview
fiction
edward w pritchard
Patel was the only Buddhist on the force. He was not the only detective from India however. More by chance, he came to become partners with Bhai, a Zoroastrian, who also happened to be a detective in America.
Patel and Bhai despite their philosophical differences made good partners and excellent detectives; working on the East side of Cleveland, down Euclid area. Bhai drove and Patel jumped out of the car first in emergencies. Neither was violent by American standards but they always got the job done. They had a lot of fun too as they went about their days. Lunch was always challenging.
end part 1
Part 2
Bhai the Zoroastrian detective had gone back to India to manage the family farm after his Father passed away and Patel the Buddhist detective needed a new partner if he was to continue his police work. The Captain here in Cleveland Ohio, head of the Detectives at the 9th precinct paired Patel the only Buddhist detective on the force with Tun-i the Taoist detective. Tun-i was also a beautiful woman and in time a relationship, beyond detective work, developed between the two new partners.
The relationship outside of detective work grew strong and Patel the Buddhist detective's came to love Tun-i the beautiful Taoist detective. Over a few years Patel and Tuni met, fell in love and then as often happens a breakup occurred. Tun-i and Patel the Buddhist detective moved apart because of philosophical differences and were no longer in love. Eventually they could no longer be partners in private or as detectives on the force in Cleveland and their work suffered and the Captain took action to reconcile two of his best detectives. The Captain's efforts failed however because being an America he could not understand the differences in philosophy between a Buddhist detective and a Taoist detective. Sadly, the Captain was forced to make changes involving Patel and Tun-i and although he didn't understand philosophy he was a practical man and the Captain would not allow anything to interrupt the smooth functioning of his department.
end part 2
Part 3
Captain's Report
Regarding Detective's Patel [ the Buddhist detective] and detective Tun-i the Taoist detective
to be continued
end part 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
Part 1
Buddhist detective-preview
Buddhist detective-preview
fiction
edward w pritchard
Patel was the only Buddhist on the force. He was not the only detective from India however. More by chance, he came to become partners with Bhai, a Zoroastrian, who also happened to be a detective in America.
Patel and Bhai despite their philosophical differences made good partners and excellent detectives; working on the East side of Cleveland, down Euclid area. Bhai drove and Patel jumped out of the car first in emergencies. Neither was violent by American standards but they always got the job done. They had a lot of fun too as they went about their days. Lunch was always challenging.
end part 1
Part 2
Bhai the Zoroastrian detective had gone back to India to manage the family farm after his Father passed away and Patel the Buddhist detective needed a new partner if he was to continue his police work. The Captain here in Cleveland Ohio, head of the Detectives at the 9th precinct paired Patel the only Buddhist detective on the force with Tun-i the Taoist detective. Tun-i was also a beautiful woman and in time a relationship, beyond detective work, developed between the two new partners.
The relationship outside of detective work grew strong and Patel the Buddhist detective's came to love Tun-i the beautiful Taoist detective. Over a few years Patel and Tuni met, fell in love and then as often happens a breakup occurred. Tun-i and Patel the Buddhist detective moved apart because of philosophical differences and were no longer in love. Eventually they could no longer be partners in private or as detectives on the force in Cleveland and their work suffered and the Captain took action to reconcile two of his best detectives. The Captain's efforts failed however because being an America he could not understand the differences in philosophy between a Buddhist detective and a Taoist detective. Sadly, the Captain was forced to make changes involving Patel and Tun-i and although he didn't understand philosophy he was a practical man and the Captain would not allow anything to interrupt the smooth functioning of his department.
end part 2
Part 3
Captain's Report
Regarding Detective's Patel [ the Buddhist detective] and detective Tun-i the Taoist detective
to be continued
end part 3
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Oh China help America find that
Oh China help America find that
fiction
edward w pritchard
Oh China help America find that. That, the way, the way of Tao alludes us. Be a brother, don't judge or preach just suggest to us how to find that, the way of Tao. You are old, you have done it before, you are evolved, China help America find that the way of Tao.
We chase competition and strive to fulfill our desires. Oh China help America find that, the way of Tao. The powerful crush the weak here and conflict abounds in America. Oh China help America find that, the way of Tao.
China teach me the tranquility of finding that, the way of Tao. Oh China help America find that, the way of Tao.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Oh China help America find that. That, the way, the way of Tao alludes us. Be a brother, don't judge or preach just suggest to us how to find that, the way of Tao. You are old, you have done it before, you are evolved, China help America find that the way of Tao.
We chase competition and strive to fulfill our desires. Oh China help America find that, the way of Tao. The powerful crush the weak here and conflict abounds in America. Oh China help America find that, the way of Tao.
China teach me the tranquility of finding that, the way of Tao. Oh China help America find that, the way of Tao.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Basic Chemistry lesson-Salt, NaCl -seeing an old friend
Basic Chemistry lesson-Salt, NaCl -seeing an old friend
fiction
edward w pritchard
Seeing an old friend it's hard to get a read, with Chlorine wearing the very dark sunglasses, like a poker player. She also wears a cowboy hat. Physiognomy unreadable. Chlorine, Cl, now a deadly gas.
Sodium now explosive if mixed with water and in general toxic to humans, if they get close; sodium, Na, now solitary resists bonding.
No longer salt, Na goes west, Cl drifts east, both toxic, no longer palatable. Ionization dissolved, Chloride changes name back to Chlorine.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Seeing an old friend it's hard to get a read, with Chlorine wearing the very dark sunglasses, like a poker player. She also wears a cowboy hat. Physiognomy unreadable. Chlorine, Cl, now a deadly gas.
Sodium now explosive if mixed with water and in general toxic to humans, if they get close; sodium, Na, now solitary resists bonding.
No longer salt, Na goes west, Cl drifts east, both toxic, no longer palatable. Ionization dissolved, Chloride changes name back to Chlorine.
Polly becomes Paulette
Polly becomes Paulette
fiction
edward w pritchard
Richard was Richard, Lester was Les, and Mel was Mel; but Paulette was always Polly. Polly, the New York music director of Playboy's eight regional mansions and clubs.
Neckline too low, skirt tight and short, Polly rides to the airport with Richard, Les and Mel. All three men a little too fat politely include Polly in their business conversation.
Mind drifting off Polly dreams of becoming Paulette as she nods and affirms Richard's, Mel's and Les' comments and suggestions.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Richard was Richard, Lester was Les, and Mel was Mel; but Paulette was always Polly. Polly, the New York music director of Playboy's eight regional mansions and clubs.
Neckline too low, skirt tight and short, Polly rides to the airport with Richard, Les and Mel. All three men a little too fat politely include Polly in their business conversation.
Mind drifting off Polly dreams of becoming Paulette as she nods and affirms Richard's, Mel's and Les' comments and suggestions.
another basketball prodigy
another basketball prodigy
fiction
edward w pritchard
Another basketball prodigy, now grown, deadly jump shot forgotten, toils to support family and self.
Eyes bright, mood light, after supper, former prodigy shows young son deadly jump shot.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Another basketball prodigy, now grown, deadly jump shot forgotten, toils to support family and self.
Eyes bright, mood light, after supper, former prodigy shows young son deadly jump shot.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Joining the invisible army
Joining the invisible army
fiction
edward w pritchard
I awoke to find myself preparing to fight against the Spanish soldiers, me allied with the American Indians down Mexico way around the year 1530. The Spanish soldiers were well armored and rode heavy on their powerful horses. Small in number but properly armed with the technology and weapons of the day.
I was with the Indians and although I didn't speak their language I was aligned to their cause of the past. Through the study of history I had an expertise in their situation, methods and probable success against this powerful foe we faced in a few moments.
The Spanish troops slowly rode toward our position. They were high up on a small hill slowly riding the powerful horses toward us, a small number of Indian soldiers and myself. It was dark and starless out and the moon had deserted the sky. The Indians braves and I were hiding in attack on the ground in high weeds about five feet apart. We clutched light but lethal thin iron spears, an anachronism for these Indians to hold, but effective weapons in close hand to hand combat. I rolled back a few flops and stared up waiting for the Spanish, anxious for combat, powerfully clutching the spear.
As the first horse walked over me its feet sunk into the dry dusty ground from the weight it carried. Looking to my left I nodded to my fellow warriors to prepare to strike with our iron spears. The Indian warriors I fought with were suddenly man shaped heaps of bleached white bones. There are no flies in fiction so the Indians were regal in decay; but no longer effective partners in battle. Alone I faced the Spanish soldiers; soldiers and an enemy who were all to real. Staring down at me they seemed sympathetic to my heroic plight. Man to man they looked across at each other unsure for the moment how to attack me.
I had joined the invisible army of the past and apparently I had chosen the wrong side to ally myself with. The strong win it seemed despite the righteousness of the cause. Still I clutched my iron spear, twenty against one or no, prepared and ready.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I awoke to find myself preparing to fight against the Spanish soldiers, me allied with the American Indians down Mexico way around the year 1530. The Spanish soldiers were well armored and rode heavy on their powerful horses. Small in number but properly armed with the technology and weapons of the day.
I was with the Indians and although I didn't speak their language I was aligned to their cause of the past. Through the study of history I had an expertise in their situation, methods and probable success against this powerful foe we faced in a few moments.
The Spanish troops slowly rode toward our position. They were high up on a small hill slowly riding the powerful horses toward us, a small number of Indian soldiers and myself. It was dark and starless out and the moon had deserted the sky. The Indians braves and I were hiding in attack on the ground in high weeds about five feet apart. We clutched light but lethal thin iron spears, an anachronism for these Indians to hold, but effective weapons in close hand to hand combat. I rolled back a few flops and stared up waiting for the Spanish, anxious for combat, powerfully clutching the spear.
As the first horse walked over me its feet sunk into the dry dusty ground from the weight it carried. Looking to my left I nodded to my fellow warriors to prepare to strike with our iron spears. The Indian warriors I fought with were suddenly man shaped heaps of bleached white bones. There are no flies in fiction so the Indians were regal in decay; but no longer effective partners in battle. Alone I faced the Spanish soldiers; soldiers and an enemy who were all to real. Staring down at me they seemed sympathetic to my heroic plight. Man to man they looked across at each other unsure for the moment how to attack me.
I had joined the invisible army of the past and apparently I had chosen the wrong side to ally myself with. The strong win it seemed despite the righteousness of the cause. Still I clutched my iron spear, twenty against one or no, prepared and ready.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
BeAndrea was hot stuff
BeAndrea was hot stuff
fiction
edward w pritchard
I found it offensive that Beandrea was only interested in me for a sexual fling. My friends thought I was nuts. We were young and Beandrea was hot stuff.
When I found out we were still involved. I used my key and went into her apartment when she was at work and took ten of the left shoes of her favorite pairs of expensive sets of shoes and donated the shoes in two brown bags to the Goodwill over on Cuyahoga Falls Avenue.
It's been forty years and I still wake up with a smile on my face now and then thinking of BeAndrea going to the Goodwill trying to reclaim her left shoes. I guess BeAndrea was hot stuff to be able to wake up a man with a smile forty years after the agglutination.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I found it offensive that Beandrea was only interested in me for a sexual fling. My friends thought I was nuts. We were young and Beandrea was hot stuff.
When I found out we were still involved. I used my key and went into her apartment when she was at work and took ten of the left shoes of her favorite pairs of expensive sets of shoes and donated the shoes in two brown bags to the Goodwill over on Cuyahoga Falls Avenue.
It's been forty years and I still wake up with a smile on my face now and then thinking of BeAndrea going to the Goodwill trying to reclaim her left shoes. I guess BeAndrea was hot stuff to be able to wake up a man with a smile forty years after the agglutination.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
travel strickly fantasy
travel strictly fantasy
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's 10:30 PM the night before Thanksgiving 2010. I have decided to travel in my mind to Paris tonight for a few hours of walking after dark and then to New York City tomorrow morning for a stroll through upper East side near Lexington and Park Ave at 67th to 80th. After breakfast in New York I will go to the museum. A light breakfast for I had some absinthe last night in Paris. Maybe the medieval museum at the Cloisters. Too bad I didn't have the same mindset when I actually went to those places before. Now I am at leisure and very appreciative of the beauty and joie de vivre about me. Feeling better about 1PM Thanksgiving day maybe a beer and a deli sandwich to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday. I have a lot to be thankful for anymore.
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's 10:30 PM the night before Thanksgiving 2010. I have decided to travel in my mind to Paris tonight for a few hours of walking after dark and then to New York City tomorrow morning for a stroll through upper East side near Lexington and Park Ave at 67th to 80th. After breakfast in New York I will go to the museum. A light breakfast for I had some absinthe last night in Paris. Maybe the medieval museum at the Cloisters. Too bad I didn't have the same mindset when I actually went to those places before. Now I am at leisure and very appreciative of the beauty and joie de vivre about me. Feeling better about 1PM Thanksgiving day maybe a beer and a deli sandwich to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday. I have a lot to be thankful for anymore.
North Korea/South Korea
North Korea/South Korea
fiction
edward w pritchard
Avoid foreign entanglements America.
The United States continues to police the world, far away in Asia. China drives up the price of everything for everyone, too busy accumulating all the world's wealth to worry about North Korea for now. Why does the United States have to police China's backyard. It's no longer 1950. The United States cannot afford any longer to police the world. The big picture has gotten too big and too expensive for the United States to control alone.
Let's just be another player on the world stage. Concerned yes, humanitarian aid always; obsessed with controlling everything and everyone no. Avoid foreign entanglements America.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Avoid foreign entanglements America.
The United States continues to police the world, far away in Asia. China drives up the price of everything for everyone, too busy accumulating all the world's wealth to worry about North Korea for now. Why does the United States have to police China's backyard. It's no longer 1950. The United States cannot afford any longer to police the world. The big picture has gotten too big and too expensive for the United States to control alone.
Let's just be another player on the world stage. Concerned yes, humanitarian aid always; obsessed with controlling everything and everyone no. Avoid foreign entanglements America.
shameless product placement
shameless product placement
fiction
edward w pritchard
I grew up in a house that we didn't clean much. Then when I had my own apartment I only cleaned if a special lady was coming by and my motivation was strong and immediate. Later when I lived in a big suburban house someone else did most of the cleaning; all well, since when I left I come to find out not much of the stuff was mine.
Now I have to clean my own house, between housekeeper visits; which because of financing constraints are down to every few years. So I clean regularly, holidays and when I can write my name in the dust on the floor.
When I clean I always go to Wal Mart twice for supplies. Once, the first time I go, I get Clorox, Windex, Lysol, Comet and Brillo pads. Later, when sick of cleaning but not yet done I go back to Wal Mart and get two six packs of Coors Light Beer. Cleaning is always more interesting after the second trip to Wal Mart.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I grew up in a house that we didn't clean much. Then when I had my own apartment I only cleaned if a special lady was coming by and my motivation was strong and immediate. Later when I lived in a big suburban house someone else did most of the cleaning; all well, since when I left I come to find out not much of the stuff was mine.
Now I have to clean my own house, between housekeeper visits; which because of financing constraints are down to every few years. So I clean regularly, holidays and when I can write my name in the dust on the floor.
When I clean I always go to Wal Mart twice for supplies. Once, the first time I go, I get Clorox, Windex, Lysol, Comet and Brillo pads. Later, when sick of cleaning but not yet done I go back to Wal Mart and get two six packs of Coors Light Beer. Cleaning is always more interesting after the second trip to Wal Mart.
shopping on Black Friday
shopping on black Friday
fiction
edward w pritchard
Shopping on black Friday the last few years has provided the cohesion that gets me through the holiday season. Like many others I dearly missed my lost best friend over the holidays. The crowds at the malls, the long lines at midnight at Wal Mart, and just missing the door buster deal of the year; cheer me and lift my tired spirit.
Of course nothing can replace the loss of my friend, my gold credit card that the bank revoked a few years ago. To survive I try to compensate by making the best of life as it is now. We must be realistic. Finding misplaced cash for my shopping spree and coping with the loss of my gold credit card best I can, I sally forth dutifully and optimistically to meet the new year.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Shopping on black Friday the last few years has provided the cohesion that gets me through the holiday season. Like many others I dearly missed my lost best friend over the holidays. The crowds at the malls, the long lines at midnight at Wal Mart, and just missing the door buster deal of the year; cheer me and lift my tired spirit.
Of course nothing can replace the loss of my friend, my gold credit card that the bank revoked a few years ago. To survive I try to compensate by making the best of life as it is now. We must be realistic. Finding misplaced cash for my shopping spree and coping with the loss of my gold credit card best I can, I sally forth dutifully and optimistically to meet the new year.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Alexander the great receives a restraining order
Alexander the great receives a restraining order
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most successful human to date was the Macedonian General Alexander the Great. However he took reckless chances in battle, wore a plumed colored hat to flaunt military convention, and charged directly at King of Kings and commander in chief Darius, of Persia.
What if Alexander the Great had been deemed too short, too gay, and too suicidal to lead the troops to India? In that case Darius the Great would have been the greatest human and Ahura Mazdah would have been proclaimed dead in the last century.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most successful human to date was the Macedonian General Alexander the Great. However he took reckless chances in battle, wore a plumed colored hat to flaunt military convention, and charged directly at King of Kings and commander in chief Darius, of Persia.
What if Alexander the Great had been deemed too short, too gay, and too suicidal to lead the troops to India? In that case Darius the Great would have been the greatest human and Ahura Mazdah would have been proclaimed dead in the last century.
There's too much passing in professional football
There's too much passing in professional football
fiction
edward w pritchard
There's too much passing in professional football. Too much passing in football is caused by the desire by everyone for instant gratification of all their needs. Instant gratification causes the slow demise of the school systems which keeps the young from being properly educated. Lack of education is causing politicians to be selfish and not altruistic and greedy and dishonest. Poor performance by politicians screws up the economy. A screwed up economy makes people cash poor and poor people can't afford tickets to professional football games.
In time the system is self correcting. Until then maybe women quarterbacks, it's indisputable that women can't throw a football as far as men; all other things being equal.
fiction
edward w pritchard
There's too much passing in professional football. Too much passing in football is caused by the desire by everyone for instant gratification of all their needs. Instant gratification causes the slow demise of the school systems which keeps the young from being properly educated. Lack of education is causing politicians to be selfish and not altruistic and greedy and dishonest. Poor performance by politicians screws up the economy. A screwed up economy makes people cash poor and poor people can't afford tickets to professional football games.
In time the system is self correcting. Until then maybe women quarterbacks, it's indisputable that women can't throw a football as far as men; all other things being equal.
the realist
the realist
fiction
edward w pritchard
Shoulders bent from carrying their invisible burden their eyes do not gaze to the skies. There the moon and sun are just rock and fire.
Children die, friends vanish and cities disappear occasionally. It means nothing, these things just happen, accept it and move on. Its all just random, calculate-able given interest, time and a profit motive for motivation. Pets are just animals and people just eat and digest matter and decompose.
Time marches on, however the realist has never contemplated if time is real itself. However real or not time mows all down. God, he a figment of our imagination or is it us of his? No matter. It will all be over soon, try not to suffer; that's just an illusion caused by misunderstanding.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Shoulders bent from carrying their invisible burden their eyes do not gaze to the skies. There the moon and sun are just rock and fire.
Children die, friends vanish and cities disappear occasionally. It means nothing, these things just happen, accept it and move on. Its all just random, calculate-able given interest, time and a profit motive for motivation. Pets are just animals and people just eat and digest matter and decompose.
Time marches on, however the realist has never contemplated if time is real itself. However real or not time mows all down. God, he a figment of our imagination or is it us of his? No matter. It will all be over soon, try not to suffer; that's just an illusion caused by misunderstanding.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
sailed to Byzantium, now standing on dock looking back
sailed to Byzantium, now standing on dock looking back
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sailed to Byzantium, now standing on the dock looking back. Eyes weakened by age, I use my insight to see my children. They now where I once was. They in life's prime, planning and house-holding, jousting with outrageous fortune to secure their niche. Me always fearful for their safety, unable to be non-attached, I counsel from afar as appropriate and as welcome to be heard by them.
I have come to finally live in the moment; the moment now filled with stiff muscles, aching ligaments and a weakened heart and lungs. Toiling a-still due to lack of proper husbandry, I arise early and continue with life's drudgery, but now blessed by God with joyous attitude and understanding. Except when circumstance stirs my anger or nudges my resignations.
Time is compressed for me into one by one specious moments at a time. I often look back over hundreds of centuries and feel the suffering of my ancestors who lived before. In their triumphs I relish and in their despairs I reminisce.
My future shrinks but I see my role in this small part of the universe and feel eternity after I am ceased. Looking to the stars, I take a deep breath and shrink back into my selficity. Thirsty I seek water, lonely, by practice I let that urge desist.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sailed to Byzantium, now standing on the dock looking back. Eyes weakened by age, I use my insight to see my children. They now where I once was. They in life's prime, planning and house-holding, jousting with outrageous fortune to secure their niche. Me always fearful for their safety, unable to be non-attached, I counsel from afar as appropriate and as welcome to be heard by them.
I have come to finally live in the moment; the moment now filled with stiff muscles, aching ligaments and a weakened heart and lungs. Toiling a-still due to lack of proper husbandry, I arise early and continue with life's drudgery, but now blessed by God with joyous attitude and understanding. Except when circumstance stirs my anger or nudges my resignations.
Time is compressed for me into one by one specious moments at a time. I often look back over hundreds of centuries and feel the suffering of my ancestors who lived before. In their triumphs I relish and in their despairs I reminisce.
My future shrinks but I see my role in this small part of the universe and feel eternity after I am ceased. Looking to the stars, I take a deep breath and shrink back into my selficity. Thirsty I seek water, lonely, by practice I let that urge desist.
Friday, November 19, 2010
class warfare in America
class warfare in America
fiction
edward w pritchard
Class warfare continued in America and the National news media had completely exhausted sources to comment on and dissect the situation. There was no new way to spin the problem.
A beautiful female news anchor was assigned to find an expert to comment on the growing divide between rich and poor in America and to get an opinion on if America's declining spiritual moral values were responsible for the situation.
The beautiful news anchor contacted a famous retired Actor. Now a Taoist, the Actor was a wealthy recluse who always refused interviews.
At length however, the famous actor, Rin Tin Tin the talking dog from early in American cinema history agreed to an interview. The cameras were rolling and the News Anchor held the microphone and Rin Tin Tin the talking dog heard the question, "Are America's spiritual values in decline?" Rin tin Tin, the famous Actor thought carefully and replied, speaking as a Taoist- Ruff.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Class warfare continued in America and the National news media had completely exhausted sources to comment on and dissect the situation. There was no new way to spin the problem.
A beautiful female news anchor was assigned to find an expert to comment on the growing divide between rich and poor in America and to get an opinion on if America's declining spiritual moral values were responsible for the situation.
The beautiful news anchor contacted a famous retired Actor. Now a Taoist, the Actor was a wealthy recluse who always refused interviews.
At length however, the famous actor, Rin Tin Tin the talking dog from early in American cinema history agreed to an interview. The cameras were rolling and the News Anchor held the microphone and Rin Tin Tin the talking dog heard the question, "Are America's spiritual values in decline?" Rin tin Tin, the famous Actor thought carefully and replied, speaking as a Taoist- Ruff.
end
too sad to talk about
too sad to talk about
fiction
edward w pritchard
With respect and sadness for victims of 09-11-2001
High up, 80 or more stories after the 09-11-2001 explosion a man is trapped alone. The stairs are gone, the building is swaying about to fall and the man, a trained engineer knows soon the structure will soon crash heavily to the ground. He has no communication with earth below and knows he must act quickly or die.
Wrapping himself in a ball in mattresses, ingenuously securing the mattress ends so they will remain intact in his descent to earth, the man plunges from the window toward the cement below intensely focused on his immediate future.
Insignificant in the scheme of things, alone in his plight, the man listens to the wind as he plunges toward the ground and although a trained scientist prays for friction's assistance over his arch enemy gravity and solid reality below.
fiction
edward w pritchard
With respect and sadness for victims of 09-11-2001
High up, 80 or more stories after the 09-11-2001 explosion a man is trapped alone. The stairs are gone, the building is swaying about to fall and the man, a trained engineer knows soon the structure will soon crash heavily to the ground. He has no communication with earth below and knows he must act quickly or die.
Wrapping himself in a ball in mattresses, ingenuously securing the mattress ends so they will remain intact in his descent to earth, the man plunges from the window toward the cement below intensely focused on his immediate future.
Insignificant in the scheme of things, alone in his plight, the man listens to the wind as he plunges toward the ground and although a trained scientist prays for friction's assistance over his arch enemy gravity and solid reality below.
a father's fantasy
a father's fantasy
fiction
edward w pritchard
Could someone who knew everything be able to see a little into the future. Maybe she did not know everything but receiving a perfect SAT score is pretty smart. Did she know what might happen?
What would you try if you knew you couldn't fail. Is it possible for some humans to be invincible? Invincible given enough planning and technology and confidence and faith and curiosity to soar beyond the bounds of the Earth? Is risk always present even if measured in advance?
Defer gratification. When others protested the Vietnam War and smoked pot; she would study and plan and sacrifice. Striving to be the best. To be the smartest and most motivated. Become an astronaut. Become famous. Soar high, far above Akron, Ohio.
Judy Resnick was the second woman in space. An engineer, she applied for the astronauts training program and later was one of seven American crew members killed in the Challenger explosion on Jan 28, 1986. She was divorced and had no children.
She grew up in Akron Ohio and her Father was an Optometrist. She graduated from Firestone High school, first in her class. She attended Perkins Junior High and an Elementary in Akron now called Resnick Learning Center.
American in 1985 was invincible. Reaganomics brought faith and reestablishment of manifest destiny. American would conquer space, the next frontier. The future was bright for America again in 1985. The famous Actor Ronald Regan lead America into the future in 1985.
A father lost his daughter. He lost his stunning daughter who played piano and was sympathetic to deaf people. His beautiful talented intelligent daughter was gone, a national hero. Later she was awarded posthumously a Space Medal of Honor.
Judy Resnick was one of two women who died on Challenger. The other a teacher, was the star that day with the media pre-flight. The second woman astronaut, the Teacher's students watched as did thousands of school children on television in their classrooms. A horrible explosion 73 seconds in flight, all were dead, both women including Judy Resnick the Optometrist's daughter.
Might Dr. Resnick the Optometrist who would have been so so proud of his daughter Judy Resnick when she completed grade school, and matriculated Perkins Junior High, and later graduated Valedictorian at Firestone High school sometimes after her death wished her life had went differently? After his Daughter's death, might the Optometrist had wished she had not been so ambitious, such a risk taker, not strove so high. Would he trade her opportunity to have her back. Given a do over would Dr. Resnick beguile Judy when she was young to keep her safely in Akron, Ohio?
What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail. What would you want your only daughter to do if you knew a little of life's risks? Can you face the future bravely? Would you orchestrate your children's lives towards safety and security rather than exploration and fame and renown if you could? Does every question have a right answer?
fiction
edward w pritchard
Could someone who knew everything be able to see a little into the future. Maybe she did not know everything but receiving a perfect SAT score is pretty smart. Did she know what might happen?
What would you try if you knew you couldn't fail. Is it possible for some humans to be invincible? Invincible given enough planning and technology and confidence and faith and curiosity to soar beyond the bounds of the Earth? Is risk always present even if measured in advance?
Defer gratification. When others protested the Vietnam War and smoked pot; she would study and plan and sacrifice. Striving to be the best. To be the smartest and most motivated. Become an astronaut. Become famous. Soar high, far above Akron, Ohio.
Judy Resnick was the second woman in space. An engineer, she applied for the astronauts training program and later was one of seven American crew members killed in the Challenger explosion on Jan 28, 1986. She was divorced and had no children.
She grew up in Akron Ohio and her Father was an Optometrist. She graduated from Firestone High school, first in her class. She attended Perkins Junior High and an Elementary in Akron now called Resnick Learning Center.
American in 1985 was invincible. Reaganomics brought faith and reestablishment of manifest destiny. American would conquer space, the next frontier. The future was bright for America again in 1985. The famous Actor Ronald Regan lead America into the future in 1985.
A father lost his daughter. He lost his stunning daughter who played piano and was sympathetic to deaf people. His beautiful talented intelligent daughter was gone, a national hero. Later she was awarded posthumously a Space Medal of Honor.
Judy Resnick was one of two women who died on Challenger. The other a teacher, was the star that day with the media pre-flight. The second woman astronaut, the Teacher's students watched as did thousands of school children on television in their classrooms. A horrible explosion 73 seconds in flight, all were dead, both women including Judy Resnick the Optometrist's daughter.
Might Dr. Resnick the Optometrist who would have been so so proud of his daughter Judy Resnick when she completed grade school, and matriculated Perkins Junior High, and later graduated Valedictorian at Firestone High school sometimes after her death wished her life had went differently? After his Daughter's death, might the Optometrist had wished she had not been so ambitious, such a risk taker, not strove so high. Would he trade her opportunity to have her back. Given a do over would Dr. Resnick beguile Judy when she was young to keep her safely in Akron, Ohio?
What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail. What would you want your only daughter to do if you knew a little of life's risks? Can you face the future bravely? Would you orchestrate your children's lives towards safety and security rather than exploration and fame and renown if you could? Does every question have a right answer?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
there is a suffering
There is a suffering
fiction
edward w pritchard
We carry a suffering too light to be dissolved by time.
It floats and crusts lightly on the Lake of our consciousness, refusing to degenerate.
When the sun shines on our Lake it can't reach our depths for we harden ourselves,
until the diving water birds of fortune crash through our surface defenses,
and in our exigency we become aware.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
We carry a suffering too light to be dissolved by time.
It floats and crusts lightly on the Lake of our consciousness, refusing to degenerate.
When the sun shines on our Lake it can't reach our depths for we harden ourselves,
until the diving water birds of fortune crash through our surface defenses,
and in our exigency we become aware.
end
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
stand up and be counted
stand up and be counted
fiction
edward w pritchard
Stand up and be counted. The last one standing will have riches beyond imagination. We waited as he preached. We waited cheerfully as our company's CEO, our leader, the famous business sensation swayed, cajoled, preached, promised, and enticed. One of us, one of our companies two million eight hundred and eight employees would today leave their auditorium rich. Rich rich rich. He said you would be rich. Everyone sang. Off key maybe but with fervor and verve and hope. Hope, who wouldn't want riches. Everyone sang the beloved familiar Company anthem and everyone planned what they would do with the money if they were the one chosen to be rich. At the annual national sales and motivation meetings, one thousand employees from each region stood and sang for our company in their regions auditorium. We had just celebrated a record breaking quarter, quarter to quarter sales growth, and as usual it was an amazing, enviable record. Today we celebrate and sing for our company. One lucky one, one employee in over a million will leave the meeting today rich. The company will make one of us rich today.
Your teachers will know and hear and they will be proud of you. Your old coaches will hear and take some credit. Your wife will know immediately for they will pick her up by helicopter and the two of you will be whisked to an expensive hotel, a castle of seduction, and there will be shopping trips for her and clothes and new houses and cars and her Mother will hear and be happy too. Your children will be happy and will be impressed with you.Your neighbor will be happy for there will be riding mowers, and landscaping and new bushes and the neighborhood will be transformed and instantly you will be a good neighbor.
The leader screamed and we stood. Reach under your chair, pull out the secret number stapled to the bottom of the chair. Hold it up, its your red card. Wave your red card. All two million plus of us hopefully did and the computers shined the yellow surveillance lights overhead on the numbers on the red cards that we all waved and waved. The computers instantly matched the numbers from red card from under the seats to the green entry information application that everyone had filled in when they first applied to work at the company. The initial application for employment was your green card. The computers were matching the red card from under the seat to your green application for employment. Just to confirm the winner was legitimate, a technicality.
We entered this morning for the mass sales meeting. Hours and hours of rah rah. This was the culmination. Someone would be rich. Everyone waited for the confirmation. Don't keep us in suspense. Who won, who will be rich?
Wait there was one more card being frantically waved in the air, from under the seats than there are initial completed applications for employment on file. One person in our company hadn't conformed. The computers already knew who the fraud was. Tediously they began the process to tell the company leaders who was the miscreant.
How long could I stand before they found out. Wait they needed our unit. Fraud detection. We must act quickly, somewhere someone hadn't filled out their initial employment application properly. There was a fraud somewhere and we must find him quickly. Leave your seat, our unit must find the fraud quickly. Follow with the rest of our section, put on our special hat and carry our special clubs. All of our section must follow me for I am the leader of our section, an important manager, a lieutenant in our company's army. I am a leader not a follow. All of my unit must follow me to detect the fraud among us.
The big leader, the boss of bosses, swayed and pranced and sang as we watched him from over two hundred locations on the large monitors. Someone will be rich today. Cars and new houses and lifetime annuities and beautiful companions and expensive hotels and women in scanty costumes and books. Philosophy books, and on line courses of secret wisdom and high definition televisions, and video games and new refrigerator and tools stored in your garage in talking red storage cabinets were promised. Wine racks of vintage harvest,and gourmet food, and lawn chairs by the pool.
Stand up and be counted, everyone will be proud of you and your name will be in the papers, and people far away will see you on reality television, Just sign your name, complete the employment application in full they said. Write your secret password as you apply on the green card, the initial application for employment and entry into the company. You must use the pet name your parents called you as your password. It's snookums for me. Tell them your secret name. What's wrong with you. Don't you want employment and riches. Fill out the employment application in full and reveal your secret name that your parents called you. Tell the company everything.
The leader swayed and chanted. He was prosperously obese. Money money money. Stand up and be counted.
Our unit searched, one person hadn't filled in their application properly. How long until we found out that I hadn't conformed. What are the repercussions? Moving up and down the aisles quickly I methodically looked for myself the fraud who hadn't revealed my secret password. I am the one who won't tell the company everything. Why are there always a few miscreants who will not follow the rules? No one can win the prize today because of me. No one can be rich because there is one more red card from under the seats frantically being waved in the air than there are properly completed initial applications for employment on file. The computers will not confirm a winner. No one will leave rich today because of me.
As I lead my unit I sing the company anthem and run quickly up and down the aisles looking for myself the fraud who couldn't conform to our company's corporate culture.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Stand up and be counted. The last one standing will have riches beyond imagination. We waited as he preached. We waited cheerfully as our company's CEO, our leader, the famous business sensation swayed, cajoled, preached, promised, and enticed. One of us, one of our companies two million eight hundred and eight employees would today leave their auditorium rich. Rich rich rich. He said you would be rich. Everyone sang. Off key maybe but with fervor and verve and hope. Hope, who wouldn't want riches. Everyone sang the beloved familiar Company anthem and everyone planned what they would do with the money if they were the one chosen to be rich. At the annual national sales and motivation meetings, one thousand employees from each region stood and sang for our company in their regions auditorium. We had just celebrated a record breaking quarter, quarter to quarter sales growth, and as usual it was an amazing, enviable record. Today we celebrate and sing for our company. One lucky one, one employee in over a million will leave the meeting today rich. The company will make one of us rich today.
Your teachers will know and hear and they will be proud of you. Your old coaches will hear and take some credit. Your wife will know immediately for they will pick her up by helicopter and the two of you will be whisked to an expensive hotel, a castle of seduction, and there will be shopping trips for her and clothes and new houses and cars and her Mother will hear and be happy too. Your children will be happy and will be impressed with you.Your neighbor will be happy for there will be riding mowers, and landscaping and new bushes and the neighborhood will be transformed and instantly you will be a good neighbor.
The leader screamed and we stood. Reach under your chair, pull out the secret number stapled to the bottom of the chair. Hold it up, its your red card. Wave your red card. All two million plus of us hopefully did and the computers shined the yellow surveillance lights overhead on the numbers on the red cards that we all waved and waved. The computers instantly matched the numbers from red card from under the seats to the green entry information application that everyone had filled in when they first applied to work at the company. The initial application for employment was your green card. The computers were matching the red card from under the seat to your green application for employment. Just to confirm the winner was legitimate, a technicality.
We entered this morning for the mass sales meeting. Hours and hours of rah rah. This was the culmination. Someone would be rich. Everyone waited for the confirmation. Don't keep us in suspense. Who won, who will be rich?
Wait there was one more card being frantically waved in the air, from under the seats than there are initial completed applications for employment on file. One person in our company hadn't conformed. The computers already knew who the fraud was. Tediously they began the process to tell the company leaders who was the miscreant.
How long could I stand before they found out. Wait they needed our unit. Fraud detection. We must act quickly, somewhere someone hadn't filled out their initial employment application properly. There was a fraud somewhere and we must find him quickly. Leave your seat, our unit must find the fraud quickly. Follow with the rest of our section, put on our special hat and carry our special clubs. All of our section must follow me for I am the leader of our section, an important manager, a lieutenant in our company's army. I am a leader not a follow. All of my unit must follow me to detect the fraud among us.
The big leader, the boss of bosses, swayed and pranced and sang as we watched him from over two hundred locations on the large monitors. Someone will be rich today. Cars and new houses and lifetime annuities and beautiful companions and expensive hotels and women in scanty costumes and books. Philosophy books, and on line courses of secret wisdom and high definition televisions, and video games and new refrigerator and tools stored in your garage in talking red storage cabinets were promised. Wine racks of vintage harvest,and gourmet food, and lawn chairs by the pool.
Stand up and be counted, everyone will be proud of you and your name will be in the papers, and people far away will see you on reality television, Just sign your name, complete the employment application in full they said. Write your secret password as you apply on the green card, the initial application for employment and entry into the company. You must use the pet name your parents called you as your password. It's snookums for me. Tell them your secret name. What's wrong with you. Don't you want employment and riches. Fill out the employment application in full and reveal your secret name that your parents called you. Tell the company everything.
The leader swayed and chanted. He was prosperously obese. Money money money. Stand up and be counted.
Our unit searched, one person hadn't filled in their application properly. How long until we found out that I hadn't conformed. What are the repercussions? Moving up and down the aisles quickly I methodically looked for myself the fraud who hadn't revealed my secret password. I am the one who won't tell the company everything. Why are there always a few miscreants who will not follow the rules? No one can win the prize today because of me. No one can be rich because there is one more red card from under the seats frantically being waved in the air than there are properly completed initial applications for employment on file. The computers will not confirm a winner. No one will leave rich today because of me.
As I lead my unit I sing the company anthem and run quickly up and down the aisles looking for myself the fraud who couldn't conform to our company's corporate culture.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
worry worry worry
worry worry worry
fiction
edward w pritchard
People change as they age and the great Sultan followed the normal pattern.
From age 14 to 40 for the Sultan it was all about procreation, and it's preparations. Staff at the harem elaborately planned, recruited and winnowed beautiful young women for each nights conquests. Nightly, three exquisite beauties were presented for the Sultan's perusal and the eventual conquest of the one chosen. Out of 9489 encounters, 602 offspring were born and the rooms of nurseries behind the harem became filled with children running and playing.
At the age of 40, unexpectedly and without precedent the Sultan began to worry over his children. All of the children were royalty and were well cared for. Just as some in the Harem worked in procurement, others worked as nurses and tutors to the children of the Sultan. The care and nurturing of the Royal offspring was a lucrative position to hold and those involved guarded their way of livelihood carefully. Additionally the Mother's of the boys, who still lived in the Harem, sought the Sultan's favor for the their son's. One male offspring would become the next sultan. Off course the girls were groomed for marriage, sometimes outside the Harem.
One night, just after his 40th birthday, following a night of restless dreams the Sultan began to worry over the health, prospects, safety, and futures of all 602 of his children. In time the worry become obsessive and pervaded the once happy atmosphere and routines of the harem and nurseries where the children lived and were attended to. At first the Sultan's ruminations were appreciated because new economic opportunities presented themselves caused by the Sultan's fears.
Eventually however, the Sultan's worrying over the fact that his children would someday suffer as they experienced aging, sickness and death outside the harem became intolerable. In time everyone came to abhor the Sultan for his meddling and weakness and one night the Sultan was mysteriously assassinated. The culprit was rumored to live inside the Harem itself.
fiction
edward w pritchard
People change as they age and the great Sultan followed the normal pattern.
From age 14 to 40 for the Sultan it was all about procreation, and it's preparations. Staff at the harem elaborately planned, recruited and winnowed beautiful young women for each nights conquests. Nightly, three exquisite beauties were presented for the Sultan's perusal and the eventual conquest of the one chosen. Out of 9489 encounters, 602 offspring were born and the rooms of nurseries behind the harem became filled with children running and playing.
At the age of 40, unexpectedly and without precedent the Sultan began to worry over his children. All of the children were royalty and were well cared for. Just as some in the Harem worked in procurement, others worked as nurses and tutors to the children of the Sultan. The care and nurturing of the Royal offspring was a lucrative position to hold and those involved guarded their way of livelihood carefully. Additionally the Mother's of the boys, who still lived in the Harem, sought the Sultan's favor for the their son's. One male offspring would become the next sultan. Off course the girls were groomed for marriage, sometimes outside the Harem.
One night, just after his 40th birthday, following a night of restless dreams the Sultan began to worry over the health, prospects, safety, and futures of all 602 of his children. In time the worry become obsessive and pervaded the once happy atmosphere and routines of the harem and nurseries where the children lived and were attended to. At first the Sultan's ruminations were appreciated because new economic opportunities presented themselves caused by the Sultan's fears.
Eventually however, the Sultan's worrying over the fact that his children would someday suffer as they experienced aging, sickness and death outside the harem became intolerable. In time everyone came to abhor the Sultan for his meddling and weakness and one night the Sultan was mysteriously assassinated. The culprit was rumored to live inside the Harem itself.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Where is Dudley?
Where is Dudley?
fiction
edward w pritchard
Crazy old widow McReynolds, up and down Market Street; calling and calling-Dudley, Dudley,- - Dudley. A thousand times, she called Dudley, Dudley. Maybe a million times by now, Dud-ley, Dud-ley.
Get real Mrs. McReynolds, Dudley just isn't coming back from where he went to.
There she goes again, Dudley, Dudley, Dudley.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Crazy old widow McReynolds, up and down Market Street; calling and calling-Dudley, Dudley,- - Dudley. A thousand times, she called Dudley, Dudley. Maybe a million times by now, Dud-ley, Dud-ley.
Get real Mrs. McReynolds, Dudley just isn't coming back from where he went to.
There she goes again, Dudley, Dudley, Dudley.
end
pillar of salt
pillar of salt
fiction
edward w pritchard
The groups formed and marched toward the old sanatorium.
Ghazi is fierce militarism for God. The men marching were not religious men; they were just silently called to march. Spontaneously chanting, the men all knew that they had been called to march. It would be dangerous to interrupt the men and to confront them was ill advised for there were already ten of thousands of them with more coming every hour.
The marchers were watched, carefully monitored, and they were photographed. Individuals were categorized and listed; and the marching men were ominously news worthy. The men were young, twelve to eighteen, wearing the black shirts, and they were too numerous to count. We in power nervously tried to survey them. Once, at the beginning, we had tried to communicate with them.
The God the men marched for was a vengeful God. Each man when they reached the old Sanatorium opened a pouch or bag they had brought and pored their pile of salt in a large heap, added to what the others had carried. A large glistening heap of salt grew in the middle of the cornfield that was part of the expanse of the grounds of the old Sanatorium.
As the salt pile grew the marching men began to develop a communal purpose. As the men waited around their campfires in small groups; each group slowly become aware of their destiny. Waiting in their tents in gentle rains, the men planned preordained battles and confrontations.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The groups formed and marched toward the old sanatorium.
Ghazi is fierce militarism for God. The men marching were not religious men; they were just silently called to march. Spontaneously chanting, the men all knew that they had been called to march. It would be dangerous to interrupt the men and to confront them was ill advised for there were already ten of thousands of them with more coming every hour.
The marchers were watched, carefully monitored, and they were photographed. Individuals were categorized and listed; and the marching men were ominously news worthy. The men were young, twelve to eighteen, wearing the black shirts, and they were too numerous to count. We in power nervously tried to survey them. Once, at the beginning, we had tried to communicate with them.
The God the men marched for was a vengeful God. Each man when they reached the old Sanatorium opened a pouch or bag they had brought and pored their pile of salt in a large heap, added to what the others had carried. A large glistening heap of salt grew in the middle of the cornfield that was part of the expanse of the grounds of the old Sanatorium.
As the salt pile grew the marching men began to develop a communal purpose. As the men waited around their campfires in small groups; each group slowly become aware of their destiny. Waiting in their tents in gentle rains, the men planned preordained battles and confrontations.
Monday, November 8, 2010
when your friend stumbles-first draft
when your friend stumbles
fiction
edward w pritchard
When your friend stumbles, you just keep sauntering on.
Like we sauntered when we strolled with the two prettiest girls in the county; we thought so that day- back then in our endless Summer.
Then mine threw me over- you calmly said- another would come along.
When you spotted at weight lifting you didn't raise your voice, when I choked, missing our current milestone. You just muscled up, pushing up those iron hundred pound plates as an example.
Then we both had our own wives and a half dozen babies or more between us. Didn't see each other much,- you said - it's OK- because, even if we don't pal around anymore- we still are friends.
For years as those children grew, in endless Springtime, if we saw each other at all it was about someone's problems.
And when I fell, a divorce, there you were again, we went fishing, and you said shave your beard, don't forget the mustache, maybe you won't look all that bad and it was Fall for me and it got dark early and the leaves all fell.
Then you stumbled, twice or more already, bad bad luck, and it's winter and we are in the middle of it. Saunter on old friend, don't forget to duck.
I miss you pal.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
When your friend stumbles, you just keep sauntering on.
Like we sauntered when we strolled with the two prettiest girls in the county; we thought so that day- back then in our endless Summer.
Then mine threw me over- you calmly said- another would come along.
When you spotted at weight lifting you didn't raise your voice, when I choked, missing our current milestone. You just muscled up, pushing up those iron hundred pound plates as an example.
Then we both had our own wives and a half dozen babies or more between us. Didn't see each other much,- you said - it's OK- because, even if we don't pal around anymore- we still are friends.
For years as those children grew, in endless Springtime, if we saw each other at all it was about someone's problems.
And when I fell, a divorce, there you were again, we went fishing, and you said shave your beard, don't forget the mustache, maybe you won't look all that bad and it was Fall for me and it got dark early and the leaves all fell.
Then you stumbled, twice or more already, bad bad luck, and it's winter and we are in the middle of it. Saunter on old friend, don't forget to duck.
I miss you pal.
end
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
it's 2012 already part 7
it's 2012 already part 7
fiction
edward w pritchard
Johnson City, Tennessee and my inner spiritual light is very low today.
Later, nine miles east of the town of Johnson City and I am at a farm celebrating Dewali [deepavali] with a few dozen holy people. I am humbled by their goodness and sense of calm.
Hindu's, Siks and Jain's celebrate this festival, Dewali, as a time of prayer. Clay pots are lighted and we celebrate the triumph of good over evil in the world. As we pray, we ask for prosperity in the coming year. These people accept as a given the existence of evil in the world. Many pilgrims here, like the ancient Stoic philosopher Chrysippus [ 280-207BC] before them , find it intellectually consistent that good and evil must co-exist, one is the inverse of the other. I am just coming to grips with this concept and it is helping me develop a more realistic outlook as I travel here in 2012, during the time of the Apocalypse. I knew many successful people in my old life who held to the philosophy of moral relativism. Whatever worked to help them achieve their ends is justified. Nietzsche called that beyond good and evil. I am struggling with that idea.
I have payed for the sweets and snacks for the entire group, that we now eat to celebrate the holiday Dewali , and I am popular and welcome today. My tired soul drinks in the passion in the air here at this small rural farm. I have spent five days helping with the harvest. Even the federal troops here, overseeing the harvest, seem benevolent. The crop we harvest is very valuable, one of the last harvests I am afraid for years to come so I am glad to assist with getting it reaped and saved for future generations.
As I continue my walk East the fireworks back at the farm can be heard a long way off. I also paid for those so the surviving children here would have some fun today. Fireworks are popular with children during Dewali in India. It is considered bad form to start Dewali in debt, back there in India; so I have repudiated my debts here in America on my two remaining credit cards. I don't think I will send my New York bankers a notice of my repudiation, but I have proclaimed it just the same. Try it, it's very liberating.
I am going to join the Appalachian trail soon and head South down into Georgia. The trail will be nice because it's a long green tunnel that will gently lead me closer to my goal of meditating and rejuvenating at the Sea Islands of Georgia and spending some time in the warm sunshine of the Atlantic coast. I understand that tens of million of birds have migrated to the Georgia Sea Islands on their way to South America this year. I try to stay away from birds anymore but I guess I can share the Sea Islands with them if I get to my destination.
Amicalola Falls State Park, here in Georgia, at the beginning of the Appalachian trail is still open and the last ranger here says I can stay for free. They are closing in a few days and have given me new clothes and a room to stay in. This is a sacred place to the ancient Cherokee Indians and it feels holy to me now. I am rushing to stay ahead of the storms which are relentlessly moving South again.
Just north of Amicalola Falls, at Springer Mountain pass, I was attacked by wolves. They didn't eat me because of the odor of death about me from the bad air in me. Still, it was terrifying to wake from a deep sleep to find five wolves looming over me. I need some civilization again. It has gotten bitterly cold over a 100 mile or so swatch ahead of the storms. At night it is below zero in the mountains. Very few humans are on the Appalachian trail. Maybe they are on the roads elsewhere, but I am afraid there are many more deaths.
Amicalola State Park is the very beginning of the Appalachian trail hike and every year before this hundreds of people left North towards Maine from here. Of course most of those hikers didn't make it to Maine. Many gave up a few miles from the start here at Amicalola State Park. That is proving a windfall for me. Just I and the last ranger are here at the Park. He closes operations soon for no money or supplies come to him for his payroll or necessities from far away Washington, DC. He says the federal government will no longer keep up frontier operations anymore, anywhere, in the entire Country. While there are no barbarians like during the ancient fall of Rome, this last outpost in America will be missed. It is the last remnant of civilization I have seen since Nashville.
The ranger is asking me my advice, for he faces an ethical quandary. Should he stay here and do his duty as long as he can; or head out for Washington DC and try to requisition funds and supplies for the future of his charge here? In the end I told the ranger it would be suicide for him to head North so he is returning to his family. First however, I get to stay in a the comfortable lodge for a few days and I pick and choose from all the fine LL Bean hiking boots, and warm jackets and backpacks of supplies. Previous hikers dumped these items on the trail in the Park in the past because they couldn't believe the weight of their possessions and because they had badly miscalculated the difficulty in walking a long-long way. Those hikers from middle America, pilgrims on the Appalachian trail, had their satori at the beginning of their walk. They quickly realized that carrying too many things and too much weight is a burden to enlightenment. If they walked on after discarding some of the things they had brought with them; it was for exercise only, they already saw the light so to speak.
Rested, now I realize I made a major miscalculation. It's not one in one thousand that have survived the wind storms, but one in ten thousand. That means there are now only one thousand survivors left from my home state of Ohio. West Virginia where I often go, statistically at least, now should have only sixty-four survivors left. That is staggering. Still to cull the human survivors back to 600 individuals; only one in ten million can survive. What does it mean? Am I just being delusional in my fears for the future? Why would any type of intelligently designed plan need to have so many feeling, thinking humans die? What would be the purpose, if any?
People I meet on the trail are becoming more philosophical and much less inclined to materialistic theories. Still, the theory of survival of the fittest survives, although it's difficult to see proof of it in action. One finds an ex-college linebacker dead from the bad air and nearby,ten feet away, a baby crawls along merrily thriving in the same air. Survival of the fittest always was framed in terms of there not being enough food. Now there is plenty of food, because no one has an appetite. It's air and water that are scarce. People fight and kill each other on the trail over medicine or blankets, or reclaiming stolen purple glasses, but not food.
People cling to the idea that if they live it's because they are fit, worthy and special. Everyone has a bias toward free will. They think that human initiative and resiliency can overcome any obstacles. I just about gave up again because of the cold. Sleeping on the ground, literally using a rock for a pillow, wrapped in my torn Indian blanket; I am driven to arise by 4AM to escape the cold. Often the storms start at sunrise, sometimes not. It's prudent to be up very early. The worse thing I have experienced since I started from Ohio, here in the Apocalypse is waking unexpectedly to choking from the incoming bad air storms. One's face turns purple, pains shoot down the left arm, and it feels like someone is sitting on your chest. You can't catch a breath and panic sets in. Sometimes you just decide to die. But, if you are a survivor, you wake up miraculously and stumble to your feet and begin to walk to get out ahead of the storms, because the worse is yet to come. The air gets much thicker in the heart of the storm. Nobody survives being in the heart of the storms here in 2012. Is it free will to keep stumbling forward, or determinism. Who is destined to survive? Having survived waking to bad air five time already I feel that I am living eternal recurrence of the same nightmarish hell; like the nightmare of eternal recurrence that drove Nietzsche insane.
While sleeping on the cold hard ground, my head on a rock to relieve the tension on my neck; I felt a series of tremors. I fear earthquakes may start soon here in Georgia. The mountains seem alive swaying and clutching. Earthquakes are what I would do next if I were God to thin the stock of humans down further. Eventually we survivors of the bad air will get use to to the cold and wet conditions, our ancestors did it, so can we.
What does he have in store for us next?
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Johnson City, Tennessee and my inner spiritual light is very low today.
Later, nine miles east of the town of Johnson City and I am at a farm celebrating Dewali [deepavali] with a few dozen holy people. I am humbled by their goodness and sense of calm.
Hindu's, Siks and Jain's celebrate this festival, Dewali, as a time of prayer. Clay pots are lighted and we celebrate the triumph of good over evil in the world. As we pray, we ask for prosperity in the coming year. These people accept as a given the existence of evil in the world. Many pilgrims here, like the ancient Stoic philosopher Chrysippus [ 280-207BC] before them , find it intellectually consistent that good and evil must co-exist, one is the inverse of the other. I am just coming to grips with this concept and it is helping me develop a more realistic outlook as I travel here in 2012, during the time of the Apocalypse. I knew many successful people in my old life who held to the philosophy of moral relativism. Whatever worked to help them achieve their ends is justified. Nietzsche called that beyond good and evil. I am struggling with that idea.
I have payed for the sweets and snacks for the entire group, that we now eat to celebrate the holiday Dewali , and I am popular and welcome today. My tired soul drinks in the passion in the air here at this small rural farm. I have spent five days helping with the harvest. Even the federal troops here, overseeing the harvest, seem benevolent. The crop we harvest is very valuable, one of the last harvests I am afraid for years to come so I am glad to assist with getting it reaped and saved for future generations.
As I continue my walk East the fireworks back at the farm can be heard a long way off. I also paid for those so the surviving children here would have some fun today. Fireworks are popular with children during Dewali in India. It is considered bad form to start Dewali in debt, back there in India; so I have repudiated my debts here in America on my two remaining credit cards. I don't think I will send my New York bankers a notice of my repudiation, but I have proclaimed it just the same. Try it, it's very liberating.
I am going to join the Appalachian trail soon and head South down into Georgia. The trail will be nice because it's a long green tunnel that will gently lead me closer to my goal of meditating and rejuvenating at the Sea Islands of Georgia and spending some time in the warm sunshine of the Atlantic coast. I understand that tens of million of birds have migrated to the Georgia Sea Islands on their way to South America this year. I try to stay away from birds anymore but I guess I can share the Sea Islands with them if I get to my destination.
Amicalola Falls State Park, here in Georgia, at the beginning of the Appalachian trail is still open and the last ranger here says I can stay for free. They are closing in a few days and have given me new clothes and a room to stay in. This is a sacred place to the ancient Cherokee Indians and it feels holy to me now. I am rushing to stay ahead of the storms which are relentlessly moving South again.
Just north of Amicalola Falls, at Springer Mountain pass, I was attacked by wolves. They didn't eat me because of the odor of death about me from the bad air in me. Still, it was terrifying to wake from a deep sleep to find five wolves looming over me. I need some civilization again. It has gotten bitterly cold over a 100 mile or so swatch ahead of the storms. At night it is below zero in the mountains. Very few humans are on the Appalachian trail. Maybe they are on the roads elsewhere, but I am afraid there are many more deaths.
Amicalola State Park is the very beginning of the Appalachian trail hike and every year before this hundreds of people left North towards Maine from here. Of course most of those hikers didn't make it to Maine. Many gave up a few miles from the start here at Amicalola State Park. That is proving a windfall for me. Just I and the last ranger are here at the Park. He closes operations soon for no money or supplies come to him for his payroll or necessities from far away Washington, DC. He says the federal government will no longer keep up frontier operations anymore, anywhere, in the entire Country. While there are no barbarians like during the ancient fall of Rome, this last outpost in America will be missed. It is the last remnant of civilization I have seen since Nashville.
The ranger is asking me my advice, for he faces an ethical quandary. Should he stay here and do his duty as long as he can; or head out for Washington DC and try to requisition funds and supplies for the future of his charge here? In the end I told the ranger it would be suicide for him to head North so he is returning to his family. First however, I get to stay in a the comfortable lodge for a few days and I pick and choose from all the fine LL Bean hiking boots, and warm jackets and backpacks of supplies. Previous hikers dumped these items on the trail in the Park in the past because they couldn't believe the weight of their possessions and because they had badly miscalculated the difficulty in walking a long-long way. Those hikers from middle America, pilgrims on the Appalachian trail, had their satori at the beginning of their walk. They quickly realized that carrying too many things and too much weight is a burden to enlightenment. If they walked on after discarding some of the things they had brought with them; it was for exercise only, they already saw the light so to speak.
Rested, now I realize I made a major miscalculation. It's not one in one thousand that have survived the wind storms, but one in ten thousand. That means there are now only one thousand survivors left from my home state of Ohio. West Virginia where I often go, statistically at least, now should have only sixty-four survivors left. That is staggering. Still to cull the human survivors back to 600 individuals; only one in ten million can survive. What does it mean? Am I just being delusional in my fears for the future? Why would any type of intelligently designed plan need to have so many feeling, thinking humans die? What would be the purpose, if any?
People I meet on the trail are becoming more philosophical and much less inclined to materialistic theories. Still, the theory of survival of the fittest survives, although it's difficult to see proof of it in action. One finds an ex-college linebacker dead from the bad air and nearby,ten feet away, a baby crawls along merrily thriving in the same air. Survival of the fittest always was framed in terms of there not being enough food. Now there is plenty of food, because no one has an appetite. It's air and water that are scarce. People fight and kill each other on the trail over medicine or blankets, or reclaiming stolen purple glasses, but not food.
People cling to the idea that if they live it's because they are fit, worthy and special. Everyone has a bias toward free will. They think that human initiative and resiliency can overcome any obstacles. I just about gave up again because of the cold. Sleeping on the ground, literally using a rock for a pillow, wrapped in my torn Indian blanket; I am driven to arise by 4AM to escape the cold. Often the storms start at sunrise, sometimes not. It's prudent to be up very early. The worse thing I have experienced since I started from Ohio, here in the Apocalypse is waking unexpectedly to choking from the incoming bad air storms. One's face turns purple, pains shoot down the left arm, and it feels like someone is sitting on your chest. You can't catch a breath and panic sets in. Sometimes you just decide to die. But, if you are a survivor, you wake up miraculously and stumble to your feet and begin to walk to get out ahead of the storms, because the worse is yet to come. The air gets much thicker in the heart of the storm. Nobody survives being in the heart of the storms here in 2012. Is it free will to keep stumbling forward, or determinism. Who is destined to survive? Having survived waking to bad air five time already I feel that I am living eternal recurrence of the same nightmarish hell; like the nightmare of eternal recurrence that drove Nietzsche insane.
While sleeping on the cold hard ground, my head on a rock to relieve the tension on my neck; I felt a series of tremors. I fear earthquakes may start soon here in Georgia. The mountains seem alive swaying and clutching. Earthquakes are what I would do next if I were God to thin the stock of humans down further. Eventually we survivors of the bad air will get use to to the cold and wet conditions, our ancestors did it, so can we.
What does he have in store for us next?
end
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
To President Obama again
To President Obama again
fiction
edward w pritchard
Humbly and subserviently as usual, properly respectful, I am confused by your change of heart, or is it a political flip flop? I don't understand, I probably just can't see the big picture. I try to remain faithful and keep my full trust in our leaders.
Here's what I wrote before to you. Read it if you have time. Maybe it's a different approach from what you are usually told from your new New York friends or our countries foreign bond holders.
I am sorrowful to see you and your team changed their opinion on the modification of mortgages and helping the working poor stay in their homes. You remember them, part of your constituency, they helped elect you and you made them some promises, back then. I am sure I am not seeing the big picture, you have those New York Bankers ear and all, and those foreign bond holders I hear they talk loudly down there in Washington. Still, we keep our faith in you. Don't abandon us.
Here's what I wrote before:
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Wat Tyler Stay On Your Horse
Wat Tyler Stay On Your Horse
Fiction
Edward W Pritchard
President Obama be careful of your political friends and advisers, they do not have our best interest at heart, or yours either and they will turn on you when you least expect it.
Wat Tyler was the leader of the Peasants revolt in England circa 1381 and lead an army of 500,000 peasants, looking to end the injustices of feudalism and in particularly the unpopular head tax which was not a graduated tax and all must pay the same amount rich or poor which was crushing the people. The young King Richard who was 15 was being advised by others and when Tyler agreed to a parlay alone with the King, the advisers to the King cut him down when he got off his horse.
Powerful interests in New York and myopic money lenders think of nothing but Money and are ruining our Country. They join with other power groups such as the health care lobby, the real estate lobby, bankers lobby etc, etc and obscure every issue so the truth is dulled by their decaying value system, as they attempt to keep the corpse of their antiquated bloated life style alive.
Any legitimate reform proposed by you in good faith, out of the strength of your heart's true concern for our Country, which you love, will be corrupted by their greed and inequity and although wicked they will skillfully work the current system, using money mischievously, to have all reform die or be twisted to their advantage.
Please, step back, regroup and please
Don't get off your horse, and keep us, your true friends, the "500,000", close by.
A Patriot, who loves his country
Posted by edward pritchard at 11:38 AM
Labels: president obama's true friends
0 comments:
And I wrote:
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The President who had perfect children
fiction
edward w pritchard
The sitting President had perfect children, they were far from grown, so he didn't know about that yet, and his wife was a lot of help.
He had a lot of trouble understanding the rest of us. He was a high achiever, early riser, and a man who could organize and get things done. Self made and from modest circumstances he overcame obstacles to rise to the top.
Why were we always complaining. We didn't help ourselves, needed direction and mollycoddling and never seemed to know the score.
He couldn't be straight with us concerning our deficiencies, his advisers wouldn't let him.
So we waited and watched for leadership, vision and guidance.
The President waited too, dancing his time on the stage.
Posted by edward pritchard at 6:35 AM
Labels: leadership
0 comments:
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Humbly and subserviently as usual, properly respectful, I am confused by your change of heart, or is it a political flip flop? I don't understand, I probably just can't see the big picture. I try to remain faithful and keep my full trust in our leaders.
Here's what I wrote before to you. Read it if you have time. Maybe it's a different approach from what you are usually told from your new New York friends or our countries foreign bond holders.
I am sorrowful to see you and your team changed their opinion on the modification of mortgages and helping the working poor stay in their homes. You remember them, part of your constituency, they helped elect you and you made them some promises, back then. I am sure I am not seeing the big picture, you have those New York Bankers ear and all, and those foreign bond holders I hear they talk loudly down there in Washington. Still, we keep our faith in you. Don't abandon us.
Here's what I wrote before:
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Wat Tyler Stay On Your Horse
Wat Tyler Stay On Your Horse
Fiction
Edward W Pritchard
President Obama be careful of your political friends and advisers, they do not have our best interest at heart, or yours either and they will turn on you when you least expect it.
Wat Tyler was the leader of the Peasants revolt in England circa 1381 and lead an army of 500,000 peasants, looking to end the injustices of feudalism and in particularly the unpopular head tax which was not a graduated tax and all must pay the same amount rich or poor which was crushing the people. The young King Richard who was 15 was being advised by others and when Tyler agreed to a parlay alone with the King, the advisers to the King cut him down when he got off his horse.
Powerful interests in New York and myopic money lenders think of nothing but Money and are ruining our Country. They join with other power groups such as the health care lobby, the real estate lobby, bankers lobby etc, etc and obscure every issue so the truth is dulled by their decaying value system, as they attempt to keep the corpse of their antiquated bloated life style alive.
Any legitimate reform proposed by you in good faith, out of the strength of your heart's true concern for our Country, which you love, will be corrupted by their greed and inequity and although wicked they will skillfully work the current system, using money mischievously, to have all reform die or be twisted to their advantage.
Please, step back, regroup and please
Don't get off your horse, and keep us, your true friends, the "500,000", close by.
A Patriot, who loves his country
Posted by edward pritchard at 11:38 AM
Labels: president obama's true friends
0 comments:
And I wrote:
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The President who had perfect children
fiction
edward w pritchard
The sitting President had perfect children, they were far from grown, so he didn't know about that yet, and his wife was a lot of help.
He had a lot of trouble understanding the rest of us. He was a high achiever, early riser, and a man who could organize and get things done. Self made and from modest circumstances he overcame obstacles to rise to the top.
Why were we always complaining. We didn't help ourselves, needed direction and mollycoddling and never seemed to know the score.
He couldn't be straight with us concerning our deficiencies, his advisers wouldn't let him.
So we waited and watched for leadership, vision and guidance.
The President waited too, dancing his time on the stage.
Posted by edward pritchard at 6:35 AM
Labels: leadership
0 comments:
end
Sunday, October 31, 2010
it's 2012 already part-6
it's 2012 already part-6
fiction
edward w pritchard
I awoke this morning from terrible nightmares with an intense desire to talk to my old high school quarterback. I had an irrational urge to ask him what to do next.
Jeanette the girl I was with at the casino and I had that fight couples have when they know they have to go their separate ways. She South me East. We are at her condo in a fenced in community East of Nashville, having left the casino and we were doing yard work together for diversion when we had "the" fight. A disagreement on basic values about why to push on with life under the circumstances here in Armageddon. She is optimistic, thinks life is opportunity, and everyday is a blessing from God. Of course I had to tell her she hasn't walked through the storms yet and seen ninety per cent of the people she knew die. I told her I still believed in God. But, I was having trouble understanding him. While traveling back in Ohio, near the Ohio river I saw a bird high, high, high up over the river, lazily circling watching us humans fleeing the storms aloft which were coming in towards us, in earnest, early, about dawn, and would kill nine out of ten of us. The air was so thick to breathe that I collapsed but continued to watch the bird. It circled over me along with several thousand other birds and then landed about thirty feet from me and carefully began to tear at a child's cheek, a child who had collapsed, the cheek the choicest part of a human I understand. The sun was just coming up, from the East, across the mighty Ohio river so; I had a bird's eye view so to speak, as the bird chewed the child's prime flesh and non-nonchalantly turned it's head to the left, flinched it's shoulders and stared at me while chewing. The scene was perfectly illuminated in the intense rising sunlight. How could I not believe in God's divine design after that. God is so much like we are, thinking of everything and properly planning it all. We seem to live in a perfect simulation. I tried to explain that to Jeanette but she said I was being negative and existential and we had our obligatory knock down drag out fight and now both are happily sprucing up her yard, oblivious to each other. In an hour we both leave, toward our unknown and disconnected fates.
There's a new wrinkle to the storms. Some say the storms have changed to further cull the herd of surviving humans. Because of the alternate cold and warm winds, both wet and then dry, we now die in great numbers from pneumonia and pulmonary disorders. Those of us who were adapting to the initial bad air now have a further complication to endure. The cold comes in suddenly and saps the weakened will and makes it difficult to get up, to keep moving or have any hope for tomorrow. I have my Indian striped Pendleton style blanket back since Laura left and it's psychologically comforting to wrap up in it at night and it's a shield in the morning against the incoming cold. The cold seems driven to arrive at about 4:30AM the low point in our metabolic cycle; it's as if it were planned to bring humans ultimate suffering. Because of the cold and wet conditions about ninety nine percent of the original survivors now seem to succumb to the new normal and one's odds of surviving now have went from one in ten to one in one hundred.
Somehow I am still alive and I am trying desperately not to get involved with anyone or make any attachments. That is difficult because humans love to commiserate in their suffering and there are many fraternal organizations and affiliations on the trail based on common need. Several times I have been asked to join the counter-factual party; those who refuse to see reality as it is staring them in the face. Instead counter-factuals imagine life as they think it should be. I am a prime candidate but haven't joined to date.
I am heading East from Nashville. I have a plan. My old high school quarterback didn't come to me in my dreams to guide me but my subconscious came up with a map to get me to somewhere. I believe that at one time humans were down to 600 surviving members of our species. I have wrote about that before. [ see blog space ship ride Oct 04,2010]. Just before the extinction of the human species I feel more than know that we dispersed in many directions about 35,000 years ago, huddled on the Mediterranean coast and as a result grew to six billion inhabitants of the earth. Now, here in Armageddon in 2012 I feel the process is being reversed by an intelligent design. Be it caused by Gaia, God or Randomness, I know not, but I feel it is happening. I have decided to head East to the Georgia Sea Islands and then hopefully toward the Mediterranean. If I die at least I had somewhere to go. If irrational, my plan logistically is not that bad of an idea because too many people are heading dead South in America. We humans here will annihilate each other out of spite if we crowd too much together. That's even accounting for nature killing off ninety nine out of one hundred of us.
I used to be a boy scout and I have vowed since I split with Jeanette to shave and bathe everyday. I have water because unlike most I no longer worry about dysentery or poison water. Way back in Ohio when I first started wandering South one morning I decided to kill myself to escape the suffering. I drank water from any source; supposed to kill a pilgrim. I am still alive, having been doing so for one month now. Other than at the Westin casino, where I would only drink imported bottled water, I drank whatever available and am still alive. I have however been shaving and trying to watch how I look and smell. Not easy or too rewarding. We all have thinning hair as we walk caused by stress maybe or the winds and trauma to our systems; and our countenance is demonic looking. Most of us survivors have a perpetual scowl. Nothing unusual in that for me. I used to be a banker back in Ohio, about a million years ago.
Speaking of banking I had some fun this morning. We were going through a small town,[ i am with the counter-factuals for now] and we came to an abandoned Bank Branch. I had said I once worked at a Bank and several of my fellow travelers loaned me their magnum 457's and we blew the hell out of the front of the branch office, shooting for about twenty minutes. About twenty five pilgrims shot with me. Anyone who believes God is punishing America by sending the wind storms automatically eventually finds that they believe the Bankers caused God's wrath. More on that later when I talk about how survivors adapt their philosophy to why we are being made to suffer like this,[ in part 7]. Anyway I am well hydrated on dirty water and clean shaven on rusty razor blades and I am treading eastward with little intervention from Federal troops. I have a plan. I head to the Atlantic Ocean and then somehow to the Mediterranean coast to the home of my ancient-ancient ancestors.
Sunrise still comes every morning. Being outside one appreciates and notices the subtle changes sunrise brings. Looking far off toward the East looking at the light on the low clouds on the horizon, I seem to be able to see down into God's throat as he yawns in the face of our discomfort. Who knows what tomorrow holds for us one in one hundred survivors, but, still we march on.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
I awoke this morning from terrible nightmares with an intense desire to talk to my old high school quarterback. I had an irrational urge to ask him what to do next.
Jeanette the girl I was with at the casino and I had that fight couples have when they know they have to go their separate ways. She South me East. We are at her condo in a fenced in community East of Nashville, having left the casino and we were doing yard work together for diversion when we had "the" fight. A disagreement on basic values about why to push on with life under the circumstances here in Armageddon. She is optimistic, thinks life is opportunity, and everyday is a blessing from God. Of course I had to tell her she hasn't walked through the storms yet and seen ninety per cent of the people she knew die. I told her I still believed in God. But, I was having trouble understanding him. While traveling back in Ohio, near the Ohio river I saw a bird high, high, high up over the river, lazily circling watching us humans fleeing the storms aloft which were coming in towards us, in earnest, early, about dawn, and would kill nine out of ten of us. The air was so thick to breathe that I collapsed but continued to watch the bird. It circled over me along with several thousand other birds and then landed about thirty feet from me and carefully began to tear at a child's cheek, a child who had collapsed, the cheek the choicest part of a human I understand. The sun was just coming up, from the East, across the mighty Ohio river so; I had a bird's eye view so to speak, as the bird chewed the child's prime flesh and non-nonchalantly turned it's head to the left, flinched it's shoulders and stared at me while chewing. The scene was perfectly illuminated in the intense rising sunlight. How could I not believe in God's divine design after that. God is so much like we are, thinking of everything and properly planning it all. We seem to live in a perfect simulation. I tried to explain that to Jeanette but she said I was being negative and existential and we had our obligatory knock down drag out fight and now both are happily sprucing up her yard, oblivious to each other. In an hour we both leave, toward our unknown and disconnected fates.
There's a new wrinkle to the storms. Some say the storms have changed to further cull the herd of surviving humans. Because of the alternate cold and warm winds, both wet and then dry, we now die in great numbers from pneumonia and pulmonary disorders. Those of us who were adapting to the initial bad air now have a further complication to endure. The cold comes in suddenly and saps the weakened will and makes it difficult to get up, to keep moving or have any hope for tomorrow. I have my Indian striped Pendleton style blanket back since Laura left and it's psychologically comforting to wrap up in it at night and it's a shield in the morning against the incoming cold. The cold seems driven to arrive at about 4:30AM the low point in our metabolic cycle; it's as if it were planned to bring humans ultimate suffering. Because of the cold and wet conditions about ninety nine percent of the original survivors now seem to succumb to the new normal and one's odds of surviving now have went from one in ten to one in one hundred.
Somehow I am still alive and I am trying desperately not to get involved with anyone or make any attachments. That is difficult because humans love to commiserate in their suffering and there are many fraternal organizations and affiliations on the trail based on common need. Several times I have been asked to join the counter-factual party; those who refuse to see reality as it is staring them in the face. Instead counter-factuals imagine life as they think it should be. I am a prime candidate but haven't joined to date.
I am heading East from Nashville. I have a plan. My old high school quarterback didn't come to me in my dreams to guide me but my subconscious came up with a map to get me to somewhere. I believe that at one time humans were down to 600 surviving members of our species. I have wrote about that before. [ see blog space ship ride Oct 04,2010]. Just before the extinction of the human species I feel more than know that we dispersed in many directions about 35,000 years ago, huddled on the Mediterranean coast and as a result grew to six billion inhabitants of the earth. Now, here in Armageddon in 2012 I feel the process is being reversed by an intelligent design. Be it caused by Gaia, God or Randomness, I know not, but I feel it is happening. I have decided to head East to the Georgia Sea Islands and then hopefully toward the Mediterranean. If I die at least I had somewhere to go. If irrational, my plan logistically is not that bad of an idea because too many people are heading dead South in America. We humans here will annihilate each other out of spite if we crowd too much together. That's even accounting for nature killing off ninety nine out of one hundred of us.
I used to be a boy scout and I have vowed since I split with Jeanette to shave and bathe everyday. I have water because unlike most I no longer worry about dysentery or poison water. Way back in Ohio when I first started wandering South one morning I decided to kill myself to escape the suffering. I drank water from any source; supposed to kill a pilgrim. I am still alive, having been doing so for one month now. Other than at the Westin casino, where I would only drink imported bottled water, I drank whatever available and am still alive. I have however been shaving and trying to watch how I look and smell. Not easy or too rewarding. We all have thinning hair as we walk caused by stress maybe or the winds and trauma to our systems; and our countenance is demonic looking. Most of us survivors have a perpetual scowl. Nothing unusual in that for me. I used to be a banker back in Ohio, about a million years ago.
Speaking of banking I had some fun this morning. We were going through a small town,[ i am with the counter-factuals for now] and we came to an abandoned Bank Branch. I had said I once worked at a Bank and several of my fellow travelers loaned me their magnum 457's and we blew the hell out of the front of the branch office, shooting for about twenty minutes. About twenty five pilgrims shot with me. Anyone who believes God is punishing America by sending the wind storms automatically eventually finds that they believe the Bankers caused God's wrath. More on that later when I talk about how survivors adapt their philosophy to why we are being made to suffer like this,[ in part 7]. Anyway I am well hydrated on dirty water and clean shaven on rusty razor blades and I am treading eastward with little intervention from Federal troops. I have a plan. I head to the Atlantic Ocean and then somehow to the Mediterranean coast to the home of my ancient-ancient ancestors.
Sunrise still comes every morning. Being outside one appreciates and notices the subtle changes sunrise brings. Looking far off toward the East looking at the light on the low clouds on the horizon, I seem to be able to see down into God's throat as he yawns in the face of our discomfort. Who knows what tomorrow holds for us one in one hundred survivors, but, still we march on.
end
Friday, October 29, 2010
it's 2012 already part 5
it's 2012 already part-5
fiction
edward w pritchard
civilization again- I visit a city
It's hard for me to criticize the State of Tennessee or more specifically the City of Nashville. Both have been exemplary in remaining hospitable to the influx of refugees from Northern States, mine of Ohio included. In the catastrophe to civil order following the bad air plaguing Northern States to date, and slowly drifting South across America; Tennessee is being kind and welcoming to us refugees.
Several States, Texas and Arizona leading the charge, have sealed their borders. More moderate States will let in their fellow Americans, providing they do not have health insurance, mandating coverage in their State under Federal law. Those States fear the collapse of economic union.
I took Laura to the airport in Nashville. After she safely was on a plane to Chile and her new life I witnessed what is probably the new normal for Southern cities. I shudder to contemplate what we have become.
A desperate man at the airport refused to be convinced that his airline frequent flying credits, painstakingly acquired over a dozen years, had become worthless in the last month. As he became violent, I watched part of an incident of him being initiated to the newest generation of DNA tasers. The technology usually reserved for our foreign enemies, often called terrorists, by our military is painful and long remembered. The invasive orally delivered technology is apparently now in use in US cities because of the threat of civil disobedience caused by the new normal of the bad air epidemic and the movement of peoples South it has usher in. I was unable to watch longer as he was overpowered by five security persons and the tentacled device was rolled toward him down the sloping airport concourse.
Nashville, Tennessee
Fall 2012
It took me a while to get out of the airport. The manager found out I had walked from Ohio and insisted on pumping me for information on the storms aloft, as he called them. He tried to wine and dine me but its too soon; upset stomach and myriad physical complaints from the bad air lingers.
I finally agreed to be his guest at the Westin Resort Casino Hotel for a few days in return for a brief written report for the airports use in planning for the storm which reaches here in earnest in ten days or so. Somehow Nashville, Tennessee has a brief retrieve from the winds.
Here is part of the report I wrote for the Airport manager: and then my impressions of the fin de eternity atmosphere here In Nashville, representing the transition of American civilization as it adapts to the changes caused by movement of vast amounts of people south and the death of nine out of ten American citizens caused by the miasma.
Impressions of a Disater
edward w pritchard-pilgrim
The air comes in slowly like a fog. It is deliberate, intelligent and in my opinion people are being herded South by it. It moves to within six inches of the ground and if a large animal, over thirty pounds, lingers in it all seem to die in a few days. Being inside a building or house is no protection. Fleeing is the only alternative, although nine out of ten humans seem to succumb. Physical strength or physical condition helps a little but survival is somewhat a matter of luck, it seems. I'll leave it to a physician to describe the cause of death but basically it's some form of suffocation. Treatment with a conventional asthma inhalers prolongs life if one stays ahead of the worse of the storms which travel relentlessly North to South. On the road we say the winds travel at seven miles per hour but I understand from talking to experts at the airport its never more than thirty miles a day, reason unknown.
I walked from Mansfield Ohio, to Nashville, Tennessee in a three week period. My vehicle died from the fog as did all others I witnessed. I saw many people trying to use animals to transport humans but all failed. I was carried a little in a litter by humans just North of Nashville as were several others I observed who had the funds to hire struggling bearers. Conditions on the road South were desperate and pathetic. People aren't buried, the sick aren't helped and there is little human kindness. Survivors choose one of two strategies: assume they are already dead and just walk or do anything to survive and head South and hope for a miracle.
There is little civil order in cities; pilgrims are advised to avoid cities, see notes on Nashville.
Sometimes for no apparent reason the storms jump, as if to give humans a chance catch up in their fleeing. This is where the idea of intelligence of the winds come in. However far the storms travel in a day, thirty miles per day is a lot to walk for a sick person.
I stayed with pack on my walk and we were never overtaken by the worse of the storm.
I have heard that worse of the storms, caused by sunspots some say, will tear dirt and life from the ground and leave the landscape as a primordial orange hell. That's the whispered description that's supposed to have happened in Canada. I saw nothing like that. To the best of my knowledge anyone from where I started from who didn't flee is now dead. God bless us all.
Nashville, Tennessee
Sin City meets Middle America
Nashville has a week to live and I hit the Wal Mart. I sold an asthma inhaler for $2000 Brazilian and so I am loaded for now. I had traded all the gold I had acquired on the trail to get Laura the little girl I befriended earlier on one of the last planes to South America; so its good to have money again. I rented a car, 1967 Olds Cutlass and I am cruising around Nashville. Most people have left, just tourists, nuts and old people, who decided not to run, are left.
I spent most of my time in Nashville gambling at the casino. I spent a few dollars for a companion and have been paying for her gambling and she is my friend for a few days. She used to be an English teacher in Kentucky and she wants badly to edit my stories I write, we will see on that later.
The federal government is governing in Nashville and other Southern cities I hear and they are making a mess of things. That's all I'll say except they are very high handed, cruel really and I will be glad to get out of here.
What's to say about a collapsing City? It' so historical that it's trite and if poignant, mundane to just a flinch and a head roll to the left. Part of the dwellers of Nashville go to the Wal Mart and work even though their city will end up like all the Northern ones they read about in the news paper covered by up to ten feet of dust and dirt in a week or two. Like Ur, or an Egyptian City or Asian City before them. We don't have city walls any more but who will maintain the city walls here in Nashville soon? Civilization dies and moves on. The young and hopeful, who can forget the death of nine out of ten of their friends and countrymen flee South in desperation and hope. The old go about their routines oblivious to doom and their extinction.
Me, I still gamble and let the pretty girl I am with talk. It's nice to have someone to listen too. The Westin casino hotel here is very plush and exclusive and the staff are like the first class employees on the Titanic an hour after ice was impacted. Service is good but can be erratic. I go to the fine restaurants here and always only order, oatmeal, rolled and heavy for my upset stomach or dried biscuits Southern style or grits. Still it's nice to eat and be served on a silver platter.
Here at the Westin from my room high above Nashville on the Eighteenth floor at night I watch the stars and the fires. The fires are from fleeing people burning their houses before they leave, direction South. They are afraid their bankers will try to enforce their mortgages even though their houses are covered in dirt and dust ten feet high and now functionally obsolete. Maybe one hundred thousand houses are a blaze on any given night, not as many as a Northern city, because of the Federal troops or these Southerners seem more compliant than their Northern neighbors.
Tennessee has sealed their borders and Federal troops are not letting anyone in or out of Nashville without proof of upper class status, [ie] net worth above a certain level. Rioting in Nashville in all parts of the city this morning, so far the casino here is safe. Back to the real world soon. We can't stay at the casino forever.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
civilization again- I visit a city
It's hard for me to criticize the State of Tennessee or more specifically the City of Nashville. Both have been exemplary in remaining hospitable to the influx of refugees from Northern States, mine of Ohio included. In the catastrophe to civil order following the bad air plaguing Northern States to date, and slowly drifting South across America; Tennessee is being kind and welcoming to us refugees.
Several States, Texas and Arizona leading the charge, have sealed their borders. More moderate States will let in their fellow Americans, providing they do not have health insurance, mandating coverage in their State under Federal law. Those States fear the collapse of economic union.
I took Laura to the airport in Nashville. After she safely was on a plane to Chile and her new life I witnessed what is probably the new normal for Southern cities. I shudder to contemplate what we have become.
A desperate man at the airport refused to be convinced that his airline frequent flying credits, painstakingly acquired over a dozen years, had become worthless in the last month. As he became violent, I watched part of an incident of him being initiated to the newest generation of DNA tasers. The technology usually reserved for our foreign enemies, often called terrorists, by our military is painful and long remembered. The invasive orally delivered technology is apparently now in use in US cities because of the threat of civil disobedience caused by the new normal of the bad air epidemic and the movement of peoples South it has usher in. I was unable to watch longer as he was overpowered by five security persons and the tentacled device was rolled toward him down the sloping airport concourse.
Nashville, Tennessee
Fall 2012
It took me a while to get out of the airport. The manager found out I had walked from Ohio and insisted on pumping me for information on the storms aloft, as he called them. He tried to wine and dine me but its too soon; upset stomach and myriad physical complaints from the bad air lingers.
I finally agreed to be his guest at the Westin Resort Casino Hotel for a few days in return for a brief written report for the airports use in planning for the storm which reaches here in earnest in ten days or so. Somehow Nashville, Tennessee has a brief retrieve from the winds.
Here is part of the report I wrote for the Airport manager: and then my impressions of the fin de eternity atmosphere here In Nashville, representing the transition of American civilization as it adapts to the changes caused by movement of vast amounts of people south and the death of nine out of ten American citizens caused by the miasma.
Impressions of a Disater
edward w pritchard-pilgrim
The air comes in slowly like a fog. It is deliberate, intelligent and in my opinion people are being herded South by it. It moves to within six inches of the ground and if a large animal, over thirty pounds, lingers in it all seem to die in a few days. Being inside a building or house is no protection. Fleeing is the only alternative, although nine out of ten humans seem to succumb. Physical strength or physical condition helps a little but survival is somewhat a matter of luck, it seems. I'll leave it to a physician to describe the cause of death but basically it's some form of suffocation. Treatment with a conventional asthma inhalers prolongs life if one stays ahead of the worse of the storms which travel relentlessly North to South. On the road we say the winds travel at seven miles per hour but I understand from talking to experts at the airport its never more than thirty miles a day, reason unknown.
I walked from Mansfield Ohio, to Nashville, Tennessee in a three week period. My vehicle died from the fog as did all others I witnessed. I saw many people trying to use animals to transport humans but all failed. I was carried a little in a litter by humans just North of Nashville as were several others I observed who had the funds to hire struggling bearers. Conditions on the road South were desperate and pathetic. People aren't buried, the sick aren't helped and there is little human kindness. Survivors choose one of two strategies: assume they are already dead and just walk or do anything to survive and head South and hope for a miracle.
There is little civil order in cities; pilgrims are advised to avoid cities, see notes on Nashville.
Sometimes for no apparent reason the storms jump, as if to give humans a chance catch up in their fleeing. This is where the idea of intelligence of the winds come in. However far the storms travel in a day, thirty miles per day is a lot to walk for a sick person.
I stayed with pack on my walk and we were never overtaken by the worse of the storm.
I have heard that worse of the storms, caused by sunspots some say, will tear dirt and life from the ground and leave the landscape as a primordial orange hell. That's the whispered description that's supposed to have happened in Canada. I saw nothing like that. To the best of my knowledge anyone from where I started from who didn't flee is now dead. God bless us all.
Nashville, Tennessee
Sin City meets Middle America
Nashville has a week to live and I hit the Wal Mart. I sold an asthma inhaler for $2000 Brazilian and so I am loaded for now. I had traded all the gold I had acquired on the trail to get Laura the little girl I befriended earlier on one of the last planes to South America; so its good to have money again. I rented a car, 1967 Olds Cutlass and I am cruising around Nashville. Most people have left, just tourists, nuts and old people, who decided not to run, are left.
I spent most of my time in Nashville gambling at the casino. I spent a few dollars for a companion and have been paying for her gambling and she is my friend for a few days. She used to be an English teacher in Kentucky and she wants badly to edit my stories I write, we will see on that later.
The federal government is governing in Nashville and other Southern cities I hear and they are making a mess of things. That's all I'll say except they are very high handed, cruel really and I will be glad to get out of here.
What's to say about a collapsing City? It' so historical that it's trite and if poignant, mundane to just a flinch and a head roll to the left. Part of the dwellers of Nashville go to the Wal Mart and work even though their city will end up like all the Northern ones they read about in the news paper covered by up to ten feet of dust and dirt in a week or two. Like Ur, or an Egyptian City or Asian City before them. We don't have city walls any more but who will maintain the city walls here in Nashville soon? Civilization dies and moves on. The young and hopeful, who can forget the death of nine out of ten of their friends and countrymen flee South in desperation and hope. The old go about their routines oblivious to doom and their extinction.
Me, I still gamble and let the pretty girl I am with talk. It's nice to have someone to listen too. The Westin casino hotel here is very plush and exclusive and the staff are like the first class employees on the Titanic an hour after ice was impacted. Service is good but can be erratic. I go to the fine restaurants here and always only order, oatmeal, rolled and heavy for my upset stomach or dried biscuits Southern style or grits. Still it's nice to eat and be served on a silver platter.
Here at the Westin from my room high above Nashville on the Eighteenth floor at night I watch the stars and the fires. The fires are from fleeing people burning their houses before they leave, direction South. They are afraid their bankers will try to enforce their mortgages even though their houses are covered in dirt and dust ten feet high and now functionally obsolete. Maybe one hundred thousand houses are a blaze on any given night, not as many as a Northern city, because of the Federal troops or these Southerners seem more compliant than their Northern neighbors.
Tennessee has sealed their borders and Federal troops are not letting anyone in or out of Nashville without proof of upper class status, [ie] net worth above a certain level. Rioting in Nashville in all parts of the city this morning, so far the casino here is safe. Back to the real world soon. We can't stay at the casino forever.
end
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