sadness of the heart
fiction
edward w pritchard
a hollow instead of a pain
too much sadness
washes away the capacity for sorrow
go through the motions
until things settle down
when today's pain incorporates
with those past
into a steady state of solemn withdrawal
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
will there come a time when you won't even be ashamed if you are Fat?
will there come a time when you won't even be ashamed if you are Fat
fiction
edward w pritchard
This is a business, I am the president of the studio, and besides it's just a cover. John Lennon wrote the one song and the Royals or someone like that wrote the other. ""I Call your Name" and the other is "Dedicated to the One I love". Your philosophical ideals have no place in the music business.
I want both songs released on the utube by the Mama's and Papa's. Edit out all individual shots of Mama Cass from the video. Of course feature her voice on "I call your Name". Tight face shot on Michelle Phillips first thirty seconds and then pan entire group a few times end with Michelle Phillips front and back.
Just get it done.
copy
Lear Music staff
dictated not read
Phil Pearson
President/acquisitions
fiction
edward w pritchard
This is a business, I am the president of the studio, and besides it's just a cover. John Lennon wrote the one song and the Royals or someone like that wrote the other. ""I Call your Name" and the other is "Dedicated to the One I love". Your philosophical ideals have no place in the music business.
I want both songs released on the utube by the Mama's and Papa's. Edit out all individual shots of Mama Cass from the video. Of course feature her voice on "I call your Name". Tight face shot on Michelle Phillips first thirty seconds and then pan entire group a few times end with Michelle Phillips front and back.
Just get it done.
copy
Lear Music staff
dictated not read
Phil Pearson
President/acquisitions
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
try not to make deals with God
try not to make deals with God
fiction
edward w pritchard
Try not to make deals with God. If he's real he is a heck of a negotiator; if he is a figment of your subconscious you direct him how to favor his side of the deal to his advantage. In either case you start the bargaining process from weakness. Desperate to save a loved one, a dieing child or some other such situation; you approach God or pray to him do just this one miracle and you promise to give up anything else. Later when it's time to pay, even though miraculously God pulled off his side of the deal; your payment to God seems excessive. Often your side is a loss to you of something you held dear.
It's human nature to pray when you are desperate. It's just and fair to expect to have to pay or sacrifice something if you pray and your prayers are answered. The cost you pay if you are granted a miracle is the buyers remorse that occurs long after your desperation has dissipated.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Try not to make deals with God. If he's real he is a heck of a negotiator; if he is a figment of your subconscious you direct him how to favor his side of the deal to his advantage. In either case you start the bargaining process from weakness. Desperate to save a loved one, a dieing child or some other such situation; you approach God or pray to him do just this one miracle and you promise to give up anything else. Later when it's time to pay, even though miraculously God pulled off his side of the deal; your payment to God seems excessive. Often your side is a loss to you of something you held dear.
It's human nature to pray when you are desperate. It's just and fair to expect to have to pay or sacrifice something if you pray and your prayers are answered. The cost you pay if you are granted a miracle is the buyers remorse that occurs long after your desperation has dissipated.
let me die on a rainy day
let me die on a rainy day
fiction
edward w pritchard
Let me die on a rainy day
away from busy people bustling to and fro.
Before I go I need to check the oil in our daughter's car,
I'll send in all of next months bills,
drain the sledge water from the water heater,
and finish the short story I been working on
about the first time I saw you over at the Lake.
Let me die on a rainy day;
otherwise it would be a sad time to pass away,
Do you remember it was raining the first time I saw you there at the lake.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Let me die on a rainy day
away from busy people bustling to and fro.
Before I go I need to check the oil in our daughter's car,
I'll send in all of next months bills,
drain the sledge water from the water heater,
and finish the short story I been working on
about the first time I saw you over at the Lake.
Let me die on a rainy day;
otherwise it would be a sad time to pass away,
Do you remember it was raining the first time I saw you there at the lake.
Monday, August 29, 2011
bumble bumble drop
bumble bumble drop
fiction
edward w pritchard
bumble bumble drop
wake up it's time to die
shake off the morphine
pay attention
this only happens once
sure your tired
and you keep dropping off
but stay awake
it's time to go
listen and learn
don't get distracted by those left behind
there is so much to do
time for you to see what's happening
fly away
fiction
edward w pritchard
bumble bumble drop
wake up it's time to die
shake off the morphine
pay attention
this only happens once
sure your tired
and you keep dropping off
but stay awake
it's time to go
listen and learn
don't get distracted by those left behind
there is so much to do
time for you to see what's happening
fly away
one eyed man, with big hands and no friends/tribute to James Booker
one eyed man, with big hands and no friends/tribute to James Booker
fiction
edward w pritchard
Feeling sad for lost friends. Here's a repeat of an earlier story, just listening to James Booker's St james Infirmary thinking no one should die in a hospital. Poor James died of kidney failure, sitting in the ER waiting for someone to notice him. Not sure if it's better to die in the hospital attended but waiting or alone waiting for the release death will bring. The end of the dream called life.
Come certain time of night us alone long for music to soothe the ache in our hearts and none ever better than piano blues man James Booker of New Orleans.
Talent incomprehensible back dropped a life bent on destruction. The music bears the sorrow of the piano man's soul. Mostly unheard despite transcendental talent; too much drama distinctly revealed James Booker's silent suffering. Shunned by the world Booker died alone, all in, at the end of his rope.
Walk on the Sunny side of the street dark pilgrim. Ain't no body's business what you do; junko partner see you at St James Infirmary. Play on, play on. Lord look for James Booker; he be the one with the Schlitz beer in hand and a crooked eye patch on the left eye. Lift James Booker out of the wheelchair and back on the piano stool. Many songs are unrecorded.
Lord , Lord, Lord, protect those who suffer inimitably, singing unheard.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Feeling sad for lost friends. Here's a repeat of an earlier story, just listening to James Booker's St james Infirmary thinking no one should die in a hospital. Poor James died of kidney failure, sitting in the ER waiting for someone to notice him. Not sure if it's better to die in the hospital attended but waiting or alone waiting for the release death will bring. The end of the dream called life.
Come certain time of night us alone long for music to soothe the ache in our hearts and none ever better than piano blues man James Booker of New Orleans.
Talent incomprehensible back dropped a life bent on destruction. The music bears the sorrow of the piano man's soul. Mostly unheard despite transcendental talent; too much drama distinctly revealed James Booker's silent suffering. Shunned by the world Booker died alone, all in, at the end of his rope.
Walk on the Sunny side of the street dark pilgrim. Ain't no body's business what you do; junko partner see you at St James Infirmary. Play on, play on. Lord look for James Booker; he be the one with the Schlitz beer in hand and a crooked eye patch on the left eye. Lift James Booker out of the wheelchair and back on the piano stool. Many songs are unrecorded.
Lord , Lord, Lord, protect those who suffer inimitably, singing unheard.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
body count
body count
fiction
edward w pritchard
Because of the winds and waves generated by the hurricane all the bodies previously washed out to sea ended up at our little beach in New Jersey. We are a small town and did not have the manpower to properly handle the hundreds of floating bodies displayed in the ocean in the moonlit glow of pre-dawn.
The waves gently and eerily rocked the bodies back and force. Being one of the few volunteers I proceeded cautiously toward the shoreline and began to retrieve the floating bodies of our neighbors to the South who had been washed to sea by the hurricane surge.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Because of the winds and waves generated by the hurricane all the bodies previously washed out to sea ended up at our little beach in New Jersey. We are a small town and did not have the manpower to properly handle the hundreds of floating bodies displayed in the ocean in the moonlit glow of pre-dawn.
The waves gently and eerily rocked the bodies back and force. Being one of the few volunteers I proceeded cautiously toward the shoreline and began to retrieve the floating bodies of our neighbors to the South who had been washed to sea by the hurricane surge.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
hurricane Irene/ a tasteless story
Hurricane Irene/ a tasteless story
fiction
edward w pritchard
A tasteless story written during landfall South of New York City during hurricane Irene.
It started as a humanitarian rescue effort of persons stranded in New York City during hurricane Irene. All public transportation, including horse drawn carriages had be shut down and remaining pedestrians had to walk to escape the city. All cars were banned after 2PM Saturday. All cars were banned except, monster, big wheel super trucks; the kind that run over everything and always are shown going around and around in huge circles if not plowing over obstacles.
Running over everything turned into running over pedestrians for sport. Bored with rescue, the original objective, Manhattan area monster truck owners took to chasing and then running down pedestrians impeded in escape by violent winds from hurricane Irene.
Although news worthy and ghoulishly interesting to watch this blog refuses to sanction such tasteless sensationalism by comment.
fiction
edward w pritchard
A tasteless story written during landfall South of New York City during hurricane Irene.
It started as a humanitarian rescue effort of persons stranded in New York City during hurricane Irene. All public transportation, including horse drawn carriages had be shut down and remaining pedestrians had to walk to escape the city. All cars were banned after 2PM Saturday. All cars were banned except, monster, big wheel super trucks; the kind that run over everything and always are shown going around and around in huge circles if not plowing over obstacles.
Running over everything turned into running over pedestrians for sport. Bored with rescue, the original objective, Manhattan area monster truck owners took to chasing and then running down pedestrians impeded in escape by violent winds from hurricane Irene.
Although news worthy and ghoulishly interesting to watch this blog refuses to sanction such tasteless sensationalism by comment.
a man about the kitchen-rerun
Your Ad Here
Sunday, May 2, 2010
a man about the kitchen
Rerun of a previous story
fiction
edward w pritchard
Feminism has come and is now passe. Diversity has moved on to other more challenging battles.
A man in the kitchen is still a no no. Women want the right to write and tell their own story, earn their own living and pursue their own sins; but only the most enlightened will allow a man in the kitchen. A man in the kitchen is subject to criticism, ridicule, and anger.
The French Chef excepted a man in the kitchen is suspect. Relegated to chili or exiled to the yard to a heavy meat concentration of barbecue. The more modern and innovative vegan recipes and haute cuisines are considered beyond a man.
Woman rule the kitchen with an iron hand. It's not about food it's about power. A man can watch the kids, sit at endless soccer games and attend school conferences but not be in the sacred kitchen. That's the woman's domain. Choosing words carefully, drawn sword like, a woman attempts to define the situation and empower herself and emasculate the bumbling male. Man may not enter the hearth, it is un-natural.
A man in the kitchen is considered shrill. A bitch of sorts. Hysterical. Ludicrous for wanting to enter a woman's world. The matriarchal world defines the limits of a man's venturing into her kitchen. Woman forces man to conform to society's expectations and follow the same tired script and stay out of the kitchen.
A man is not entitled to a place for his tools and things in the kitchen. To suggest otherwise is heresy. Man is considered too inept to even put things in the dishwasher. Popular culture enforces these tired stereotypes.
There are too many boundaries on men when it comes to entering the kitchen. Male friendship or comradely in the kitchen is imbibed with innuendo. Man must keep his place, the garage, the study, or worse, the barbecue pit or tail gate party.
When a man does enter the kitchen successfully such as early 19th century cooks they are labeled freaks, interlopers, shrews. Women control the media concerning who may be in the kitchen and their stories and histories ridicule, mock, condemn, or the ultimate in the anti-male/kitchen stereotypes; men are ignored.
Several men of recent history, the last 149 years have boldly ventured into the kitchen. They made their own life, cooked for themselves, wrote about it in a room of their own, and even made a living from being in the kitchen. Ignoring the iron willed women who condemn their efforts for equal opportunity in the kitchen and outside the home these pacemakers are an inspiration to us all. Not wishing to overturn they cook and fry, and they merely cry out and wish to be heard. To have the food smelled and tasted and to be no longer banned from the kitchen the last battleground in the war between the sexes is their modest desire. Equal opportunity in the kitchen is a war fought by men so they may define who they are and make their rules; and then write and preach about it so other men may follow their path.
Men let's get angry, unite, in brotherhood, the time is ripe- the kitchen awaits- boldly venture forth, sans apron, elbows held high, clutching our sacred light beer, meet us in the kitchen, take control of your destiny.
end
Posted by edward pritchard at 4:27 PM Labels: feminism
Sunday, May 2, 2010
a man about the kitchen
Rerun of a previous story
fiction
edward w pritchard
Feminism has come and is now passe. Diversity has moved on to other more challenging battles.
A man in the kitchen is still a no no. Women want the right to write and tell their own story, earn their own living and pursue their own sins; but only the most enlightened will allow a man in the kitchen. A man in the kitchen is subject to criticism, ridicule, and anger.
The French Chef excepted a man in the kitchen is suspect. Relegated to chili or exiled to the yard to a heavy meat concentration of barbecue. The more modern and innovative vegan recipes and haute cuisines are considered beyond a man.
Woman rule the kitchen with an iron hand. It's not about food it's about power. A man can watch the kids, sit at endless soccer games and attend school conferences but not be in the sacred kitchen. That's the woman's domain. Choosing words carefully, drawn sword like, a woman attempts to define the situation and empower herself and emasculate the bumbling male. Man may not enter the hearth, it is un-natural.
A man in the kitchen is considered shrill. A bitch of sorts. Hysterical. Ludicrous for wanting to enter a woman's world. The matriarchal world defines the limits of a man's venturing into her kitchen. Woman forces man to conform to society's expectations and follow the same tired script and stay out of the kitchen.
A man is not entitled to a place for his tools and things in the kitchen. To suggest otherwise is heresy. Man is considered too inept to even put things in the dishwasher. Popular culture enforces these tired stereotypes.
There are too many boundaries on men when it comes to entering the kitchen. Male friendship or comradely in the kitchen is imbibed with innuendo. Man must keep his place, the garage, the study, or worse, the barbecue pit or tail gate party.
When a man does enter the kitchen successfully such as early 19th century cooks they are labeled freaks, interlopers, shrews. Women control the media concerning who may be in the kitchen and their stories and histories ridicule, mock, condemn, or the ultimate in the anti-male/kitchen stereotypes; men are ignored.
Several men of recent history, the last 149 years have boldly ventured into the kitchen. They made their own life, cooked for themselves, wrote about it in a room of their own, and even made a living from being in the kitchen. Ignoring the iron willed women who condemn their efforts for equal opportunity in the kitchen and outside the home these pacemakers are an inspiration to us all. Not wishing to overturn they cook and fry, and they merely cry out and wish to be heard. To have the food smelled and tasted and to be no longer banned from the kitchen the last battleground in the war between the sexes is their modest desire. Equal opportunity in the kitchen is a war fought by men so they may define who they are and make their rules; and then write and preach about it so other men may follow their path.
Men let's get angry, unite, in brotherhood, the time is ripe- the kitchen awaits- boldly venture forth, sans apron, elbows held high, clutching our sacred light beer, meet us in the kitchen, take control of your destiny.
end
Posted by edward pritchard at 4:27 PM Labels: feminism
Friday, August 26, 2011
President Obama talks with General George Marshall, deceased, fellow peace prize winner-part 2
President Obama talks with General George Marshall, deceased, fellow peace prize winner-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
The story continues with General George Marshall deceased talking with President Obama. Both have a nobel peace prize.
Cont. from part 1
President Obama- what are you trying to say?
George Marshall- Concerning current wars in Pakistan, Afganistan and Iraq, I want to know what is the strategic plan?
Presient Obama- This [1]
[1]Balance of this story has been deleted for 11 years under the enabling legislation of the American Patriot Act. It may not be copied or quoted during that period. US Dept of Justice -08/2011
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
The story continues with General George Marshall deceased talking with President Obama. Both have a nobel peace prize.
Cont. from part 1
President Obama- what are you trying to say?
George Marshall- Concerning current wars in Pakistan, Afganistan and Iraq, I want to know what is the strategic plan?
Presient Obama- This [1]
[1]Balance of this story has been deleted for 11 years under the enabling legislation of the American Patriot Act. It may not be copied or quoted during that period. US Dept of Justice -08/2011
end
President Obama talks with General George Marshall, deceased, fellow peace prize winner
President Obama talks with General George Marshall, deceased, fellow peace prize winner
fiction
edward w pritchard
As regular readers of this blog will know, few they be, this author has the ability to summon famous deceased persons from the past when appropriate. This time General George Marshall has come to talk with our President Obama. Both men have won a Nobel peace prize and both would seem at first glance an unlikely recipient. Their conversation is summarized below:
President Obama- I know you were in charge of the US military when Pearl Harbor occurred.
George Marshall-It always starts with that. Just wait, just wait; you will see
President Obama -sorry, you won the peace prize
George Marshall-yes, for my plan to revitalize Europe after 1946
President Obama- a forward piece of thinking
George Marshall- that's why I am here, forward thinking, If I may: what do you hope to accomplish in three active wars?
President Obama- It's very complicated
George Marshall- I know, from experience: German aggression, WW2, then China goes communist, I presided over many complex military situations myself, under several Presidents. But I always took the long term view, it's a military habit to look at getting into things with the end in mind. The American people have a short attention span for foreign wars.
President Obama- tell me about Communist China
George Marshall- first don't get me wrong, I wanted anything but communism in China. But I disagreed with my boss President Truman that we should send hundreds of American advisers to counsel the followers of Chiang against Mao. Believe me Truman was not easy to disagree with. But I sincerely believed in 1947 and 1948 that we couldn't stop the changes occurring in China without paying an unacceptable cost to America. I had to think beyond solving the immediate problem facing us, and to think long term, in my Countries best interests and against my feelings.
President Obama- What are you trying to say to me?
to be continued
end part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
As regular readers of this blog will know, few they be, this author has the ability to summon famous deceased persons from the past when appropriate. This time General George Marshall has come to talk with our President Obama. Both men have won a Nobel peace prize and both would seem at first glance an unlikely recipient. Their conversation is summarized below:
President Obama- I know you were in charge of the US military when Pearl Harbor occurred.
George Marshall-It always starts with that. Just wait, just wait; you will see
President Obama -sorry, you won the peace prize
George Marshall-yes, for my plan to revitalize Europe after 1946
President Obama- a forward piece of thinking
George Marshall- that's why I am here, forward thinking, If I may: what do you hope to accomplish in three active wars?
President Obama- It's very complicated
George Marshall- I know, from experience: German aggression, WW2, then China goes communist, I presided over many complex military situations myself, under several Presidents. But I always took the long term view, it's a military habit to look at getting into things with the end in mind. The American people have a short attention span for foreign wars.
President Obama- tell me about Communist China
George Marshall- first don't get me wrong, I wanted anything but communism in China. But I disagreed with my boss President Truman that we should send hundreds of American advisers to counsel the followers of Chiang against Mao. Believe me Truman was not easy to disagree with. But I sincerely believed in 1947 and 1948 that we couldn't stop the changes occurring in China without paying an unacceptable cost to America. I had to think beyond solving the immediate problem facing us, and to think long term, in my Countries best interests and against my feelings.
President Obama- What are you trying to say to me?
to be continued
end part 1
It's not a long walk from Osage Wv over to Morgantown/Don't close 3500 rural post offices
It's not a long walk from Osage Wv over to Morgantown/Don't close 3500 rural post offices
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's not a long walk from Osage Wv over to Morgantown. Maybe eight miles distance. That's a long way for me though; I don't speak English and Lithuanian people aren't always welcome everywhere around here.
I am a coal miner, got here in 1926, been here two years. I have to send money home; that's why I have to get to Morgantown to mail money home to Viktorija. I ususally just send money every week from the local post office here in Osage but I can't go there for now. The McGhee clan is after me. I was making advances at Boston McGhee's wife; I knew she was married but it's lonely here.
I send the money back to Lithuania so my girl Viktorija can come here and we can get married.
It was stupid me to put my arm around Boston McGhee's wife's waist over at the Scott's Run mission dance. Those McGhee's really stick together. They wouldn't dare attack me in the mine but I hear they have staked out the post office and general store in Osage. They love to fight. Rather than walk to Morgantown to the post office I think I will walk in the other direction to the post office in Purlsglove. There are a few Lithuanians at the mines over there; maybe they can help me if there's trouble.
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's not a long walk from Osage Wv over to Morgantown. Maybe eight miles distance. That's a long way for me though; I don't speak English and Lithuanian people aren't always welcome everywhere around here.
I am a coal miner, got here in 1926, been here two years. I have to send money home; that's why I have to get to Morgantown to mail money home to Viktorija. I ususally just send money every week from the local post office here in Osage but I can't go there for now. The McGhee clan is after me. I was making advances at Boston McGhee's wife; I knew she was married but it's lonely here.
I send the money back to Lithuania so my girl Viktorija can come here and we can get married.
It was stupid me to put my arm around Boston McGhee's wife's waist over at the Scott's Run mission dance. Those McGhee's really stick together. They wouldn't dare attack me in the mine but I hear they have staked out the post office and general store in Osage. They love to fight. Rather than walk to Morgantown to the post office I think I will walk in the other direction to the post office in Purlsglove. There are a few Lithuanians at the mines over there; maybe they can help me if there's trouble.
Old time Religion on a Slag Heap
Old time Religion on a Slag Heap
fiction
edward w pritchard
Please God, Oh God what will become of me. Stuck with eleven children and my husband Miles McGhee trapped or dead five hundred feet underground in Osage, West Virginia Fifty men already dead, Miles missing these six days in the Christopher mine number three May 1942.
Who will want me? A widow with eleven children, no looks and no where to go. Will the company let me stay on in the company house?
Best pray for God's help. There is a service over at the mission house in Osage everynight. No, I better go to the revival prayer meeting out in the big tent on the slag heap. Me with eleven children and no prospects. Better to go find old time religion on a slag heap. I need a miracle to have Miles found alive.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Please God, Oh God what will become of me. Stuck with eleven children and my husband Miles McGhee trapped or dead five hundred feet underground in Osage, West Virginia Fifty men already dead, Miles missing these six days in the Christopher mine number three May 1942.
Who will want me? A widow with eleven children, no looks and no where to go. Will the company let me stay on in the company house?
Best pray for God's help. There is a service over at the mission house in Osage everynight. No, I better go to the revival prayer meeting out in the big tent on the slag heap. Me with eleven children and no prospects. Better to go find old time religion on a slag heap. I need a miracle to have Miles found alive.
end
Spinoza in Pennsylvania- draft two as rewritten
Spinoza in Pennsylvania-draft two as rewritten
Fiction
Edward W Pritchard
My Grandpa and Father had lived only 12 miles apart but never visited and couldn't agree on anything. I was very fond of both but couldn't reconcile them so Dad lived in one town and Grandpa in the other town and they never visited or talked. When I was 24 years old Grandpa passed away and left me two small mining towns, MidPointe and Deadhorse Pennsylvania. My Mom, my Dad and I still lived in Midpointe as did a few other families but the second town I had inherited Deadhorse was now vacant following my Grandpa's death.
Deadhorse had been a world acclaimed mining town, a boom town of renown for being nearly inapproachable for it was on a hill of slag, nearly impossible to get to, where boots, men and horses went to die. Of course big big money, and easy money draws men trying to overcome the impossible and thousands of men from as far away as Europe and Russia came to Deadhorse Pa in the late 1870's to mine several rare specimens of rock that were at the time highly valuable. Then the mine ran out and Deadhorse was now population 0 with the death of grandpa its last and only citizen.
Mid-pointe was about 10 or more miles away from Deadhorse and had good water and was where the roads ended during the boom. Midpointe even had a railway spur. Midpointe was impassible with 19th century technology, so no road ran past Midpointe; but it became a wealthy little town because the miners by agreement kept their wives in Mid-Pointe and the other women in their lives in Deadhorse. MidPointe although a small town, and because of the mining wealth, acquired all the trapping of civilization in a hurry, several Banks, two or three dry good stores, a music hall for high brow music and fine restaurants and other such places. After the mine dried up and the market for the minerals it produced crashed in the 1890's both towns, Deadhorse and Midpointe died as quickly as they had grown.
My Grandpa had bought both towns in the 1930's in the Great Depression for back taxes. The towns were both long since abandoned and everyone then considered oil Pennsylvania's legacy and hidden future asset so no speculators had been interested in the towns and Grandpa got them very cheap and under-valued. Grandpa had lost a lot of money himself in the 1929 market crash and never recovered financially so he moved his family to Midpointe and began to mine again small time in Deadhorse.
Eventually in the 1940's and 1950's the suburbs of Pittsburgh grew so large that a few nature lovers began to move to far out MidPointe and Grandpa leased land and acquired some of his lost fortune back.
That's about when my Dad was born and when he was a teenager he never forgave his Father for keeping his family in such a place, for until the 1960's there was no running water, electricity, proper schools or even civil authority in Deadhorse. My Dad always hated Deadhorse, Pa and although he raised his family in Midpointe, my Dad once grown refused to ever step foot into Deadhorse, Pa; just a mere twelve miles away from Midpointe.
About a week after Grandpa's funeral my Mom and I went to Grandpa's house in Deadhorse. It was interesting to look at all the old furniture and antiques in Grandpa's house with Mom. Mom loves old junk disguised as valuable antiques and Grandpa's house was a treasure trove of such stuff. As each miner had moved from Deadhorse or died for the last sixty years more often than not Grandpa bought his furniture and small treasures. It was expensive to haul anything from Deadhorse to Midpointe, even today.
Grandpa had always liked my Mom very much and as Grandpa's sole heir, I let her take all of the old stuff she wanted to our house in MidPointe. Of course my Dad probably won't like it because A. he didn't like to be reminded of Grandpa, and B. Dad will have a point I guess; because like most homes in America ours already has in it two of everything. Dad and I will work that out, we are buddies now that I am nearly grown. Anyway, while inventorying Grandpa's old house with Mom the interesting thing that I discovered but Mom already knew was that in Grandpa's office there was about 200 old mining stock certificates hanging in picture frames upon the walls.
Mom said once Grandpa when he was kinda lonely had shown her some old mining certificates he kept in picture frames. Grandpa told Mom that many miners had their dreams shattered by the demise of the value of these mining shares over the years. Apparently the mining shares were usually a scam and because of excessive overhead and legalese the equity stockholders in the mines always lost everything eventually. Of course the big mining company owners had salesmen that petaled and sold shares to their workers and anyone who would by buy them. Grandpa had a standing offer to buy any certificate over the years as a collectible for $ 5.00 or $10.00 and it often was the last thing a broke miner sold before moving on. Later, I found out from my Dad that each certificate Grandpa had left me was now worth $500 to $1000 minimum to collectors so I had a considerable sum of money in those picture frames. However my Mom showed me something about the stock certificates that made them more valuable than money to me.
Grandpa had always made his living polishing the minerals that the miners took out of the ground. It was an art to clean and shine the mineral, and then manufacturer it to a higher state before it was shipped to create additional value. Grandpa had been one of the best at the arcane task of mineral polishing that required a surgeon's hands and must be done with a magnification tool that looked like a pair of miniature binoculars on an extended pair of opera glasses. Apparently the Dutch lens makers in Europe a couple hundred years ago had discovered and first made the device that when worn on the face would allow a mineral polisher to magnify his vision many times and still keep his hands free for cutting and polishing. The famous Dutch Philosopher Spinoza was known for being skilled at using the opera type glasses to see and grind lenses. It was tedious but lucrative work and few could do it for long. Grandpa had been able to do the mineral grinding right up to the end it seems.
Mom showed me how Grandpa had used the magnification device to write on the stock certificates and record the stories and experiences of each miner who sold him each individual stock certificate. If the miner who was selling the mining certificate would tell Grandpa his experiences or an interesting story or anecdote, then Grandpa would write it down and develop it into a story, in extreme miniature on the back of the stock certificate. There was a legal requirement in Pa in those days, for each mining certificate to have a space for special notary notes, about 3 inches by three inches, so the rendering parties could record unusual circumstances to avoid future legal misunderstandings. Of course in reality none of these certificates, that were at that time worthless mining share, were ever tendered so the space was always blank and Grandpa partly as a hobby and maybe to appease the reluctant seller of the worthless pieces of paper began to write stories on the back of each certificate. To write in the small space Grandpa had to miniaturize each word using the "opera glasses" and use a very fine mechanical pencil. It was a similar technique to the working of the mineral that Grandpa did day in and day out and the only real difference was changing cutting and polishing tools for a pencil.
So I had about two hundred stock certificates, each that had a special story from a miner in the 19th century as told to and enhanced by my Grandfather hanging on the wall of the house I had just inherited. There were additionally, I found out later 5 more stories that my Grandpa had given to my Dad and my Dad kept in the top of his closet at home. Mom said that although Dad wouldn't admit it, he treasured those stories highly that his Father had developed and had kept a few of the best over the years for himself.
After I had given Mom the furniture, that first day and driven her back home to Midpointe on my 4x4 Honda all terrain vehicle, I went back to Grandpa's house in Deadhorse put on the "opera glasses" and took down a few of the stock mining certificates. I began to read the stories by candle light; because it was getting dark and grandpa would never pay the fee to have electricity brought to the house.
The first story I read wearing the special "opera glasses" was on a mining certificate for a company called Alpha Minerals was titled " Old time Religion on a Slag Heap" by Edward W Pritchard and squinting through the special glasses I began to read---
end part 1 draft 2
next see "Old time Religion on a slag heap" same author, same blog on the next blog
end part 1
Fiction
Edward W Pritchard
My Grandpa and Father had lived only 12 miles apart but never visited and couldn't agree on anything. I was very fond of both but couldn't reconcile them so Dad lived in one town and Grandpa in the other town and they never visited or talked. When I was 24 years old Grandpa passed away and left me two small mining towns, MidPointe and Deadhorse Pennsylvania. My Mom, my Dad and I still lived in Midpointe as did a few other families but the second town I had inherited Deadhorse was now vacant following my Grandpa's death.
Deadhorse had been a world acclaimed mining town, a boom town of renown for being nearly inapproachable for it was on a hill of slag, nearly impossible to get to, where boots, men and horses went to die. Of course big big money, and easy money draws men trying to overcome the impossible and thousands of men from as far away as Europe and Russia came to Deadhorse Pa in the late 1870's to mine several rare specimens of rock that were at the time highly valuable. Then the mine ran out and Deadhorse was now population 0 with the death of grandpa its last and only citizen.
Mid-pointe was about 10 or more miles away from Deadhorse and had good water and was where the roads ended during the boom. Midpointe even had a railway spur. Midpointe was impassible with 19th century technology, so no road ran past Midpointe; but it became a wealthy little town because the miners by agreement kept their wives in Mid-Pointe and the other women in their lives in Deadhorse. MidPointe although a small town, and because of the mining wealth, acquired all the trapping of civilization in a hurry, several Banks, two or three dry good stores, a music hall for high brow music and fine restaurants and other such places. After the mine dried up and the market for the minerals it produced crashed in the 1890's both towns, Deadhorse and Midpointe died as quickly as they had grown.
My Grandpa had bought both towns in the 1930's in the Great Depression for back taxes. The towns were both long since abandoned and everyone then considered oil Pennsylvania's legacy and hidden future asset so no speculators had been interested in the towns and Grandpa got them very cheap and under-valued. Grandpa had lost a lot of money himself in the 1929 market crash and never recovered financially so he moved his family to Midpointe and began to mine again small time in Deadhorse.
Eventually in the 1940's and 1950's the suburbs of Pittsburgh grew so large that a few nature lovers began to move to far out MidPointe and Grandpa leased land and acquired some of his lost fortune back.
That's about when my Dad was born and when he was a teenager he never forgave his Father for keeping his family in such a place, for until the 1960's there was no running water, electricity, proper schools or even civil authority in Deadhorse. My Dad always hated Deadhorse, Pa and although he raised his family in Midpointe, my Dad once grown refused to ever step foot into Deadhorse, Pa; just a mere twelve miles away from Midpointe.
About a week after Grandpa's funeral my Mom and I went to Grandpa's house in Deadhorse. It was interesting to look at all the old furniture and antiques in Grandpa's house with Mom. Mom loves old junk disguised as valuable antiques and Grandpa's house was a treasure trove of such stuff. As each miner had moved from Deadhorse or died for the last sixty years more often than not Grandpa bought his furniture and small treasures. It was expensive to haul anything from Deadhorse to Midpointe, even today.
Grandpa had always liked my Mom very much and as Grandpa's sole heir, I let her take all of the old stuff she wanted to our house in MidPointe. Of course my Dad probably won't like it because A. he didn't like to be reminded of Grandpa, and B. Dad will have a point I guess; because like most homes in America ours already has in it two of everything. Dad and I will work that out, we are buddies now that I am nearly grown. Anyway, while inventorying Grandpa's old house with Mom the interesting thing that I discovered but Mom already knew was that in Grandpa's office there was about 200 old mining stock certificates hanging in picture frames upon the walls.
Mom said once Grandpa when he was kinda lonely had shown her some old mining certificates he kept in picture frames. Grandpa told Mom that many miners had their dreams shattered by the demise of the value of these mining shares over the years. Apparently the mining shares were usually a scam and because of excessive overhead and legalese the equity stockholders in the mines always lost everything eventually. Of course the big mining company owners had salesmen that petaled and sold shares to their workers and anyone who would by buy them. Grandpa had a standing offer to buy any certificate over the years as a collectible for $ 5.00 or $10.00 and it often was the last thing a broke miner sold before moving on. Later, I found out from my Dad that each certificate Grandpa had left me was now worth $500 to $1000 minimum to collectors so I had a considerable sum of money in those picture frames. However my Mom showed me something about the stock certificates that made them more valuable than money to me.
Grandpa had always made his living polishing the minerals that the miners took out of the ground. It was an art to clean and shine the mineral, and then manufacturer it to a higher state before it was shipped to create additional value. Grandpa had been one of the best at the arcane task of mineral polishing that required a surgeon's hands and must be done with a magnification tool that looked like a pair of miniature binoculars on an extended pair of opera glasses. Apparently the Dutch lens makers in Europe a couple hundred years ago had discovered and first made the device that when worn on the face would allow a mineral polisher to magnify his vision many times and still keep his hands free for cutting and polishing. The famous Dutch Philosopher Spinoza was known for being skilled at using the opera type glasses to see and grind lenses. It was tedious but lucrative work and few could do it for long. Grandpa had been able to do the mineral grinding right up to the end it seems.
Mom showed me how Grandpa had used the magnification device to write on the stock certificates and record the stories and experiences of each miner who sold him each individual stock certificate. If the miner who was selling the mining certificate would tell Grandpa his experiences or an interesting story or anecdote, then Grandpa would write it down and develop it into a story, in extreme miniature on the back of the stock certificate. There was a legal requirement in Pa in those days, for each mining certificate to have a space for special notary notes, about 3 inches by three inches, so the rendering parties could record unusual circumstances to avoid future legal misunderstandings. Of course in reality none of these certificates, that were at that time worthless mining share, were ever tendered so the space was always blank and Grandpa partly as a hobby and maybe to appease the reluctant seller of the worthless pieces of paper began to write stories on the back of each certificate. To write in the small space Grandpa had to miniaturize each word using the "opera glasses" and use a very fine mechanical pencil. It was a similar technique to the working of the mineral that Grandpa did day in and day out and the only real difference was changing cutting and polishing tools for a pencil.
So I had about two hundred stock certificates, each that had a special story from a miner in the 19th century as told to and enhanced by my Grandfather hanging on the wall of the house I had just inherited. There were additionally, I found out later 5 more stories that my Grandpa had given to my Dad and my Dad kept in the top of his closet at home. Mom said that although Dad wouldn't admit it, he treasured those stories highly that his Father had developed and had kept a few of the best over the years for himself.
After I had given Mom the furniture, that first day and driven her back home to Midpointe on my 4x4 Honda all terrain vehicle, I went back to Grandpa's house in Deadhorse put on the "opera glasses" and took down a few of the stock mining certificates. I began to read the stories by candle light; because it was getting dark and grandpa would never pay the fee to have electricity brought to the house.
The first story I read wearing the special "opera glasses" was on a mining certificate for a company called Alpha Minerals was titled " Old time Religion on a Slag Heap" by Edward W Pritchard and squinting through the special glasses I began to read---
end part 1 draft 2
next see "Old time Religion on a slag heap" same author, same blog on the next blog
end part 1
Thursday, August 25, 2011
genealogy- part 3/ come Jack poor jack part 16- draft 1
genealogy part 3/ come jack poor Jack part 16
fiction
edward w pritchard
see previous blog June 30, 2011 for jack the ripper stories
prologue to part 3
Jack the Ripper - [reappears like Banquo's ghost] So, Mr. Pritchard you are concerned about what posterity will say about yourself. Sorry, you know as well as me it's actually what posterity will not say about you. I am afraid you will die as you lived, unknown and ignored.
author [Mr. Pritchard] I just realized, the living are totally indifferent to their relatives and forbears, and as soon as we die we become a member of that same forgotten camp.
jack the Ripper- don't fret, most of us who are famous were awful people, the good are forgotten by future citizenry, but not maliciously. But I must ask where are you going with these Genealogy stories? I ask as a reader, I am confused. please get to the point, if there is one.
Author- thank you for stopping in Jack, and as always I appreciate the advice. Let me start again on part 3, below
began part 3-genealogy-part 3
While we live we totally ignore our forebears. Then frantically as we prepare to die we build a moat around ourselves with the imaginary deeds and exploits of our progenitors. Eventually we are gone and we are but a few forgotten anecdotal details remembered to make someone feel important.
My family was from Ireland and there were many good honest kind people who were my relatives. I know that for a fact because through my genealogical research I have come to intimately know my relatives and have used that knowledge to understand myself and my upcoming exit from this life. I am ready to go when it's my time; I have wrote my story and said my utterances; I slowly sink as did each and all before me. What more can we expect from those who came before us; and those who will think about us sometimes when we are gone.
end part 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
see previous blog June 30, 2011 for jack the ripper stories
prologue to part 3
Jack the Ripper - [reappears like Banquo's ghost] So, Mr. Pritchard you are concerned about what posterity will say about yourself. Sorry, you know as well as me it's actually what posterity will not say about you. I am afraid you will die as you lived, unknown and ignored.
author [Mr. Pritchard] I just realized, the living are totally indifferent to their relatives and forbears, and as soon as we die we become a member of that same forgotten camp.
jack the Ripper- don't fret, most of us who are famous were awful people, the good are forgotten by future citizenry, but not maliciously. But I must ask where are you going with these Genealogy stories? I ask as a reader, I am confused. please get to the point, if there is one.
Author- thank you for stopping in Jack, and as always I appreciate the advice. Let me start again on part 3, below
began part 3-genealogy-part 3
While we live we totally ignore our forebears. Then frantically as we prepare to die we build a moat around ourselves with the imaginary deeds and exploits of our progenitors. Eventually we are gone and we are but a few forgotten anecdotal details remembered to make someone feel important.
My family was from Ireland and there were many good honest kind people who were my relatives. I know that for a fact because through my genealogical research I have come to intimately know my relatives and have used that knowledge to understand myself and my upcoming exit from this life. I am ready to go when it's my time; I have wrote my story and said my utterances; I slowly sink as did each and all before me. What more can we expect from those who came before us; and those who will think about us sometimes when we are gone.
end part 3
genealogy-part 2
genealogy-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
I have read maybe 25,000 obituaries and pieces of information about my dad's family; the Lowther's. Trying to trace my lineage backwards in time I became obsessed with the details of the long forgotten past.
You know what? No one ever notes that someone used to like to play the guitar before they died. Or, no one writes down for posterity that a wife kissed her dieing husband on the forehead ten seconds before he died. No one remembers to write down that Robert Lowther of Cork Ireland lost a hand in an accident with a boat anchor in 1868. These types of details only one who is unnaturally obsessed with the past learns. What good does it do to know such things about one's relatives? Absolutely no good can come of such knowledge. I am the example of that.
end part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
I have read maybe 25,000 obituaries and pieces of information about my dad's family; the Lowther's. Trying to trace my lineage backwards in time I became obsessed with the details of the long forgotten past.
You know what? No one ever notes that someone used to like to play the guitar before they died. Or, no one writes down for posterity that a wife kissed her dieing husband on the forehead ten seconds before he died. No one remembers to write down that Robert Lowther of Cork Ireland lost a hand in an accident with a boat anchor in 1868. These types of details only one who is unnaturally obsessed with the past learns. What good does it do to know such things about one's relatives? Absolutely no good can come of such knowledge. I am the example of that.
end part 2
genealogy-part 1
genealogy-part-1
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was a mistake for me to start to research the genealogy of my last name on the Internet. It lead to me concluding there is no God, that since I didn't have any children then my existence was meaningless; and searching the Internet for my genealogy became an obsession with me. I had to understand my lineage going back hundreds and hundreds of years.
It started easy enough, research Robert Lowther my Father. His family had lived here in Wellsville Ohio for five generations. I believed the Lowther's originally came from Ireland. Mother's family would be problematic for Mother was born out of wedlock. It was a minor scandal, that's what Mom told me; when I was thirteen and asked about her Father. From the family bible I found my Mother's Father's name was Justin Lowther of Calcutta [Oh]. My Mother and Father were second cousins. Things got complicated in researching my family's genealogy after that. It lead me to obsessive research on DNA and it cost me my sanity and my secure place in my community and world to find out who I really was.
end part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was a mistake for me to start to research the genealogy of my last name on the Internet. It lead to me concluding there is no God, that since I didn't have any children then my existence was meaningless; and searching the Internet for my genealogy became an obsession with me. I had to understand my lineage going back hundreds and hundreds of years.
It started easy enough, research Robert Lowther my Father. His family had lived here in Wellsville Ohio for five generations. I believed the Lowther's originally came from Ireland. Mother's family would be problematic for Mother was born out of wedlock. It was a minor scandal, that's what Mom told me; when I was thirteen and asked about her Father. From the family bible I found my Mother's Father's name was Justin Lowther of Calcutta [Oh]. My Mother and Father were second cousins. Things got complicated in researching my family's genealogy after that. It lead me to obsessive research on DNA and it cost me my sanity and my secure place in my community and world to find out who I really was.
end part 1
midland pa, to east liverpool ohio
midland pa, to east liverpool ohio
fiction
edward w pritchard
Along the Ohio River, Midland Pa to East Liverpool Ohio. America's once industrial might on display is found lacking, tired, old and abandoned. Now information moves invisibly on the internet replacing the ever flowing mighty Ohio River as the backbone of the Ohio Valley and Pittsburgh region's industrial strength.
Like a catapult the internet flings jobs and opportunites across the globe. Few opportunites fall anymore along Route 68 West Midland Pa to East Liverpool Ohio. Huge industrial complexes slowly rust into oblivion as do the idled workers who once worked there.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Along the Ohio River, Midland Pa to East Liverpool Ohio. America's once industrial might on display is found lacking, tired, old and abandoned. Now information moves invisibly on the internet replacing the ever flowing mighty Ohio River as the backbone of the Ohio Valley and Pittsburgh region's industrial strength.
Like a catapult the internet flings jobs and opportunites across the globe. Few opportunites fall anymore along Route 68 West Midland Pa to East Liverpool Ohio. Huge industrial complexes slowly rust into oblivion as do the idled workers who once worked there.
first shall become last
first shall become last
fiction
edward w pritchard
In the 1950's as a boy, in my youth Akron, Ohio was powerful full of jobs, opportunity, smoke and pollution. Now the air is clean and the streets are uncrowded; the manufacturing and distribution jobs are gone. Gone back down route 21 to Morgantown, WVA. Morgantown, the place we looked down our noses at back then. Hillbillies, coal miners and of course our relatives who hadn't came North on 21 to Akron or Canton or Cleveland for Jobs from 1920 to 1950.
Morgantown is booming. A Major University overflowing with students, willing workers, oil and gas deals everywhere, and visitors on extended stay there on business. Morgantown's unemployment rate is below the national average. It's the next Pittsburgh I hear.
First shall become last and last will be first.
fiction
edward w pritchard
In the 1950's as a boy, in my youth Akron, Ohio was powerful full of jobs, opportunity, smoke and pollution. Now the air is clean and the streets are uncrowded; the manufacturing and distribution jobs are gone. Gone back down route 21 to Morgantown, WVA. Morgantown, the place we looked down our noses at back then. Hillbillies, coal miners and of course our relatives who hadn't came North on 21 to Akron or Canton or Cleveland for Jobs from 1920 to 1950.
Morgantown is booming. A Major University overflowing with students, willing workers, oil and gas deals everywhere, and visitors on extended stay there on business. Morgantown's unemployment rate is below the national average. It's the next Pittsburgh I hear.
First shall become last and last will be first.
Monday, August 22, 2011
surrounded by deal makers, trying to stay out of the way
surrounded by deal makers, trying to stay out of the way
fiction
edward w pritchard
Over and over I moved about the small chamber trying to stay out of the way of the dealmaking. Access to the Judge was limited and everyone needed to see her with their proposals and problems. Ever the politican, the Judge sought me out and struggled to include me; for all must participate for the game to proceed accordingly.
I had no proposals for I represented no one. In the small room I tried to avoid the bartering. Surrounded by deal makers, trying to stay out of the way, I waited in limbo misplaced on anothers battlefield.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Over and over I moved about the small chamber trying to stay out of the way of the dealmaking. Access to the Judge was limited and everyone needed to see her with their proposals and problems. Ever the politican, the Judge sought me out and struggled to include me; for all must participate for the game to proceed accordingly.
I had no proposals for I represented no one. In the small room I tried to avoid the bartering. Surrounded by deal makers, trying to stay out of the way, I waited in limbo misplaced on anothers battlefield.
the end of sexual acuity; the onset of death
the end of sexual acuity; the onset of death
fiction
edward w pritchard
I lost some advantage to the seven women with my initial feelings of sexual interest in the situation. But things went accordingly, superior numbers prevailed, and the seven women were successful in their attempts to kill me. The one biting me on my shoulder was a mere distraction and the one biting the middle of my back was painful but insignificant.
Two women were closing their teeth on my neck, one at the carotid artery and one at the windpipe. Their efforts were quickly exhausting me and the fight left me with my breath. As I began to stumble to fall I wished I had struck directly early with my fists but I doubt if it would have influenced significantly the outcome as I fell hard to the ground under the weight of my seven attakers. Death came but slower than I imagined as I sent my mind elsewhere slightly embarassed by the absurdity of what was occurring.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I lost some advantage to the seven women with my initial feelings of sexual interest in the situation. But things went accordingly, superior numbers prevailed, and the seven women were successful in their attempts to kill me. The one biting me on my shoulder was a mere distraction and the one biting the middle of my back was painful but insignificant.
Two women were closing their teeth on my neck, one at the carotid artery and one at the windpipe. Their efforts were quickly exhausting me and the fight left me with my breath. As I began to stumble to fall I wished I had struck directly early with my fists but I doubt if it would have influenced significantly the outcome as I fell hard to the ground under the weight of my seven attakers. Death came but slower than I imagined as I sent my mind elsewhere slightly embarassed by the absurdity of what was occurring.
fighting in your place on the castle walls
fighting in your place on the castle walls
fiction
edward w pritchard
Fighting in your place on the castle walls after eight hours of intense battle one grows numb to the slaughter and begins to see the mayhem clearly, dispassionately and with more than idle curiosity. The man to my left, the braggart as I had previously judged him had an arrow through his neck, angled low to high, now dead; but he hadn't fallen and was impaled and held up on his own spear. Our purported invincible enemy below fuming and strutting at us as they fought; screamed in agony and cowardice when scalded by burning oil or spattered with small pieces of metal from our artillery.
A light rain began to fall and the sweat on my arms and back bristled with chill as I continued with my duties of tending to cauldrons of burning oil near ready for the enemies next charge and heated the small chunks of metal to be fired soon from our over heated field artillery machinery.
This my fourth siege here in the castle and it looked to be several more days before it became known if we would succeed in our efforts to drive off our beseigers and save our children and wives from slaughter and mayhem.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Fighting in your place on the castle walls after eight hours of intense battle one grows numb to the slaughter and begins to see the mayhem clearly, dispassionately and with more than idle curiosity. The man to my left, the braggart as I had previously judged him had an arrow through his neck, angled low to high, now dead; but he hadn't fallen and was impaled and held up on his own spear. Our purported invincible enemy below fuming and strutting at us as they fought; screamed in agony and cowardice when scalded by burning oil or spattered with small pieces of metal from our artillery.
A light rain began to fall and the sweat on my arms and back bristled with chill as I continued with my duties of tending to cauldrons of burning oil near ready for the enemies next charge and heated the small chunks of metal to be fired soon from our over heated field artillery machinery.
This my fourth siege here in the castle and it looked to be several more days before it became known if we would succeed in our efforts to drive off our beseigers and save our children and wives from slaughter and mayhem.
hell on earth
hell on earth
fiction
edward w pritchard
My small yard was engulfed in more than a dozen gurgling pools of molten boiling rock forced up from deep in the earth. The unusual geothermal activity came out of nowhere and disrupted all communications. I was unable to leave my home or contact anyone for solace.
As the fiery burbling rock crackled and spattered trees houses and cars began to spontaneously erupt in flash fires and explosions. Birds, pets, small animals and insects screeched and popped prior to their extinction. It was hell on earth and I began to pray a few moments before my house began to burn in crimson and blue flames. I felt my blood slowly began the process that must lead to boiling as my last memory of this existence.
fiction
edward w pritchard
My small yard was engulfed in more than a dozen gurgling pools of molten boiling rock forced up from deep in the earth. The unusual geothermal activity came out of nowhere and disrupted all communications. I was unable to leave my home or contact anyone for solace.
As the fiery burbling rock crackled and spattered trees houses and cars began to spontaneously erupt in flash fires and explosions. Birds, pets, small animals and insects screeched and popped prior to their extinction. It was hell on earth and I began to pray a few moments before my house began to burn in crimson and blue flames. I felt my blood slowly began the process that must lead to boiling as my last memory of this existence.
my avatar has gained weight about the chin
my avatar has gained weight about the chin
fiction
edward w pritchard
My avatar has gained weight about the chin
My avatar seems lethargic and thick
Avatar is lazy and unproductive lately
My avatar is not learning new skills and dwells in the past
My avatar's eye contact is less than optimal
Too much experience corrupts the divine.
I'll tell him,
My avatar needs to hear the truth from one who understands.
Then he can work on his failings and faults
find his original nature,
and function as God intented.
fiction
edward w pritchard
My avatar has gained weight about the chin
My avatar seems lethargic and thick
Avatar is lazy and unproductive lately
My avatar is not learning new skills and dwells in the past
My avatar's eye contact is less than optimal
Too much experience corrupts the divine.
I'll tell him,
My avatar needs to hear the truth from one who understands.
Then he can work on his failings and faults
find his original nature,
and function as God intented.
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize parts 1, 2 and 3 and 4
Sunday, August 21, 2011
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize
fiction
edward w pritchard
part 1
Everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize. I work at the goodwill and when we take in goods I keep a complete inventory. I must look carefully for people hide things behind their dresser drawers or underneath and inside of toy chests.
Yesterday I found several letters, handwritten in blue ink, on creamy thick stationary; explaining what happened to Mrs. Purlson the last eight years of her life.
There are no markings on the small oak vanity that the letters from Mrs. Purlson were hiding in and no dates on the letters. Mrs. Purlson could have been from anywhere in the United States or Canada or Great Britain; except maybe Quebec, for all the letters are in English. Mrs. Purlson's husband was planing to kill his wife she suspected, and in the letters she tells of her eight year ordeal to understand and predict his motivation and behavior. As she went about her ordinary life Mrs. Purlson would write a few lines furthering the mystery of why Mr. Purlson would want to do away with his wife of sixteen years marriage.
The letters end smoothly on a warm day in June where ever the Purlson's lived at. We will never know what happened to Mrs. Purlson, murder or just mystery for I have been unable to locate her online.
I keep the letters and reread them now and then just for something to do on my breaks from work here at the Goodwill in Reston, Illinois.
end part 1
Posted by edward pritchard at 5:43 AM Labels: mystery
part 2
Sunday, August 21, 2011
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Dad got me this job at JC Penny's. Nine years I have been coming in, always on time, never talking back to the bosses. That's no small accomplishment because I am a real screw up, drinking, fighting and anything else to mess up my life. Dad stuck his neck out to get me this job. At least with his own value system because Dad thought a lot of JC Penny's where he worked for thirty years and then retired and arranged for me to take over his job as maintenance. No one thought I would make it a month, let alone nine years.
On my breaks, three times in eight hours, excluding a half hour for lunch, I take twelve minutes to stand behind the store and smoke. The back of the building is in a very old strip mall and faces the railroad tracks here in Nantes, Oregon. When I was twelve or thirteen I would stand back here with my Dad on his breaks and have to tell him if I had been kicked out of school for fighting that day or just flicked class. Mom would send me down on my bike and Dad would have twelve minutes to hear my story and tell me my punishment.
About a year ago I tried to stop smoking. My new girlfriend's Janet's idea. Neither worked out; new girlfriend or stopping smoking.
As I stood on my break back then a year ago trying to stop smoking I needed something to do with my hands to take my mind off of cigaretes. I would pry loose the faded white mortar betweeen the bricks on the back of the JC Penny's building. That's how I found the letters written by Mr. Purlson.
I never found out who Mr. Purlson was or where he was from. Of course I looked at public records to try to find him here in Nantes and around Oregon; but I never found the identity of Manford Purlson the man in the stack of letters I found who thought his wife was planning to kill him.
The letters are hand written in blue ink on old stationary and cover a three year period. They were in a small box sealed up in the back brick wall behind the JC Penny where I work here in Nantes, Oregon. Manford Purlson writes every now and then about his fears his wife is plotting to kill him. There are no dates on the letters nor is a location mentioned in the letters. My cousin, who works at the library couldn't locate either Mr or Mrs. Purlson so it's a mystery to me what happened to Manford Purlson. I often read the letters on my smoking break here at the JC Penny's as I stand behind the store and watch the trains go by. It's nice to have something to think about besides my mess of a life here in Oregon. Somewhere someone in the United States knows what happened to Manford Purlson and one day I am going to find out for myself.
end part 2
Posted by edward pritchard at 10:26 AM Labels: mystery part 2
part 3
Sunday, August 21, 2011
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-PART 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
Urban myths continued:
Urban myths and legends: part two husbands who plot to kill their wives, and vice versa
Another interesting urban myth is the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson. Her husband wants to kill her and only you can rescue her. Or, is it too late; the deed is done and Manford Purlson, the husband has already gotten away with murder. He killed his wife. You have found her secret letters but you don't know where they lived to report the murders. In other variations of the story you have found the letters but aren't sure if the murder just happened, or was it one hundred years ago?
Typically the story involves someone finding secret letters. Written in blue ink by hand on fine stationary paper. Often the finder has been duped and he or she really finds letters in an old brick fence or in the rafters of a condemned house. Of course the papers have been planted by someone to perpetuate the urban myth. Police, librarians and reporters cringe when the crime is reported. Murder! Across America from the early 1970's to now over six hundred killings of Mrs. Purlson has been dutifully reported.
Sometimes Mr Purlson gets his revenge. The the letters found are from Mr Purlson, Manford, and he fears his wife is plotting to do him in soon. Married couples beware! You may suffer the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson or occassionally perhaps that of Manford Purlson. Your spouse is plotting to kill you. Proceed with caution, you may be married to a murderer.
end
part 3
Urban myths and legends: part two husbands who plot to kill their wives, and vice versa
Posted by edward pritchard at 11:27 PM 0 comments Labels: mystery part 3
part 4
fiction
edward w pritchard
Streetsboro Tatler
your news, and only your news
by lallie junko
Chief Johnson of our Streetsboro police department has solved one of America's longest running unsolved murders. At least he thinks he has. You be the Judge. Is Manford Purlson a guilty murdered? Or, is Manford the victim; a henpecked husband who is summoned in times of stress as a symbol of our secret fears.
Detective Johnson of Ravenna Road has been chief of the five man Streetsboro police department for five years. Previous he was thirty eight years detective Cleveland [Ohio] CPD. He is also an amateur psychologist it seems and believes that the urban legend known as who killed Mrs. Purlson is solvable.
Citing the work of Carl Jung, the famous psychologist from Europe and former student of Sigmund Freud our Chief Johnson believes that the personna and legend of Mrs. Purlson is perpetuated by Americans in times of national stress.
Typically, a stash of hidden hand written letters are found buried away in an old hollow tree or attic wall by an innocent victim of a prank. Someone has planted the letters of course but the finder doesn't know or believe that and upon latter evidence to the bogus authenticity of the letters; the finder refuses to see the hoax and continues to fight to rescue poor Mrs. Purlson. Mrs. Purlson has been murdered by her husband, Manford and he has gotten away with the crime. The original finders of the letters then contacts police frantically looking for justice for the missing Mrs. Purlson.
In his soon to be published book on the subject, " Mrs. Purlson Everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize" Chief Johnson exposes the psychology behind the Urban legend of Mrs. Purlson and acquaints the reader to the work of Carl Jung on hidden psychological irrational forces that govern and dominate the thinking of even the most logical Americans.
Chief's Johnson's third book is a good read. Try it. Help rescue Mrs. Purlson. Book available at Hattie Stevens used books, seventh street Streetsboro and Main street Ravenna.
end part 4
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize
fiction
edward w pritchard
part 1
Everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize. I work at the goodwill and when we take in goods I keep a complete inventory. I must look carefully for people hide things behind their dresser drawers or underneath and inside of toy chests.
Yesterday I found several letters, handwritten in blue ink, on creamy thick stationary; explaining what happened to Mrs. Purlson the last eight years of her life.
There are no markings on the small oak vanity that the letters from Mrs. Purlson were hiding in and no dates on the letters. Mrs. Purlson could have been from anywhere in the United States or Canada or Great Britain; except maybe Quebec, for all the letters are in English. Mrs. Purlson's husband was planing to kill his wife she suspected, and in the letters she tells of her eight year ordeal to understand and predict his motivation and behavior. As she went about her ordinary life Mrs. Purlson would write a few lines furthering the mystery of why Mr. Purlson would want to do away with his wife of sixteen years marriage.
The letters end smoothly on a warm day in June where ever the Purlson's lived at. We will never know what happened to Mrs. Purlson, murder or just mystery for I have been unable to locate her online.
I keep the letters and reread them now and then just for something to do on my breaks from work here at the Goodwill in Reston, Illinois.
end part 1
Posted by edward pritchard at 5:43 AM Labels: mystery
part 2
Sunday, August 21, 2011
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Dad got me this job at JC Penny's. Nine years I have been coming in, always on time, never talking back to the bosses. That's no small accomplishment because I am a real screw up, drinking, fighting and anything else to mess up my life. Dad stuck his neck out to get me this job. At least with his own value system because Dad thought a lot of JC Penny's where he worked for thirty years and then retired and arranged for me to take over his job as maintenance. No one thought I would make it a month, let alone nine years.
On my breaks, three times in eight hours, excluding a half hour for lunch, I take twelve minutes to stand behind the store and smoke. The back of the building is in a very old strip mall and faces the railroad tracks here in Nantes, Oregon. When I was twelve or thirteen I would stand back here with my Dad on his breaks and have to tell him if I had been kicked out of school for fighting that day or just flicked class. Mom would send me down on my bike and Dad would have twelve minutes to hear my story and tell me my punishment.
About a year ago I tried to stop smoking. My new girlfriend's Janet's idea. Neither worked out; new girlfriend or stopping smoking.
As I stood on my break back then a year ago trying to stop smoking I needed something to do with my hands to take my mind off of cigaretes. I would pry loose the faded white mortar betweeen the bricks on the back of the JC Penny's building. That's how I found the letters written by Mr. Purlson.
I never found out who Mr. Purlson was or where he was from. Of course I looked at public records to try to find him here in Nantes and around Oregon; but I never found the identity of Manford Purlson the man in the stack of letters I found who thought his wife was planning to kill him.
The letters are hand written in blue ink on old stationary and cover a three year period. They were in a small box sealed up in the back brick wall behind the JC Penny where I work here in Nantes, Oregon. Manford Purlson writes every now and then about his fears his wife is plotting to kill him. There are no dates on the letters nor is a location mentioned in the letters. My cousin, who works at the library couldn't locate either Mr or Mrs. Purlson so it's a mystery to me what happened to Manford Purlson. I often read the letters on my smoking break here at the JC Penny's as I stand behind the store and watch the trains go by. It's nice to have something to think about besides my mess of a life here in Oregon. Somewhere someone in the United States knows what happened to Manford Purlson and one day I am going to find out for myself.
end part 2
Posted by edward pritchard at 10:26 AM Labels: mystery part 2
part 3
Sunday, August 21, 2011
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-PART 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
Urban myths continued:
Urban myths and legends: part two husbands who plot to kill their wives, and vice versa
Another interesting urban myth is the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson. Her husband wants to kill her and only you can rescue her. Or, is it too late; the deed is done and Manford Purlson, the husband has already gotten away with murder. He killed his wife. You have found her secret letters but you don't know where they lived to report the murders. In other variations of the story you have found the letters but aren't sure if the murder just happened, or was it one hundred years ago?
Typically the story involves someone finding secret letters. Written in blue ink by hand on fine stationary paper. Often the finder has been duped and he or she really finds letters in an old brick fence or in the rafters of a condemned house. Of course the papers have been planted by someone to perpetuate the urban myth. Police, librarians and reporters cringe when the crime is reported. Murder! Across America from the early 1970's to now over six hundred killings of Mrs. Purlson has been dutifully reported.
Sometimes Mr Purlson gets his revenge. The the letters found are from Mr Purlson, Manford, and he fears his wife is plotting to do him in soon. Married couples beware! You may suffer the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson or occassionally perhaps that of Manford Purlson. Your spouse is plotting to kill you. Proceed with caution, you may be married to a murderer.
end
part 3
Urban myths and legends: part two husbands who plot to kill their wives, and vice versa
Posted by edward pritchard at 11:27 PM 0 comments Labels: mystery part 3
part 4
fiction
edward w pritchard
Streetsboro Tatler
your news, and only your news
by lallie junko
Chief Johnson of our Streetsboro police department has solved one of America's longest running unsolved murders. At least he thinks he has. You be the Judge. Is Manford Purlson a guilty murdered? Or, is Manford the victim; a henpecked husband who is summoned in times of stress as a symbol of our secret fears.
Detective Johnson of Ravenna Road has been chief of the five man Streetsboro police department for five years. Previous he was thirty eight years detective Cleveland [Ohio] CPD. He is also an amateur psychologist it seems and believes that the urban legend known as who killed Mrs. Purlson is solvable.
Citing the work of Carl Jung, the famous psychologist from Europe and former student of Sigmund Freud our Chief Johnson believes that the personna and legend of Mrs. Purlson is perpetuated by Americans in times of national stress.
Typically, a stash of hidden hand written letters are found buried away in an old hollow tree or attic wall by an innocent victim of a prank. Someone has planted the letters of course but the finder doesn't know or believe that and upon latter evidence to the bogus authenticity of the letters; the finder refuses to see the hoax and continues to fight to rescue poor Mrs. Purlson. Mrs. Purlson has been murdered by her husband, Manford and he has gotten away with the crime. The original finders of the letters then contacts police frantically looking for justice for the missing Mrs. Purlson.
In his soon to be published book on the subject, " Mrs. Purlson Everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize" Chief Johnson exposes the psychology behind the Urban legend of Mrs. Purlson and acquaints the reader to the work of Carl Jung on hidden psychological irrational forces that govern and dominate the thinking of even the most logical Americans.
Chief's Johnson's third book is a good read. Try it. Help rescue Mrs. Purlson. Book available at Hattie Stevens used books, seventh street Streetsboro and Main street Ravenna.
end part 4
Sunday, August 21, 2011
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-PART 3
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-PART 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
Urban myths continued:
Another interesting urban myth is the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson. Her husband wants to kill her and only you can rescue her. Or, is it too late; the deed is done and Manford Purlson, the husband has already gotten away with murder. He killed his wife. You have found her secret letters but you don't know where they lived to report the murders. In other variations of the story you have found the letters but aren't sure if the murder just happened, or was it one hundred years ago?
Typically the story involves someone finding secret letters. Written in blue ink by hand on fine stationary paper. Often the finder has been duped and he or she really finds letters in an old brick fence or in the rafters of a condemned house. Of course the papers have been planted by someone to perpetuate the urban myth. Police, librarians and reporters cringe when the crime is reported. Murder! Across America from the early 1970's to now over six hundred killings of Mrs. Purlson has been dutifully reported.
Sometimes Mrs. Purlson gets her revenge and the letters found are from Mr Purlson, Manford, and he fears his wife is plotting to do him in soon. Married couples beware! You may suffer the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson or occassionally perhaps that of Manford Purlson. You spouse is plotting to kill you. Proceed with caution, you may be married to a murderer.
end
Urban myths and legends: part two husbands who plot to kill their wives, and vice versa
fiction
edward w pritchard
Urban myths continued:
Another interesting urban myth is the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson. Her husband wants to kill her and only you can rescue her. Or, is it too late; the deed is done and Manford Purlson, the husband has already gotten away with murder. He killed his wife. You have found her secret letters but you don't know where they lived to report the murders. In other variations of the story you have found the letters but aren't sure if the murder just happened, or was it one hundred years ago?
Typically the story involves someone finding secret letters. Written in blue ink by hand on fine stationary paper. Often the finder has been duped and he or she really finds letters in an old brick fence or in the rafters of a condemned house. Of course the papers have been planted by someone to perpetuate the urban myth. Police, librarians and reporters cringe when the crime is reported. Murder! Across America from the early 1970's to now over six hundred killings of Mrs. Purlson has been dutifully reported.
Sometimes Mrs. Purlson gets her revenge and the letters found are from Mr Purlson, Manford, and he fears his wife is plotting to do him in soon. Married couples beware! You may suffer the plight of poor Mrs. Purlson or occassionally perhaps that of Manford Purlson. You spouse is plotting to kill you. Proceed with caution, you may be married to a murderer.
end
Urban myths and legends: part two husbands who plot to kill their wives, and vice versa
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-part 2
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Dad got me this job at JC Penny's. Nine years I have been coming in, always on time, never talking back to the bosses. That's no small accomplishment because I am a real screw up, drinking, fighting and anything else to mess up my life. Dad stuck his neck out to get me this job. At least with his own value system because Dad thought a lot of JC Penny's where he worked for thirty years and then retired and arranged for me to take over his job as maintenance. No one thought I would make it a month, let alone nine years.
On my breaks, three times in eight hours, excluding a half hour for lunch, I take twelve minutes to stand behind the store and smoke. The back of the building is in a very old strip mall and faces the railroad tracks here in Nantes, Oregon. When I was twelve or thirteen I would stand back here with my Dad on his breaks and have to tell him if I had been kicked out of school for fighting that day or just flicked class. Mom would send me down on my bike and Dad would have twelve minutes to hear my story and tell me my punishment.
About a year ago I tried to stop smoking. My new girlfriend's Janet's idea. Neither worked out; new girlfriend or stopping smoking.
As I stood on my break back then a year ago trying to stop smoking I needed something to do with my hands to take my mind off of cigaretes. I would pry loose the faded white mortar betweeen the bricks on the back of the JC Penny's building. That's how I found the letters written by Mr. Purlson.
I never found out who Mr. Purlson was or where he was from. Of course I looked at public records to try to find him here in Nantes and around Oregon; but I never found the identity of Manford Purlson the man in the stack of letters I found who thought his wife was planning to kill him.
The letters are hand written in blue ink on old stationary and cover a three year period. They were in a small box sealed up in the back brick wall behind the JC Penny where I work here in Nantes, Oregon. Manford Purlson writes every now and then about his fears his wife is plotting to kill him. There are no dates on the letters nor is a location mentioned in the letters. My cousin, who works at the library couldn't locate either Mr or Mrs. Purlson so it's a mystery to me what happened to Manford Purlson. I often read the letters on my smoking break here at the JC Penny's as I stand behind the store and watch the trains go by. It's nice to have something to think about besides my mess of a life here in Oregon. Somewhere someone in the United States knows what happened to Manford Purlson and one day I am going to find out for myself.
end part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Dad got me this job at JC Penny's. Nine years I have been coming in, always on time, never talking back to the bosses. That's no small accomplishment because I am a real screw up, drinking, fighting and anything else to mess up my life. Dad stuck his neck out to get me this job. At least with his own value system because Dad thought a lot of JC Penny's where he worked for thirty years and then retired and arranged for me to take over his job as maintenance. No one thought I would make it a month, let alone nine years.
On my breaks, three times in eight hours, excluding a half hour for lunch, I take twelve minutes to stand behind the store and smoke. The back of the building is in a very old strip mall and faces the railroad tracks here in Nantes, Oregon. When I was twelve or thirteen I would stand back here with my Dad on his breaks and have to tell him if I had been kicked out of school for fighting that day or just flicked class. Mom would send me down on my bike and Dad would have twelve minutes to hear my story and tell me my punishment.
About a year ago I tried to stop smoking. My new girlfriend's Janet's idea. Neither worked out; new girlfriend or stopping smoking.
As I stood on my break back then a year ago trying to stop smoking I needed something to do with my hands to take my mind off of cigaretes. I would pry loose the faded white mortar betweeen the bricks on the back of the JC Penny's building. That's how I found the letters written by Mr. Purlson.
I never found out who Mr. Purlson was or where he was from. Of course I looked at public records to try to find him here in Nantes and around Oregon; but I never found the identity of Manford Purlson the man in the stack of letters I found who thought his wife was planning to kill him.
The letters are hand written in blue ink on old stationary and cover a three year period. They were in a small box sealed up in the back brick wall behind the JC Penny where I work here in Nantes, Oregon. Manford Purlson writes every now and then about his fears his wife is plotting to kill him. There are no dates on the letters nor is a location mentioned in the letters. My cousin, who works at the library couldn't locate either Mr or Mrs. Purlson so it's a mystery to me what happened to Manford Purlson. I often read the letters on my smoking break here at the JC Penny's as I stand behind the store and watch the trains go by. It's nice to have something to think about besides my mess of a life here in Oregon. Somewhere someone in the United States knows what happened to Manford Purlson and one day I am going to find out for myself.
end part 2
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize
everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize
fiction
edward w pritchard
Everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize. I work at the goodwill and when we take in goods I keep a complete inventory. I must look carefully for people hide things behind their dresser drawers or underneath and inside of toy chests.
Yesterday I found several letters, handwritten in blue ink, on creamy thick stationary; explaining what happened to Mrs. Purlson the last eight years of her life.
There are no markings on the small oak vanity that the letters from Mrs. Purlson were hiding in and no dates on the letters. Mrs. Purlson could have been from anywhere in the United States or Canada or maybe Great Britain; except maybe Quebec, for all the letters are in English. Mrs. Purlson's husband was planing to kill his wife she suspected, and in the letters she tells of her eight year ordeal to understand and predict his motivation and behavior. As she went about her ordinary life Mrs. Purlson would write a few lines furthering the mystery of why Mr. Purlson would want to do away with his wife of sixteen years marriage.
The letters end smoothly on a warm day in June where ever the Purlson's lived at. We will never know what happened to Mrs. Purlson, murder or just mystery for I have been unable to locate her online.
I keep the letters and reread them now and then just for something to do on my breaks from work here at the Goodwill in Reston, Illinois.
end part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
Everything is hard to list, impossible to categorize. I work at the goodwill and when we take in goods I keep a complete inventory. I must look carefully for people hide things behind their dresser drawers or underneath and inside of toy chests.
Yesterday I found several letters, handwritten in blue ink, on creamy thick stationary; explaining what happened to Mrs. Purlson the last eight years of her life.
There are no markings on the small oak vanity that the letters from Mrs. Purlson were hiding in and no dates on the letters. Mrs. Purlson could have been from anywhere in the United States or Canada or maybe Great Britain; except maybe Quebec, for all the letters are in English. Mrs. Purlson's husband was planing to kill his wife she suspected, and in the letters she tells of her eight year ordeal to understand and predict his motivation and behavior. As she went about her ordinary life Mrs. Purlson would write a few lines furthering the mystery of why Mr. Purlson would want to do away with his wife of sixteen years marriage.
The letters end smoothly on a warm day in June where ever the Purlson's lived at. We will never know what happened to Mrs. Purlson, murder or just mystery for I have been unable to locate her online.
I keep the letters and reread them now and then just for something to do on my breaks from work here at the Goodwill in Reston, Illinois.
end part 1
Saturday, August 20, 2011
alone for the night but not for the foreseeable future
alone for the night but not for the foreseeable future
fiction
edward w pritchard
alone for the night but not for the foreseeable future,
come find me,
I have looked everywhere for you,
I have many things for us to talk about
if you don't feel like talking just listen, I have a lot to say
where are you, maybe I should change my habits,
I never seem to be where you are,
sometimes, maybe I should just give in
stay comfortable alone and learn to adjust,
but I have a few things to tell you,
once we get together, not tonight I know, it's too late
but soon, in the foreseeable future,
when I wake up tommorrow I'll keep looking for you
I am sure you are close by,
Come find me if you want, I'll wear my straw hat.
fiction
edward w pritchard
alone for the night but not for the foreseeable future,
come find me,
I have looked everywhere for you,
I have many things for us to talk about
if you don't feel like talking just listen, I have a lot to say
where are you, maybe I should change my habits,
I never seem to be where you are,
sometimes, maybe I should just give in
stay comfortable alone and learn to adjust,
but I have a few things to tell you,
once we get together, not tonight I know, it's too late
but soon, in the foreseeable future,
when I wake up tommorrow I'll keep looking for you
I am sure you are close by,
Come find me if you want, I'll wear my straw hat.
Friday, August 19, 2011
popular music is a lagging indicator to most of us
popular music is a lagging indicator to most of us
fiction
edward w pritchard
Unless one is an artist and attuned to psychic forces just coming into existence popular music is a lagging indicator to most of us. We get our Robert Johnson via Eric Clapton and our Blind Faith via Delaney and Bonnie. Mozart we discover from a television commercial jingle. Yet music speaks to what is currently about to happen.
Put your ear to the ground. What's about to happen and how does it sound before it comes into existence? Someone hears what's happening; is it you?
fiction
edward w pritchard
Unless one is an artist and attuned to psychic forces just coming into existence popular music is a lagging indicator to most of us. We get our Robert Johnson via Eric Clapton and our Blind Faith via Delaney and Bonnie. Mozart we discover from a television commercial jingle. Yet music speaks to what is currently about to happen.
Put your ear to the ground. What's about to happen and how does it sound before it comes into existence? Someone hears what's happening; is it you?
Sandra Pianalto speaks
Sandra Pianalto speaks:
fiction
edward w pritchard
Our local Lady at the Fed speaks today. Not to worry, the forces of creative destruction will eventually fix everything.
Ohio's job losses are China's and India's gain. Economic forces will fix everything. Not to worry, it just takes a while.
Still, she is honest and has good sense. Let's promote her to Fed chief.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Our local Lady at the Fed speaks today. Not to worry, the forces of creative destruction will eventually fix everything.
Ohio's job losses are China's and India's gain. Economic forces will fix everything. Not to worry, it just takes a while.
Still, she is honest and has good sense. Let's promote her to Fed chief.
end
Halle Berry and Dorothy Dandridge, oh to be rich-part 1
Halle Berry and Dorothy Dandridge, oh to be rich
fiction
ed pritchard
Halle Berry and Dorothy Dandridge, oh to be rich. Hard times hit Dorothy Dandridge and she sinks under the forces that destroy initiative and dignity.
Halle Berry may your life be blessed and never--- to be continued
end part 1
fiction
ed pritchard
Halle Berry and Dorothy Dandridge, oh to be rich. Hard times hit Dorothy Dandridge and she sinks under the forces that destroy initiative and dignity.
Halle Berry may your life be blessed and never--- to be continued
end part 1
Thursday, August 18, 2011
US companies sell patents
US companies sell patents
fiction
edward w pritchard
US companies want to sell their patents to raise cash. First it was real estate that US corporations sold to overseas concerns, then whole divisions, now their patent portfolios. As the dollar weakened and other currencies strengthened viv a vis the dollar US corporations began to sell off assets.
Who will be the buyers of these valuable intellectual and physical patents. Will foriegn super powers such as China, using management by objective directed economies and five year plans use their arsenal of cash to buy US patents?
Not to worry, the USA has a plan. We will emphasize math and science to eighth grade students in our junior highs and these budding entrepreneurs will run circles around those from managed economies. Just give them a chance.
fiction
edward w pritchard
US companies want to sell their patents to raise cash. First it was real estate that US corporations sold to overseas concerns, then whole divisions, now their patent portfolios. As the dollar weakened and other currencies strengthened viv a vis the dollar US corporations began to sell off assets.
Who will be the buyers of these valuable intellectual and physical patents. Will foriegn super powers such as China, using management by objective directed economies and five year plans use their arsenal of cash to buy US patents?
Not to worry, the USA has a plan. We will emphasize math and science to eighth grade students in our junior highs and these budding entrepreneurs will run circles around those from managed economies. Just give them a chance.
quiet, quiet, quiet
quiet, quiet, quiet
fiction
ed pritchard
Quiet, quiet, quiet.
Is it just me, or is it everywhere.
Rush to your place and wait; but do your routine in the meantime
maybe if everyone spends money again it will help
relax, the good times will roll and roll again
but it's so so quiet
something's changed.
fiction
ed pritchard
Quiet, quiet, quiet.
Is it just me, or is it everywhere.
Rush to your place and wait; but do your routine in the meantime
maybe if everyone spends money again it will help
relax, the good times will roll and roll again
but it's so so quiet
something's changed.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
the selfish gene
the selfish gene
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somewhere I heard a little about the basics of this theory; long ago and far away.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somewhere I heard a little about the basics of this theory; long ago and far away.
Friday, August 12, 2011
follow your own nature
follow your own nature
fiction
edward w pritchard
To a parent with more than one child it is remarkable how two children or more who grew up in the same house, with bedrooms off the same hallway can end up so different. Genetics, environment, and God's gift all stamp our personality but each person is unique.
Everybody is infinitely valuable. Most problems in society will be minimized if that fact is recognized.
Follow your own nature.
fiction
edward w pritchard
To a parent with more than one child it is remarkable how two children or more who grew up in the same house, with bedrooms off the same hallway can end up so different. Genetics, environment, and God's gift all stamp our personality but each person is unique.
Everybody is infinitely valuable. Most problems in society will be minimized if that fact is recognized.
Follow your own nature.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
roused from my lair by the turmoil of the Markets
roused from my lair my the turmoil of the Markets
fiction
edward w pritchard
Roused from my lair, my cave like Home, by the turmoil of the Markets I ventured out of my House and into the neighborhood for the first time in a long time. A large commotion was occurring outside and I meekly moved outside to observe.
For security and protection I took a part of the blender on the kitchen counter; the pitcher like cup , where the milk shake is mixed or the fruit waits to be crushed, to use as a weapon in the hostile world. Carrying the blender's awkward pitcher I was met by a news crew and cameras as I exited my home. Before I could worry over my appearance the camera men and attractive female announcer were racing down my driveway toward the pit across my yard and over my fence. My neighbor had left a large hole over there for excavating a new house. His project to build a new home had stalled and the pit it left was a bit of an eyesore.
Many of my neighbors and their children were standing around the money pit. Some I recognized. Frantically the news crew began questioning and interviewing the bystanders about the phenomena occurring in the excavation pit. Listening carefully I heard the reason for the commotion.
Veins of gold lined the walls of the pit. Stocks and bond certificates, floating, rose and fell with the stagnant water levels filling the bottom of the pit from recent severe storms. Why was the mystery.
Holding the pitcher part from the blender by the handle, I waded into the pit and began to measure the veins of gold with the cup like device from the blender I had carried for protection. I also scooped some of the stock and bond certificates from the water in the pit and emptied them into the outstretched hands of my neighbors. The veins of Gold measured in width formed a perfect cup and handle pattern, a very important technical signal of what was to happen next in our neighborhood. Over and over I measured with the cup the various veins of gold lining the walls of the money pit; to the same result; a perfect cup and handle formation. The cup and handle formation was an important revelation of what would happen with the money pit [my neighbors abandoned housing project], stock and bond levels and the veins of gold. I had revealed something significant.
The cameras rolled as the attractive female anchor interviewed me. My neighbors, many who I had never seen or met, brought me beer after beer. Later I was on the financial news channel many times. Always, I carried the blender pitcher on TV to explain the perfect cup and handle pattern I had discovered in the veins of gold lining my neighbor's money pit . There are still a few veins of gold lining the walls of the pit which is still unfinished next door. The remaining stocks and bonds certificates are however out of sight for the water level in the pit has fallen precipitously.
I am still shy and reclusive but it's nice to be famous and have my opinions and thoughts televised world over.
Now I am an expert on cup and handle technical patterns on veins of gold lining money pits in suburban neighborhoods. Because of my new found wealth and fame the world is a much less hostile place and I have gotten to know a few of my neighbors who still bring me beers or sometimes invite me to barbeques or tail gate parties.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Roused from my lair, my cave like Home, by the turmoil of the Markets I ventured out of my House and into the neighborhood for the first time in a long time. A large commotion was occurring outside and I meekly moved outside to observe.
For security and protection I took a part of the blender on the kitchen counter; the pitcher like cup , where the milk shake is mixed or the fruit waits to be crushed, to use as a weapon in the hostile world. Carrying the blender's awkward pitcher I was met by a news crew and cameras as I exited my home. Before I could worry over my appearance the camera men and attractive female announcer were racing down my driveway toward the pit across my yard and over my fence. My neighbor had left a large hole over there for excavating a new house. His project to build a new home had stalled and the pit it left was a bit of an eyesore.
Many of my neighbors and their children were standing around the money pit. Some I recognized. Frantically the news crew began questioning and interviewing the bystanders about the phenomena occurring in the excavation pit. Listening carefully I heard the reason for the commotion.
Veins of gold lined the walls of the pit. Stocks and bond certificates, floating, rose and fell with the stagnant water levels filling the bottom of the pit from recent severe storms. Why was the mystery.
Holding the pitcher part from the blender by the handle, I waded into the pit and began to measure the veins of gold with the cup like device from the blender I had carried for protection. I also scooped some of the stock and bond certificates from the water in the pit and emptied them into the outstretched hands of my neighbors. The veins of Gold measured in width formed a perfect cup and handle pattern, a very important technical signal of what was to happen next in our neighborhood. Over and over I measured with the cup the various veins of gold lining the walls of the money pit; to the same result; a perfect cup and handle formation. The cup and handle formation was an important revelation of what would happen with the money pit [my neighbors abandoned housing project], stock and bond levels and the veins of gold. I had revealed something significant.
The cameras rolled as the attractive female anchor interviewed me. My neighbors, many who I had never seen or met, brought me beer after beer. Later I was on the financial news channel many times. Always, I carried the blender pitcher on TV to explain the perfect cup and handle pattern I had discovered in the veins of gold lining my neighbor's money pit . There are still a few veins of gold lining the walls of the pit which is still unfinished next door. The remaining stocks and bonds certificates are however out of sight for the water level in the pit has fallen precipitously.
I am still shy and reclusive but it's nice to be famous and have my opinions and thoughts televised world over.
Now I am an expert on cup and handle technical patterns on veins of gold lining money pits in suburban neighborhoods. Because of my new found wealth and fame the world is a much less hostile place and I have gotten to know a few of my neighbors who still bring me beers or sometimes invite me to barbeques or tail gate parties.
the patient
the patient
fiction
edward w pritchard
The patient was intensely focused on what would happen next. The patient was about to die and this was the final scene for someone who was curious to the mystery of being and non-being.
We were a distraction to the patient; with our medicine and our routines.
With child like attention and focus the patient proceeded on with his journey. At the end just before he left us, I watched the patients eyes closely hoping to get a clue for myself what was ahead.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The patient was intensely focused on what would happen next. The patient was about to die and this was the final scene for someone who was curious to the mystery of being and non-being.
We were a distraction to the patient; with our medicine and our routines.
With child like attention and focus the patient proceeded on with his journey. At the end just before he left us, I watched the patients eyes closely hoping to get a clue for myself what was ahead.
i ask too much, i expect so little, what's wrong with stocks, interest rates and America
i ask too much, i expect so little, what's wrong with stocks, interest rates, and America
fiction
edward w pritchard
Many of us have a vague distaste for business and government. The system is broken here in America and most don't know why but feel in their bones an unease of what lies ahead economically and politically.
In a nut shell the problem is almost no one in a position of authority will put the good of the group or the whole above their own interests. This is caused by a lack of a moral compass. The heart values are not taught in schools, people do not go to Church, and no one much reads the classics of literature, and or the Bible, Koran or other such Wisdom.
Good honest people are thought fools. Most no longer love their neighbor. Conventional wisdom is impersonal Market forces direct everything. Economic theory, the idea that Market forces control and direct reality is destructive to the cohesion that traditionally have held societies together for thousands of years. Economic self interest is efficient but without a proper moral compass insidiously the heart and soul of human society and individuals is corrupted.
No one knows what will happen tomorrow. No one knows precisely when or why the stock market or interests rates will rise or fall. Irrational consensus forces direct such things. These irrational consensus forces can be evil and chaotic. These forces are beyond the power of any person or institution to control. The Market is mechanistic in it's maniacal detachment from traditional moral values.
The American system of government is not up to managing the behemoth economy and institutions because collectively and individually naked individual self interest comes first. No higher authority than the Market is acknowledged or thought possible.
Manipulation of interest rates is our God.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Many of us have a vague distaste for business and government. The system is broken here in America and most don't know why but feel in their bones an unease of what lies ahead economically and politically.
In a nut shell the problem is almost no one in a position of authority will put the good of the group or the whole above their own interests. This is caused by a lack of a moral compass. The heart values are not taught in schools, people do not go to Church, and no one much reads the classics of literature, and or the Bible, Koran or other such Wisdom.
Good honest people are thought fools. Most no longer love their neighbor. Conventional wisdom is impersonal Market forces direct everything. Economic theory, the idea that Market forces control and direct reality is destructive to the cohesion that traditionally have held societies together for thousands of years. Economic self interest is efficient but without a proper moral compass insidiously the heart and soul of human society and individuals is corrupted.
No one knows what will happen tomorrow. No one knows precisely when or why the stock market or interests rates will rise or fall. Irrational consensus forces direct such things. These irrational consensus forces can be evil and chaotic. These forces are beyond the power of any person or institution to control. The Market is mechanistic in it's maniacal detachment from traditional moral values.
Manipulation of interest rates is our God.
end
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
London rioting youth burn cars
London rioting youth burn cars
fiction
edward w pritchard
I told Mr. Chambers down the block that his car would be burned in the next couple nights. Bernie told me not to but I warned Mr. Chambers anyway. When I was in middle school old Mr Chambers drove my Mother down to the store when it was rainy once because of her bad leg. He has a big green American Cadillac, like Elvis Presley would drive.
Mr. Chambers was glad I told him in advance. After the car was burned a few nights ago, Mr. Chambers told me he had went down just after I first warned him and paid the car insurance. He said money is tight for him and he had juggle a little but he got the car insurance paid before we burned his car.
I know Mr. Chambers will never be able to get another American Cadillac but I hope he can get himself another car. He's a decent old guy.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I told Mr. Chambers down the block that his car would be burned in the next couple nights. Bernie told me not to but I warned Mr. Chambers anyway. When I was in middle school old Mr Chambers drove my Mother down to the store when it was rainy once because of her bad leg. He has a big green American Cadillac, like Elvis Presley would drive.
Mr. Chambers was glad I told him in advance. After the car was burned a few nights ago, Mr. Chambers told me he had went down just after I first warned him and paid the car insurance. He said money is tight for him and he had juggle a little but he got the car insurance paid before we burned his car.
I know Mr. Chambers will never be able to get another American Cadillac but I hope he can get himself another car. He's a decent old guy.
Tonight's London Weather, cloudy and damp with a chance of riots
Tonight's London Weather, cloudy and damp with a chance of riots
fiction
edward w pritchard
Yes, modern Banking started in Italy in the Renaissance, and capitalism in Amsterdam or was it ancient Babylon, but the Industrial revolution and modern capitalism began in London, it's vicinity and about England.
Of all the techniques of modern capitalism for taming and controlling the forces of nature and God none so blatantly hubristic [ new word hubris, Greek excessive pride+ author's istic ending] as weather futures, a technique to hedge the effects of bad weather on a city or region.
I haven't checked lately but what might be the spreads [ bid versus asked] on weather futures in London with the recent rioting. Does rainy cold weather discourage riots or does hot weather increase property destruction. Could it be counter intuitive; if it's cold a nice fire, such as a car burning or a neighborhood business alight on a dark night to calm the soul in turmoil.
Someone will profit from weather futures in London for sure. The market always wins eventually, and it harms no one if a few profiteers make some money from everyone's terror and misery.
Tonight's London weather forecast, cloudy and damp with a chance of riots.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Yes, modern Banking started in Italy in the Renaissance, and capitalism in Amsterdam or was it ancient Babylon, but the Industrial revolution and modern capitalism began in London, it's vicinity and about England.
Of all the techniques of modern capitalism for taming and controlling the forces of nature and God none so blatantly hubristic [ new word hubris, Greek excessive pride+ author's istic ending] as weather futures, a technique to hedge the effects of bad weather on a city or region.
I haven't checked lately but what might be the spreads [ bid versus asked] on weather futures in London with the recent rioting. Does rainy cold weather discourage riots or does hot weather increase property destruction. Could it be counter intuitive; if it's cold a nice fire, such as a car burning or a neighborhood business alight on a dark night to calm the soul in turmoil.
Someone will profit from weather futures in London for sure. The market always wins eventually, and it harms no one if a few profiteers make some money from everyone's terror and misery.
Tonight's London weather forecast, cloudy and damp with a chance of riots.
rioting, Will it come to america before 2012
Rioting will it come to America before 2012
fiction
edward w pritchard
Rioting in England. To me, London is the bastion of civilization. Ungrateful youth? Or unemployment and hopelessness. Lack of respect caused by Godlessness? Is this what happens when people are idle, and have no meaningful work? Budget cuts close youth centers. Chaos lurks just under the surface, as good versus evil.
Can rioting occur here, in America? Here is what I wrote before
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 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
fiction
edward w pritchard
Rioting in England. To me, London is the bastion of civilization. Ungrateful youth? Or unemployment and hopelessness. Lack of respect caused by Godlessness? Is this what happens when people are idle, and have no meaningful work? Budget cuts close youth centers. Chaos lurks just under the surface, as good versus evil.
Can rioting occur here, in America? Here is what I wrote before
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 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
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Consumer confidence
Consumer confidence
fiction
edward w pritchard
The fed can give the Bankers a gift by keeping short term interest rates low for two years. Meanwhile longer term rates slowly drift up due to inflation silently orchestrated by the Fed to support and whittle away the huge US deficit. Banks borrow low and then exploit the steep yield curve to make "no brainer" profits. Banking's new opportunity is good for politicians about to get un-elected by angry voters; they have a job to go to, especially ex regulators. Meanwhile interest rates on CD's and things stay about zero for older Americans lucky enough to have any money. Longer term loans if any are made by banks stay expensive because of the large spead which Banks keep in place because of perpetual fear of risk in the economy caused by scrutiny and regulation against smaller banks far from Wall street . Competiton between lenders in the economy to make loans to worthy borrowers doesn't seem to bring down rates on car loans and other consumer loans.
Meanwhile consumer confidence will be submarined. Watching wall street today and the government squabble recently will send consumer confidence skidding. Watched Wall Street for two days, day one they got their tails kicked and seemed anxious about what the bond market was saying about the growth forecast, day two business as usual as the Fed took good care of their boys. The issue of jobs and zero growth ahead quickly forgotten . Now watch oil quickly move back up on the prospects of better growth in the fall of 2013.
One needs a shower after watching this stuff. I need to get back to the real world; Hogan's Heroes re-runs on cable tonight.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The fed can give the Bankers a gift by keeping short term interest rates low for two years. Meanwhile longer term rates slowly drift up due to inflation silently orchestrated by the Fed to support and whittle away the huge US deficit. Banks borrow low and then exploit the steep yield curve to make "no brainer" profits. Banking's new opportunity is good for politicians about to get un-elected by angry voters; they have a job to go to, especially ex regulators. Meanwhile interest rates on CD's and things stay about zero for older Americans lucky enough to have any money. Longer term loans if any are made by banks stay expensive because of the large spead which Banks keep in place because of perpetual fear of risk in the economy caused by scrutiny and regulation against smaller banks far from Wall street . Competiton between lenders in the economy to make loans to worthy borrowers doesn't seem to bring down rates on car loans and other consumer loans.
Meanwhile consumer confidence will be submarined. Watching wall street today and the government squabble recently will send consumer confidence skidding. Watched Wall Street for two days, day one they got their tails kicked and seemed anxious about what the bond market was saying about the growth forecast, day two business as usual as the Fed took good care of their boys. The issue of jobs and zero growth ahead quickly forgotten . Now watch oil quickly move back up on the prospects of better growth in the fall of 2013.
One needs a shower after watching this stuff. I need to get back to the real world; Hogan's Heroes re-runs on cable tonight.
any one can break a window, but
any one can break a window, but
fiction
edward w pritchard
Re: London riots, 08/09/11,
Any one can break a window, but only a master craftsman can build a window. Especially if the window is stained glass of a religious theme.
I am a master craftsman of stained glass windows like my Father before me. I travel all over the English Countryside creating stained glass windows in Gothic churches for the glory of God. I do this like my Father before me , my instructor, as did his Father, and his Grandfather..
My son has decided not to be a creator and builder of stained glass windows. He is breaking with the family tradition.
Instead of creating stained glass windows my son has taken to throwing a rock through one of the stained glass windows myself or my Father or his has created previously. The amazing thing about the situation is that my son has created a living for himself destroying stained glass windows.
Patrons and worshipers at the Churches where the broken windows are housed have taken to seeing secret messages from God in the reflection on the walls of the Churches from the effect of sunlight passing through cracks in the stained glass windows. Hundreds of pilgrims are coming to the Churches to see the secret messages from God.The secret messages are visible on the walls of the churches from the effect of sunlight passing through the hole and crack a rock caused to a stained glass window; a rock that was thrown intentionally by my son. The stained glass windows were originally created to explain the messages of God to those who couldn't read. Now again secret messages from God are revealed to the faithful from interpreting the images on the Church walls caused by light passing through cracks and holes in the stain glass windows.
My son's services are now very valuable. There is a six month wait to hire him to throw a rock through a window that destroys one of the exquisite stained glass windows that I, his Father, or my Father, Grand Father or Great Grand Father has created. I keep very busy myself in and around London creating new stained glass windows for him to break.
Any one can break a window, but only a master craftsman can build a window. Especially if the window is stained glass of a religious theme. Each new generation must create it's own way of looking at the world I suppose.
end
PS author is a great admirer of London, sad about the riots
fiction
edward w pritchard
Re: London riots, 08/09/11,
Any one can break a window, but only a master craftsman can build a window. Especially if the window is stained glass of a religious theme.
I am a master craftsman of stained glass windows like my Father before me. I travel all over the English Countryside creating stained glass windows in Gothic churches for the glory of God. I do this like my Father before me , my instructor, as did his Father, and his Grandfather..
My son has decided not to be a creator and builder of stained glass windows. He is breaking with the family tradition.
Instead of creating stained glass windows my son has taken to throwing a rock through one of the stained glass windows myself or my Father or his has created previously. The amazing thing about the situation is that my son has created a living for himself destroying stained glass windows.
Patrons and worshipers at the Churches where the broken windows are housed have taken to seeing secret messages from God in the reflection on the walls of the Churches from the effect of sunlight passing through cracks in the stained glass windows. Hundreds of pilgrims are coming to the Churches to see the secret messages from God.The secret messages are visible on the walls of the churches from the effect of sunlight passing through the hole and crack a rock caused to a stained glass window; a rock that was thrown intentionally by my son. The stained glass windows were originally created to explain the messages of God to those who couldn't read. Now again secret messages from God are revealed to the faithful from interpreting the images on the Church walls caused by light passing through cracks and holes in the stain glass windows.
My son's services are now very valuable. There is a six month wait to hire him to throw a rock through a window that destroys one of the exquisite stained glass windows that I, his Father, or my Father, Grand Father or Great Grand Father has created. I keep very busy myself in and around London creating new stained glass windows for him to break.
Any one can break a window, but only a master craftsman can build a window. Especially if the window is stained glass of a religious theme. Each new generation must create it's own way of looking at the world I suppose.
end
PS author is a great admirer of London, sad about the riots
plane wreck
plane wreck
fiction
edward w pritchard
The unthinkable had happened. For reasons known only to him our pilot had locked himself in the cabin and was threatening to take down our plane. We passengers were 79, Orlando back to Baltimore, the 11:07 AM flight. The pilot had flown this route Orlando to Baltimore maybe four hundred times but today he decided to kill 85 people in a few minutes by crashing us in the Mountains of North Carolina. Actually he had already killed once, the co-pilot was dead in the cabin, two of the flight attendants saw the body and now we sat in terror waiting for what was next. To calm us down, to return to normalcy for a few minutes, the flight attendants were serving us a very light meal, soda and chips or peanuts. As they worked at the cart passing out our food they talked about the Captain to each other, for they would die soon and the flight attendants became more concerned with their own problems than customer service. They began to talk about the pilot securely barricaded in the cockpit and why he might have snapped like this. They talked right in front of us. Definitely against company policy.
The Pilot was a good man. They didn't know him well but several of the flight attendants had flown with him maybe fifty times on this route, there or back to Orlando and another fifteen times, Baltimore to New York City. Once a Fight Attendant, Penny, she had called herself in the seat belt demonstration, had been stranded with our Pilot in a snowstorm in Washington DC Dulles airport; I heard her say to the other attendant as she passed me my Pepsi. The pilot had given Penny the attendant his coat as a blanket and hadn't stared at her as she lay akimbo in an uncomfortable seat in her short flight uniform. He was a gentleman, married she thought and she had never seen him make a pass at one of the attendants. Pilot is a stressful job one attendant had said.
As the attendants move up the row of seats to serve other customers I realized reluctantly I had a few moments to live. The pilot had told us on the intercom about five minutes ago he would take us down, in ten minutes and he suggested we pray and make our amends with God. Of course many passengers were squawking on cell phones, some with wives and loved ones, but most with business partners or customers; arranging final business details should they be dead soon.
My attention was distracted out the window to my right by two jets approaching rapidly. I am ex-military; of course, they were air force fighters coming to look over us.
The pilot is talking again. He is apologizing to us. As he began the rapid descent to our deaths I watched calmly as the air force jets fired two white hot missile at us and I continued to watch intently as the forward missile slammed into the front of the plane near where the pilot sat. I imagine that policy is if a hijacked plane must crash it's better if it is shot down by our military than if a rogue terrorist successfully causes a loss of human life and destruction of property. Not a bad policy really, I thought, as my last memory of existence, I am ex- military myself.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The unthinkable had happened. For reasons known only to him our pilot had locked himself in the cabin and was threatening to take down our plane. We passengers were 79, Orlando back to Baltimore, the 11:07 AM flight. The pilot had flown this route Orlando to Baltimore maybe four hundred times but today he decided to kill 85 people in a few minutes by crashing us in the Mountains of North Carolina. Actually he had already killed once, the co-pilot was dead in the cabin, two of the flight attendants saw the body and now we sat in terror waiting for what was next. To calm us down, to return to normalcy for a few minutes, the flight attendants were serving us a very light meal, soda and chips or peanuts. As they worked at the cart passing out our food they talked about the Captain to each other, for they would die soon and the flight attendants became more concerned with their own problems than customer service. They began to talk about the pilot securely barricaded in the cockpit and why he might have snapped like this. They talked right in front of us. Definitely against company policy.
The Pilot was a good man. They didn't know him well but several of the flight attendants had flown with him maybe fifty times on this route, there or back to Orlando and another fifteen times, Baltimore to New York City. Once a Fight Attendant, Penny, she had called herself in the seat belt demonstration, had been stranded with our Pilot in a snowstorm in Washington DC Dulles airport; I heard her say to the other attendant as she passed me my Pepsi. The pilot had given Penny the attendant his coat as a blanket and hadn't stared at her as she lay akimbo in an uncomfortable seat in her short flight uniform. He was a gentleman, married she thought and she had never seen him make a pass at one of the attendants. Pilot is a stressful job one attendant had said.
As the attendants move up the row of seats to serve other customers I realized reluctantly I had a few moments to live. The pilot had told us on the intercom about five minutes ago he would take us down, in ten minutes and he suggested we pray and make our amends with God. Of course many passengers were squawking on cell phones, some with wives and loved ones, but most with business partners or customers; arranging final business details should they be dead soon.
My attention was distracted out the window to my right by two jets approaching rapidly. I am ex-military; of course, they were air force fighters coming to look over us.
The pilot is talking again. He is apologizing to us. As he began the rapid descent to our deaths I watched calmly as the air force jets fired two white hot missile at us and I continued to watch intently as the forward missile slammed into the front of the plane near where the pilot sat. I imagine that policy is if a hijacked plane must crash it's better if it is shot down by our military than if a rogue terrorist successfully causes a loss of human life and destruction of property. Not a bad policy really, I thought, as my last memory of existence, I am ex- military myself.
America adjusts to the new normal-part 2
America adjusts to the new normal-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
We were coming out of the three day crash in stock prices. Of course it was much longer than three days of price declines but only the last three were the true white knuckles time. The times when individual investors saw all their dreams and plans dissolve as the stock market relentlessly destroyed our dreams and aspirations.
After the crash and return to normalcy the stock market rose slowly, not like it fell but up a little now and then and we began to breathe again. However, several sectors stubbornly refused to recover. No matter how much buying there was of the stocks in general, those stocks in the social networking sector refused to recover, prices continued to fall and social networking stocks prices fell and fell. Government began to promote special programs, launched by congressmen from States where the social networking companies were located to support the stock prices of social networking companies; but nothing worked. Some sectors refuse to recover after a large fall and social networking were following that pattern. Stocks in the social networking sectors fell and fell despite massive buying by hedge funds, institutions and individual investors. Something was a miss but no one figure out why social networking stocks refused to rise despite massive buying by the public, through individual investors, hedge funds and mutual funds and private sectors buying through pension funds, ETF's and foreign governments.
Ominously the social networking stocks were discounting the future. Would America become a world without affiliations, friendships and social interaction? We stopped worrying about it quickly. We found other amusements and those new sectors dominated the charge forward in stock prices.
fiction
edward w pritchard
We were coming out of the three day crash in stock prices. Of course it was much longer than three days of price declines but only the last three were the true white knuckles time. The times when individual investors saw all their dreams and plans dissolve as the stock market relentlessly destroyed our dreams and aspirations.
After the crash and return to normalcy the stock market rose slowly, not like it fell but up a little now and then and we began to breathe again. However, several sectors stubbornly refused to recover. No matter how much buying there was of the stocks in general, those stocks in the social networking sector refused to recover, prices continued to fall and social networking stocks prices fell and fell. Government began to promote special programs, launched by congressmen from States where the social networking companies were located to support the stock prices of social networking companies; but nothing worked. Some sectors refuse to recover after a large fall and social networking were following that pattern. Stocks in the social networking sectors fell and fell despite massive buying by hedge funds, institutions and individual investors. Something was a miss but no one figure out why social networking stocks refused to rise despite massive buying by the public, through individual investors, hedge funds and mutual funds and private sectors buying through pension funds, ETF's and foreign governments.
Ominously the social networking stocks were discounting the future. Would America become a world without affiliations, friendships and social interaction? We stopped worrying about it quickly. We found other amusements and those new sectors dominated the charge forward in stock prices.
America adjusts to the new normal
America adjusts to the new normal
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was more than a dream but less than reality. I was sleeping, dreaming maybe; as America adjusted to the new normal. Night after night I had the same recurrent dream.
Trite, blase perhaps but I had been placed on the Titanic for my dream metaphor and I always slowly awoke in my comfortable cabin to the gentle rocking of the waves. At first of course I ran about trying to tell someone. Give a warning about the iceberg. As I ran about on deck in the cold night air I was often arrested, thought to be mad for my suggestions about the state of affairs.
Later in my series of recurring dreams I held back with my warnings about the coming collision with the iceberg. Instead I studied the life boats. Carefully counted the number of seats on the life boats and sometimes drew charts and graphs of the situation. Later I methodically used my graphs and charts to create ratios; what per cent of the passengers would find a seat on a life boat after the collision with the ice berg that I seemed to be the only one that knew was coming.
My recurrent dreams continued as I found myself on the Titanic a few hours before the collision with the iceberg that would sink the ship and kill thousands of people. Then I would seek to find the children and families and assist them to get a good hot meal before the events of the night of April 12, 1912 unfolded. I tried and tried to get the families to carry a few life preservers for the children but no one wanted to carry the bulky piles of superfluous materials about the ship.
Eventually I gave up with my warnings and humanitarian efforts and enjoyed the fine food and companionship aboard the majestic ship. Sometimes as I sat aboard Titanic waiting for 2:20 AM I looked into the eyes of someone; Do they know what will happen soon? I didn't ask, but it wasn't uncommon for me to buy such a person a drink or regale them with a short story.
fiction
edward w pritchard
It was more than a dream but less than reality. I was sleeping, dreaming maybe; as America adjusted to the new normal. Night after night I had the same recurrent dream.
Trite, blase perhaps but I had been placed on the Titanic for my dream metaphor and I always slowly awoke in my comfortable cabin to the gentle rocking of the waves. At first of course I ran about trying to tell someone. Give a warning about the iceberg. As I ran about on deck in the cold night air I was often arrested, thought to be mad for my suggestions about the state of affairs.
Later in my series of recurring dreams I held back with my warnings about the coming collision with the iceberg. Instead I studied the life boats. Carefully counted the number of seats on the life boats and sometimes drew charts and graphs of the situation. Later I methodically used my graphs and charts to create ratios; what per cent of the passengers would find a seat on a life boat after the collision with the ice berg that I seemed to be the only one that knew was coming.
My recurrent dreams continued as I found myself on the Titanic a few hours before the collision with the iceberg that would sink the ship and kill thousands of people. Then I would seek to find the children and families and assist them to get a good hot meal before the events of the night of April 12, 1912 unfolded. I tried and tried to get the families to carry a few life preservers for the children but no one wanted to carry the bulky piles of superfluous materials about the ship.
Eventually I gave up with my warnings and humanitarian efforts and enjoyed the fine food and companionship aboard the majestic ship. Sometimes as I sat aboard Titanic waiting for 2:20 AM I looked into the eyes of someone; Do they know what will happen soon? I didn't ask, but it wasn't uncommon for me to buy such a person a drink or regale them with a short story.
Monday, August 8, 2011
stock market crash causes abnormal phenomenas
stock market crash causes abnormal phenomena
fiction
edward w pritchard
an unpleasant story-previously published
fiction
edward w pritchard
I lived in a part of the City, trying to pass as a suburban neighborhood, quiet respectable, neat lawns with lots of older people. At 2;06 AM I awoke with a chemically induced sensation in my mind, caused by hearing and feeling an unnatural phenomena somewhere just outside my house , producing a terror that something was horribly wrong in my neighborhood. I was not having a nightmare but the sense of dread and foreboding was chemical in nature and I couldn't shake the horror, although I had done nothing to cause it. I knew that the solution to what was wrong was just outside my door.
A low rumble met me as I exited my house and at a guttural level I sensed the movement of thousands of animals. My neighbor rushed to me as I left my home to warn me that we were needed at the bottom of our street about a quarter of a mile east of my house. It was unseasonably hot and humid as i hurried South by East and the unnatural rhythmic sound and smell of the movement of animals became stronger as I entered the street.
Hundreds of thousands of rats were running through the sewer networks beneath our road and I was stationed at the sewer at the bottom of our hill, given a baseball bat and for the next four hours I clubbed hundreds and hundreds of rats who in confusion left the rush Eastward and attempted to exit into our neighborhood. My neighbor who also had a bat told me that rats were coming up into houses through drains and things and over a hundred thousand had exited the sewers at the small creek a mile or so east of the end of my street. After about four hours I collapsed from the labor and combat and was given a half hour break. In a minute or two I must return to work for it's my turn again to man the sewer opening with the bat.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
an unpleasant story-previously published
fiction
edward w pritchard
I lived in a part of the City, trying to pass as a suburban neighborhood, quiet respectable, neat lawns with lots of older people. At 2;06 AM I awoke with a chemically induced sensation in my mind, caused by hearing and feeling an unnatural phenomena somewhere just outside my house , producing a terror that something was horribly wrong in my neighborhood. I was not having a nightmare but the sense of dread and foreboding was chemical in nature and I couldn't shake the horror, although I had done nothing to cause it. I knew that the solution to what was wrong was just outside my door.
A low rumble met me as I exited my house and at a guttural level I sensed the movement of thousands of animals. My neighbor rushed to me as I left my home to warn me that we were needed at the bottom of our street about a quarter of a mile east of my house. It was unseasonably hot and humid as i hurried South by East and the unnatural rhythmic sound and smell of the movement of animals became stronger as I entered the street.
Hundreds of thousands of rats were running through the sewer networks beneath our road and I was stationed at the sewer at the bottom of our hill, given a baseball bat and for the next four hours I clubbed hundreds and hundreds of rats who in confusion left the rush Eastward and attempted to exit into our neighborhood. My neighbor who also had a bat told me that rats were coming up into houses through drains and things and over a hundred thousand had exited the sewers at the small creek a mile or so east of the end of my street. After about four hours I collapsed from the labor and combat and was given a half hour break. In a minute or two I must return to work for it's my turn again to man the sewer opening with the bat.
end
here i lay dieing
here i lay dieing
fiction
edward w pritchard
What a time to die. It's my time to go; I am not trying to get around it or be a bad sport about it. I just refuse to die when the stock market is crashing like this.
All my life I have worked in the investment community and I have spent a lot of my free time following stocks and financial instruments. I refuse to leave this world when investors are indiscriminately dumping stocks regardless of intrinsic values. It upsets me and I refuse to die during a flash crash of selling and market declines.
Each morning at six AM I quickly get up and start following the stock plunge on the financial channel of cable. Sometimes I throw a pillow at the screen if I strongly disagree with a guest financial commentator. The market has been in a crash mode for twelve days now.
My doctor says the commotion is good for me. Doc says I would be dead by now if it wasn't for my obsession with the stock market crash. Good old Doc. I told him I would put together a list of strong stocks for him to invest in when this selling frenzy finally subsides.
fiction
edward w pritchard
What a time to die. It's my time to go; I am not trying to get around it or be a bad sport about it. I just refuse to die when the stock market is crashing like this.
All my life I have worked in the investment community and I have spent a lot of my free time following stocks and financial instruments. I refuse to leave this world when investors are indiscriminately dumping stocks regardless of intrinsic values. It upsets me and I refuse to die during a flash crash of selling and market declines.
Each morning at six AM I quickly get up and start following the stock plunge on the financial channel of cable. Sometimes I throw a pillow at the screen if I strongly disagree with a guest financial commentator. The market has been in a crash mode for twelve days now.
My doctor says the commotion is good for me. Doc says I would be dead by now if it wasn't for my obsession with the stock market crash. Good old Doc. I told him I would put together a list of strong stocks for him to invest in when this selling frenzy finally subsides.
President Obama Rick Santelli told you what to do
President Obama Rick Santelli told you what to say
fiction
edward w pritchard
Rick Santelli is the bond spokesman from Chicago often on CNBC. He is outspoken but influential. He says Mr. President should be the leader and take the blame for the S and P downgrade and lead us to solve our problems. Stop the blaming and roll up our sleeves to solve our problems.
You are about to speak to us in five minutes or so. Lead us please.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Rick Santelli is the bond spokesman from Chicago often on CNBC. He is outspoken but influential. He says Mr. President should be the leader and take the blame for the S and P downgrade and lead us to solve our problems. Stop the blaming and roll up our sleeves to solve our problems.
You are about to speak to us in five minutes or so. Lead us please.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
St Peter penitent by George La Tour-part one
St Peter penitent by George La Tour-part one
fiction
edward. w pritchard
St Peter penitent by George La Tour is displayed at the Cleveland museum of Art. La Tour a French 17th century Baroque Painter, from Lorraine, now part of France disappeared from the historical record for 250 following his death. He left no writings explaining the painting known as the Tears of St Peter AKA St. Peter Penitent.
St. Peter sits wide eyed with hands folded mentally examining his life. He has previously denied Jesus Christ three times on the day Jesus needed him most. Yet, Jesus has given him the task of spreading the word of Jesus' gospel after Jesus' death.
St Peter in La Tour's picture looks humble as he summons his sorrows. La Tour has placed St Peter in his picture in a modest rural setting. Yet there is an element of optimism in the picture.
Penitence is an emotion that doesn't play well in modern times. Has the artist displayed the sublime emotion of penitence in St Peter's face?
end part one
Note-
Author here will post a copy La Tour's St Peter Penitent in part 2 and La Tour's more famous Mary Magdalene penitent as soon as proper legal approvals are at hand to assist the reader.
fiction
edward. w pritchard
St Peter penitent by George La Tour is displayed at the Cleveland museum of Art. La Tour a French 17th century Baroque Painter, from Lorraine, now part of France disappeared from the historical record for 250 following his death. He left no writings explaining the painting known as the Tears of St Peter AKA St. Peter Penitent.
St. Peter sits wide eyed with hands folded mentally examining his life. He has previously denied Jesus Christ three times on the day Jesus needed him most. Yet, Jesus has given him the task of spreading the word of Jesus' gospel after Jesus' death.
St Peter in La Tour's picture looks humble as he summons his sorrows. La Tour has placed St Peter in his picture in a modest rural setting. Yet there is an element of optimism in the picture.
Penitence is an emotion that doesn't play well in modern times. Has the artist displayed the sublime emotion of penitence in St Peter's face?
end part one
Note-
Author here will post a copy La Tour's St Peter Penitent in part 2 and La Tour's more famous Mary Magdalene penitent as soon as proper legal approvals are at hand to assist the reader.
Friday, August 5, 2011
hiss, hiss hiss, part two
hiss, hiss hiss, part two
Re job growth and today's critical job numbers
Wow,
Talk about pulling a rabbit out of a hat; come to think of it the government could only pull a rabbit out of the hat if they put the rabbit in there.
Translation, someone is cooking the job numbers IMO.
Re job growth and today's critical job numbers
Wow,
Talk about pulling a rabbit out of a hat; come to think of it the government could only pull a rabbit out of the hat if they put the rabbit in there.
Translation, someone is cooking the job numbers IMO.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
dow down 400 today, recession imminent
dow down 400 today, recession imminent
fiction
edward w pritchard
Dow now down 400, recession imminent, CNBC experts and commentators all saw this coming, that's what they said on TV today.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Dow now down 400, recession imminent, CNBC experts and commentators all saw this coming, that's what they said on TV today.
hiss hiss hiss
hiss hiss hiss
fiction
edward w pritchard
Stock market as measured by Dow down nearly 300 points about now today. Just academic to me anymore.
Hiss, hiss, hiss that's the sound of the job market numbers for tomorrow being leaked among those in the know.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Stock market as measured by Dow down nearly 300 points about now today. Just academic to me anymore.
Hiss, hiss, hiss that's the sound of the job market numbers for tomorrow being leaked among those in the know.
the visitor
the visitor
fiction
edward w pritchard
see male scientists speculate the Moon has two faces- same subject, previous post
Once a month the woman visited the village. She was small and walked a little bent from clutching the ends of the scarf she used to cover her face and hair. Every month her visit was a surprise to me; each month I forgot and had to learn again the changes she brought. Sometimes nothing happened but sometimes there was much excitement from her visit.
I never knew why she came but there is something mysterious and obliquely feminine about the visitor. It has something to do with the moon. Honestly I was always a little intimidated by the whole thing.
fiction
edward w pritchard
see male scientists speculate the Moon has two faces- same subject, previous post
Once a month the woman visited the village. She was small and walked a little bent from clutching the ends of the scarf she used to cover her face and hair. Every month her visit was a surprise to me; each month I forgot and had to learn again the changes she brought. Sometimes nothing happened but sometimes there was much excitement from her visit.
I never knew why she came but there is something mysterious and obliquely feminine about the visitor. It has something to do with the moon. Honestly I was always a little intimidated by the whole thing.
Male scientists speculate the Moon has two faces
Male scientists speculate the Moon has two faces
fiction
edward w pritchard
The Moon has two faces Male Scientists speculate
I knew it all along
It's caused by a collision, our original Moon and a smaller one
the collision was a long time ago, called the big splat
the smaller Moon keeps out of sight most of the time, the smaller moon is a she
she hides behind the back of our original moon, our original moon is a he.
Once a month she visits Earth for a while
wrecks a little havoc, shakes things up a bit
for years and years the smaller moon only shows itself once per month visiting the women here,
but our Moon is imprinted with the face from the collision with that smaller female Moon
so now our Moon has two faces
try as he might our original moon can't shake itself from the influence of the collision with that smaller Moon
down here on earth you can't see the face in the sky of the smaller Moon, it's always hidden
but Men if you have a female partner
once per month she changes a little
and the face of that smaller moon is revealed
or maybe those male scientists were personifying their own female partner's actions
onto the face of the fickle old Moon
fiction
edward w pritchard
The Moon has two faces Male Scientists speculate
I knew it all along
It's caused by a collision, our original Moon and a smaller one
the collision was a long time ago, called the big splat
the smaller Moon keeps out of sight most of the time, the smaller moon is a she
she hides behind the back of our original moon, our original moon is a he.
Once a month she visits Earth for a while
wrecks a little havoc, shakes things up a bit
for years and years the smaller moon only shows itself once per month visiting the women here,
but our Moon is imprinted with the face from the collision with that smaller female Moon
so now our Moon has two faces
try as he might our original moon can't shake itself from the influence of the collision with that smaller Moon
down here on earth you can't see the face in the sky of the smaller Moon, it's always hidden
but Men if you have a female partner
once per month she changes a little
and the face of that smaller moon is revealed
or maybe those male scientists were personifying their own female partner's actions
onto the face of the fickle old Moon
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
the national registry of once famous personages
the national registry of once famous personages
fiction
edward w pritchard
After the initial surge of drive to obtain fame and fortune has subsided many famous personages are content to fade away with their riches and quietly live out the balance of their lives. Because of the massive amount of income and net worth temporary fame can bring, persons not highly driven by the need to be in the news often prefer anonymity.
When such persons die, who were once celebrities, but now lived in anonymity it is difficult for news organizations and gossip renderers to hear of their death and know of their whereabouts. The national registry of once famous personages will solve this problem. Once someone has been deemed famous by a preset criteria they must register on line once each year with a required set of information allowing them to be traced easily. A small fee will be required for maintaining the system of registry and any surplus will be used for final expenses of the famous who have become indigent. All Americans must comply with the legislation as the cost we all must bear for everyone wishing themselves and others to pursue fame and fortune.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
After the initial surge of drive to obtain fame and fortune has subsided many famous personages are content to fade away with their riches and quietly live out the balance of their lives. Because of the massive amount of income and net worth temporary fame can bring, persons not highly driven by the need to be in the news often prefer anonymity.
When such persons die, who were once celebrities, but now lived in anonymity it is difficult for news organizations and gossip renderers to hear of their death and know of their whereabouts. The national registry of once famous personages will solve this problem. Once someone has been deemed famous by a preset criteria they must register on line once each year with a required set of information allowing them to be traced easily. A small fee will be required for maintaining the system of registry and any surplus will be used for final expenses of the famous who have become indigent. All Americans must comply with the legislation as the cost we all must bear for everyone wishing themselves and others to pursue fame and fortune.
end
open advice to President Obama
open advice to President Obama
fiction
edward w pritchard
President Obama, your the expert but maybe it's time to sell off some our Country's gold. Here's what I wrote before:
you decide:
Bear Raid destroys speculators and profiteers, America May 10, 2011
fiction
edward w pritchard
Barrons Cover headline
Bear Raid destroys speculators and profiteers, America May 10, 2011
President Obama carries a big stick but the well to do in America forgot. Leisurely setting his trap for months, President Obama acted and gold speculators and oil profiteers saw their fortunes destroyed overnight. This week the US Government leaked plans to dip into the strategic oil reserve and along with the European Union sell 25% of their holdings in Gold and Silver. It seemed like a prudent time to sell after the recent run up said Mr. President. Speculators cry foul, citing lack of advance warning but their case seems weak.
Profits by the US Government from the gold and oil sales will be used to avoid teacher layoffs in selected States said a spokesman from the White house. On a related note several New York Banks seem holders of abnormally large forward positions in gold and Oil and warn that Government assistance may be needed to cushion losses lest chaos and ennui develop among senior bank management. Their case seems weak.
fiction
edward w pritchard
President Obama, your the expert but maybe it's time to sell off some our Country's gold. Here's what I wrote before:
you decide:
Bear Raid destroys speculators and profiteers, America May 10, 2011
fiction
edward w pritchard
Barrons Cover headline
Bear Raid destroys speculators and profiteers, America May 10, 2011
President Obama carries a big stick but the well to do in America forgot. Leisurely setting his trap for months, President Obama acted and gold speculators and oil profiteers saw their fortunes destroyed overnight. This week the US Government leaked plans to dip into the strategic oil reserve and along with the European Union sell 25% of their holdings in Gold and Silver. It seemed like a prudent time to sell after the recent run up said Mr. President. Speculators cry foul, citing lack of advance warning but their case seems weak.
Profits by the US Government from the gold and oil sales will be used to avoid teacher layoffs in selected States said a spokesman from the White house. On a related note several New York Banks seem holders of abnormally large forward positions in gold and Oil and warn that Government assistance may be needed to cushion losses lest chaos and ennui develop among senior bank management. Their case seems weak.
you were a good old cart
you were a good old cart
fiction
edward w pritchard
You were a good old cart. Now that your wheels are falling off no one wants you anymore.
Yes, I am talking about you, the US consumer. Leave a message maybe we will call you back. You know us, we are business and government.
You have changed. We don't understand you anymore. You won't spend money like before, don't want to pay for health insurance and you consumers are balking at paying more taxes.
Is it something we said, or is it something we have done. Maybe it's something we neglected to do. Please communicate with us, we want things back like before. You remember us, we are business and government; what can we do to fix things?
fiction
edward w pritchard
You were a good old cart. Now that your wheels are falling off no one wants you anymore.
Yes, I am talking about you, the US consumer. Leave a message maybe we will call you back. You know us, we are business and government.
You have changed. We don't understand you anymore. You won't spend money like before, don't want to pay for health insurance and you consumers are balking at paying more taxes.
Is it something we said, or is it something we have done. Maybe it's something we neglected to do. Please communicate with us, we want things back like before. You remember us, we are business and government; what can we do to fix things?
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
the world as a stage
the world as a stage
fiction
edward w pritchard
The world as a stage and I stumble about without a script.
My part long since over I can't find a way through the curtains.
Once at 10AM I played the young gentleman to be,
Standing center stage for a moment I put my arm around the waist of a proper bride.
Then fashions changed, tastes came and went and time crept forward.
Now it's 10PM and I watch myself still on stage repeating my 10AM gentleman to be lines
Thousands of small dramas occur simultaneously about me by other players as the audience takes five
I walk about upstage, upstage with the other finished actors,
circling, circling , waiting for my next cue.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The world as a stage and I stumble about without a script.
My part long since over I can't find a way through the curtains.
Once at 10AM I played the young gentleman to be,
Standing center stage for a moment I put my arm around the waist of a proper bride.
Then fashions changed, tastes came and went and time crept forward.
Now it's 10PM and I watch myself still on stage repeating my 10AM gentleman to be lines
Thousands of small dramas occur simultaneously about me by other players as the audience takes five
I walk about upstage, upstage with the other finished actors,
circling, circling , waiting for my next cue.
Monday, August 1, 2011
chasing my butterfly of the early twilight
Chasing my butterfly of the early twilight
fiction
edward w pritchard
Chasing my butterfly of the early twilight I touched her as she flitted from flower to flower.
Flamboyant, beautiful and alluring I pursued
When the moon rose my butterfly was gone and I was alone under a granite sky.
Softly the whisping wings of another caught my ear.
Not a butterfly but a moth scudded in the moon lit air.
not chichi, but camp, my moth obscured the changing moon
a butterfly is enticing but a moth is at hand
light the torch, the moth will appear
moonlight becomes her spotted wings
heavily tumbling about
she lands awkwardly
quick to return and easy to please
fiction
edward w pritchard
Chasing my butterfly of the early twilight I touched her as she flitted from flower to flower.
Flamboyant, beautiful and alluring I pursued
When the moon rose my butterfly was gone and I was alone under a granite sky.
Softly the whisping wings of another caught my ear.
Not a butterfly but a moth scudded in the moon lit air.
not chichi, but camp, my moth obscured the changing moon
a butterfly is enticing but a moth is at hand
light the torch, the moth will appear
moonlight becomes her spotted wings
heavily tumbling about
she lands awkwardly
quick to return and easy to please
August 2011 budget deadline -part 3-update
August 2011 budget deadline update-part 3- 1:40 pm
fiction
edward w pritchard
When I worked in the collection department at the bank I had a conversation with a delinquent payer and decided the likelihood of the bank being paid back all of the money we had lent out. Often a point was reached when the collector, me, realized the borrower couldn't or wouldn't pay us in full.
I heard one of our Senators today talking about a balanced budget agreement to the current budget crisis. Like the New York bankers back in the 2008 sub-prime meltdown before him, the Senator used the word tranche to describe the current plan to balance the budget eventually.
At that instant I had the feeling I used to get as a bank collector when I realized for the first time that the borrower wouldn't pay the debt back in full. Today I realized that Uncle Sam wouldn't be able to pay all the Social Security obligations , Medical subsidies and through the States the pensions he owes out someday.
What happened?
fiction
edward w pritchard
When I worked in the collection department at the bank I had a conversation with a delinquent payer and decided the likelihood of the bank being paid back all of the money we had lent out. Often a point was reached when the collector, me, realized the borrower couldn't or wouldn't pay us in full.
I heard one of our Senators today talking about a balanced budget agreement to the current budget crisis. Like the New York bankers back in the 2008 sub-prime meltdown before him, the Senator used the word tranche to describe the current plan to balance the budget eventually.
At that instant I had the feeling I used to get as a bank collector when I realized for the first time that the borrower wouldn't pay the debt back in full. Today I realized that Uncle Sam wouldn't be able to pay all the Social Security obligations , Medical subsidies and through the States the pensions he owes out someday.
What happened?
Uncle Sam hits the pawn shop
Uncle Sam hits the pawn shop
fiction
edward w pritchard
Uncle Sam passed the budget extension bill today at the last minute.
However, with paperwork, rescissions, and compliance issues Uncle Sam is unable to get his hands on the money for a while.
Meanwhile fifty States, three at war nations and the entire defense industry refuses to give Poor old Uncle Sam a few days grace to raise the money he owes them.
Desperate, Uncle Sam has decided to hit a pawn shop. It's his first time. They owner of the pawn shop won't take land as collateral, movable goods, or surprising gold as collateral. Because gold is declining in value today.
Still desperate, Uncle Sam has offered the Statue of Liberty as collateral in pawn. Some of the metal in the Lady of liberty is worth ten cents on the dollar in pawn.
Confused Uncle Sam is unsure how to proceed to pay his debts. He called everyone he used to lavish money on but no one will call back.
What's our good Uncle to do?
fiction
edward w pritchard
Uncle Sam passed the budget extension bill today at the last minute.
However, with paperwork, rescissions, and compliance issues Uncle Sam is unable to get his hands on the money for a while.
Meanwhile fifty States, three at war nations and the entire defense industry refuses to give Poor old Uncle Sam a few days grace to raise the money he owes them.
Desperate, Uncle Sam has decided to hit a pawn shop. It's his first time. They owner of the pawn shop won't take land as collateral, movable goods, or surprising gold as collateral. Because gold is declining in value today.
Still desperate, Uncle Sam has offered the Statue of Liberty as collateral in pawn. Some of the metal in the Lady of liberty is worth ten cents on the dollar in pawn.
Confused Uncle Sam is unsure how to proceed to pay his debts. He called everyone he used to lavish money on but no one will call back.
What's our good Uncle to do?
August 2011 budget deadline -part 2-update
August 2011 budget deadline -part 2-update
fiction
edward w pritchard
see part 1 here first
Mortgage payment, semi annual property taxes and electric bill all due on August 1st. Limited funds due to seasonal shifts in employment in the household. At the national level some sort of debt ceiling crisis is in the news.
part 2
Eight dollars left till next pay comes in. Hopefully government promise to close local post offices to lower national deficit will slow new bills arriving through at least Friday. Thanks to our elected officials for your benevolence.
end part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
see part 1 here first
Mortgage payment, semi annual property taxes and electric bill all due on August 1st. Limited funds due to seasonal shifts in employment in the household. At the national level some sort of debt ceiling crisis is in the news.
part 2
Eight dollars left till next pay comes in. Hopefully government promise to close local post offices to lower national deficit will slow new bills arriving through at least Friday. Thanks to our elected officials for your benevolence.
end part 2
ten thousand nights without decent brakes
ten thousand nights without decent brakes
fiction
edward w pritchard
Ten thousand nights driving a truck without decent brakes,
come sit next to me in the truck,
I always drive in my dreams,
careening around corners and down steep hills,
past all the places I use to be,
speeding very fast through narrow streets and passage ways,
somehow each night the brakes miraculously manage to work,
no pedestrians get hit and we stop just in time,
still it's nerve wracking, out of control with badly worn brakes, driving a plunging truck downhill,
that's the point I guess,
one day, when I am awake I will take control,
I will go find that truck of my dreams and fix those brakes,
manage my breaks thereafter,
for now though, please sit close to me in my dreams,
it's so much better when you are near.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Ten thousand nights driving a truck without decent brakes,
come sit next to me in the truck,
I always drive in my dreams,
careening around corners and down steep hills,
past all the places I use to be,
speeding very fast through narrow streets and passage ways,
somehow each night the brakes miraculously manage to work,
no pedestrians get hit and we stop just in time,
still it's nerve wracking, out of control with badly worn brakes, driving a plunging truck downhill,
that's the point I guess,
one day, when I am awake I will take control,
I will go find that truck of my dreams and fix those brakes,
manage my breaks thereafter,
for now though, please sit close to me in my dreams,
it's so much better when you are near.
end
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