It's folly to chase the American dream and just plain expensive to pursue
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Why do people in the InterCitys riot when in truth they are the one's with the freedom? They are not condemned to pursue the American dream. The rioter's know and we know that the majority are excluded from the good life. It's a pipe dream to think one can have it all if one is just one of the troops; not a rock star, not a NBA player and not forever and perpetually young and beautiful.
A few years in the future it will be clear that it's folly to chase the American dream and just plain expensive to pursue.
Ten years from now those onerous health insurance premiums will destroy one's health and the student loan debt will have become unsustainable.
What a bill we pay for a few glorious years lived in the serene suburbs after a decade or two of pursuing an education followed into toiling at a job we feel alienated by.
Blink and the beautiful children that played at that grand house in the suburbs have themselves stepped on the treadmill of chasing the American dream.
Why do people riot and what does it mean that they do?
Is the chase of the American dream a pursuit of a dream deferred [1] or is it a pipe dream to have it all and be forever young, beautiful, wealthy and secure in the suburban fortress with green lawns and your favorite chair where you sit on your private recently power washed deck?
Still I would do it again. Same cast, beautiful children, go back more than a few years to a happy family, healthy bank account and shiny new car and the serene life in the suburbs. My little American dream; sans reality, sans sustainability. Something was amiss, someone was secretly alienated.
Some people riot; some people change. The American dream, better deferred than lost in the reality of living.
[1] "what happens to a dream deferred?" by Langston Hughes
here's what I wrote before on rioting:
occupy wall street movement
fiction
edward w pritchard
Listen closely, it's the sound of change. Mock if you wish but you can't stop it from occurring. Needed change is trickling up, from the parks around wall street in New York City. A hard rain will fall and wash away many things. What does it mean?
Here's what I wrote before:
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
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
blindness, a brief survey
blindness a brief survey
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
It must be so intimidating to be blind. Imagine the fears one would live with if it was perpetually darkness that surrounded oneself.
Here's what I wrote before about the cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the darkness. The fisherman tale at the end of these stories needs an edit but here's the story of Boswell Shayes who watches a little girl die over at the Children's Hospital here in town and in the process learns to fear the darkness.
For the folks who are blind or work over at the children's Hospital.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
It must be so intimidating to be blind. Imagine the fears one would live with if it was perpetually darkness that surrounded oneself.
Here's what I wrote before about the cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the darkness. The fisherman tale at the end of these stories needs an edit but here's the story of Boswell Shayes who watches a little girl die over at the Children's Hospital here in town and in the process learns to fear the darkness.
For the folks who are blind or work over at the children's Hospital.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The rise and fall of Boswell Shayes
The rise and fall of Boswell Shayes
fiction
edward w pritchard
part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
part 1
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Cage Fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark
The Cage Fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark
fiction
edward w pritchard
One could only endure a cage boxing match against Boswell Shayes. Boswell had a fierce nature, even for a competitive cage fighter and Boswell looked a thug. Boswell's body, his countenance, and his physiognomy were menacing and intimidating. None of the other cage fighters enjoyed sparring or cage boxing with Boswell Shayes. When Boswell walked down the street even groups of three or four teenage men sensed his truculent and aggressive nature and they pulled aside instinctively.
The only person who knew a gentler side of Boswell was his girlfriend Lillian. Lillian was a single Mother with a six year old daughter, Megan. The little girl, Megan was very sick and for the last six months while Lillian worked if Boswell wasn't working at his day job he was by Megan's bedside at Children's hospital reading to her or watching cartoons. It was only because of Lillian's insistence that Boswell continued to workout with his cage boxing training for he was inclined to spend all his extra time at the hospital with Megan, who was a sad sick little girl.
Boswell continued to train for the kick boxing and because he wanted to hurry to the hospital he made every minute of his workouts count. The gym became a refuge for Boswell and he approached his workouts with a fierce intensity. Boswell became trained for cage fighting to a proper sporting edge and he was at his peak of conditioning.
Although Boswell was in peak physical shape he developed severe insomnia about the time Megan began spending more time at the Children's Hospital cancer ward than at her and Lillian's small house. Repeatedly Boswell the cage boxer began to have horrifying dreams of terror and death which woke him promptly at four AM. Boswell would then be unable to return to sleep and would fret and suffer for Megan's safety. The fears continued to creep on into Boswell's day as well. Boswell began to fear the night time hours and Boswell the fierce cage fighter came to be afraid of the dark.
fiction
edward w pritchard
One could only endure a cage boxing match against Boswell Shayes. Boswell had a fierce nature, even for a competitive cage fighter and Boswell looked a thug. Boswell's body, his countenance, and his physiognomy were menacing and intimidating. None of the other cage fighters enjoyed sparring or cage boxing with Boswell Shayes. When Boswell walked down the street even groups of three or four teenage men sensed his truculent and aggressive nature and they pulled aside instinctively.
The only person who knew a gentler side of Boswell was his girlfriend Lillian. Lillian was a single Mother with a six year old daughter, Megan. The little girl, Megan was very sick and for the last six months while Lillian worked if Boswell wasn't working at his day job he was by Megan's bedside at Children's hospital reading to her or watching cartoons. It was only because of Lillian's insistence that Boswell continued to workout with his cage boxing training for he was inclined to spend all his extra time at the hospital with Megan, who was a sad sick little girl.
Boswell continued to train for the kick boxing and because he wanted to hurry to the hospital he made every minute of his workouts count. The gym became a refuge for Boswell and he approached his workouts with a fierce intensity. Boswell became trained for cage fighting to a proper sporting edge and he was at his peak of conditioning.
Although Boswell was in peak physical shape he developed severe insomnia about the time Megan began spending more time at the Children's Hospital cancer ward than at her and Lillian's small house. Repeatedly Boswell the cage boxer began to have horrifying dreams of terror and death which woke him promptly at four AM. Boswell would then be unable to return to sleep and would fret and suffer for Megan's safety. The fears continued to creep on into Boswell's day as well. Boswell began to fear the night time hours and Boswell the fierce cage fighter came to be afraid of the dark.
Monday, May 23, 2011
turtle release
turtle release
fiction
edward w pritchard
see also
The Cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark, Feb 11, 2011
The little girl's voice was excited and carried to where I was standing fishing. I had watched the two of them get out of their car up near where mine was parked by the baseball field about 200 yards from where I stood fishing. Despite the strong wind I could hear every word the little girl said.
He was Boswell and must be her Mother's boyfriend. Boswell was carefully listening to her but he was struggling a little carrying the heavy snapping turtle. In spite of the towel that protected him from the snapping turtle I could see he carried a monster. Boswell was straining with the weight of the turtle and his neck and shoulder muscles were bulging through his shirt. I thought of Chaucer's miller's tale, the Miller could knock a stout barn door off the hinges with his head. Boswell looked the same as Chaucer's Miller, except he also had large arms and a cage fighters face as he held the large turtle away from his body and face with his hands and arms in a circle.
The little girl was explaining to Boswell where the turtle would swim to when they released it into the Lake.
I continued to fish and I am not sure if they knew I was there, about fifty feet to their right, around a bend in the Lake, fishing in the cold wind.
I listened to the ritual they went through releasing the snapping turtle but I didn't hear where they had found it. After a few minutes and they were sure the turtle was gone they planned a walk along the Lake, mostly to distract the girl from worrying about the turtle which now that it had disappeared she was fretting over.
I had caught a few fish while they were releasing the turtle and I heard him tell her that they should say something to the fisherman. About then I got a bite on my second pole, the one I was fishing with tight line for cat fish and I had a premonition that it was the turtle. I was using bacon for bait and it was plausible although maybe unlikely that I had hooked their turtle.
As the girl came around the corner with the man I cut the line and grabbed the other pole and began to fuss with the reel. Boswell was somewhat shy but the little girl, Megan talked up a storm. She told me about the turtle and talked until she got cold.
For a variety of reasons I don't do much fishing anymore.
end
more to follow on Megan and Boswell
fiction
edward w pritchard
see also
The Cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark, Feb 11, 2011
The little girl's voice was excited and carried to where I was standing fishing. I had watched the two of them get out of their car up near where mine was parked by the baseball field about 200 yards from where I stood fishing. Despite the strong wind I could hear every word the little girl said.
He was Boswell and must be her Mother's boyfriend. Boswell was carefully listening to her but he was struggling a little carrying the heavy snapping turtle. In spite of the towel that protected him from the snapping turtle I could see he carried a monster. Boswell was straining with the weight of the turtle and his neck and shoulder muscles were bulging through his shirt. I thought of Chaucer's miller's tale, the Miller could knock a stout barn door off the hinges with his head. Boswell looked the same as Chaucer's Miller, except he also had large arms and a cage fighters face as he held the large turtle away from his body and face with his hands and arms in a circle.
The little girl was explaining to Boswell where the turtle would swim to when they released it into the Lake.
I continued to fish and I am not sure if they knew I was there, about fifty feet to their right, around a bend in the Lake, fishing in the cold wind.
I listened to the ritual they went through releasing the snapping turtle but I didn't hear where they had found it. After a few minutes and they were sure the turtle was gone they planned a walk along the Lake, mostly to distract the girl from worrying about the turtle which now that it had disappeared she was fretting over.
I had caught a few fish while they were releasing the turtle and I heard him tell her that they should say something to the fisherman. About then I got a bite on my second pole, the one I was fishing with tight line for cat fish and I had a premonition that it was the turtle. I was using bacon for bait and it was plausible although maybe unlikely that I had hooked their turtle.
As the girl came around the corner with the man I cut the line and grabbed the other pole and began to fuss with the reel. Boswell was somewhat shy but the little girl, Megan talked up a storm. She told me about the turtle and talked until she got cold.
For a variety of reasons I don't do much fishing anymore.
end
more to follow on Megan and Boswell
adbright
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
vagrant
vagrant
fiction
edward w pritchard
for officer Johnson APD
I try to be kind to people, not always easy for a policeman. Boswell sits down at the Lake and stares into the water for hours and hours. He makes the restaurant owners across Manchester Rd nervous when he comes around, they are afraid he scares off their customers.
I met Boswell when I worked over at the Children hospital as a security guard when I was finishing my criminal justice degree. He came everyday to see the sick little girl and I came to respect him as I got to know him a little. I recognized him; he was well known locally for his cage fighting. I was interested then in martial arts and we used to talk a little. It was odd because he stood outside in the cold and smoked cigarettes. He was very anxious over the girl's health. Her name was Megan and because of her he broke his training and smoked.
The night Megan died my supervisor at the hospital radioed me to come up to the cancer ward. Boswell Shayes was sitting out in the hall on the floor. The little girl was dead. Several of the Doctors were afraid Boswell might blow up. I walked with him outside and talked to him for twenty minutes. After, he went back in with his girlfriend, the girl's Mother.
One of the fishermen told me about the Turtle release Boswell and Megan did here at the Lake. I was talking to the fisherman when I was playing softball up at the field.
Sometimes when I am driving home from work from my duties as a policeman I stop over at the dollar burger place across the lake and buy three or four hamburgers and take them over to the lake and share them with Boswell. We eat one each and always throw the rest to the snapping turtles.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
for officer Johnson APD
I try to be kind to people, not always easy for a policeman. Boswell sits down at the Lake and stares into the water for hours and hours. He makes the restaurant owners across Manchester Rd nervous when he comes around, they are afraid he scares off their customers.
I met Boswell when I worked over at the Children hospital as a security guard when I was finishing my criminal justice degree. He came everyday to see the sick little girl and I came to respect him as I got to know him a little. I recognized him; he was well known locally for his cage fighting. I was interested then in martial arts and we used to talk a little. It was odd because he stood outside in the cold and smoked cigarettes. He was very anxious over the girl's health. Her name was Megan and because of her he broke his training and smoked.
The night Megan died my supervisor at the hospital radioed me to come up to the cancer ward. Boswell Shayes was sitting out in the hall on the floor. The little girl was dead. Several of the Doctors were afraid Boswell might blow up. I walked with him outside and talked to him for twenty minutes. After, he went back in with his girlfriend, the girl's Mother.
One of the fishermen told me about the Turtle release Boswell and Megan did here at the Lake. I was talking to the fisherman when I was playing softball up at the field.
Sometimes when I am driving home from work from my duties as a policeman I stop over at the dollar burger place across the lake and buy three or four hamburgers and take them over to the lake and share them with Boswell. We eat one each and always throw the rest to the snapping turtles.
end
adbright
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
fisherman's tale
fisherman's tale
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somehow my wife always knows things and as usual she figured out I was feeding the local vagrant at the lake. I fish up there again and I had been taking food to the man I had met releasing a snapping turtle one day.
The man was named Boswell and he was releasing a turtle with a little girl, Megan. She died about a year ago.
One day recently while I was fishing I had called police officer Johnson to stop up at the baseball field near the lake where I fish. Dispatch said Officer Johnson was on another call and wasn't available. I asked Boswell, who people now call the vagrant, to say something to the one team for me. The players had been drinking and were using a lot of very vulgar language. There were a lot of children up near the field and they shouldn't hear that kind of bad language. Boswell had been a champion cage boxer here in town, I am too old for such a confrontation and I asked Boswell to say something for me. That's when I noticed he had lost weight. As he walked over from his usual spot at the lake he took his shirt off. I saw he had lost about twenty pounds of muscle through the chest and shoulders. Of course he had no trouble getting the drinking baseball players to behave. After that I started taking Boswell food when I went fishing.
Out of the blue my wife started making me a basket to take up to the Lake with a double order of food. She is a great cook and Boswell and I enjoyed the fare. I might ad I am not much of a cook, I was a chef's helper in the army but my skills as a chef are very limited. I figured out that my wife had heard about the turtle release story with Boswell and the little girl Megan when she started putting a lot of bacon in our basket for the lake. I can't eat bacon. Somehow my wife through her network must have found out about the little girl who had died of cancer and the turtle release I had witnessed a few years ago. She put in the bacon for me and Boswell to feed to the snapping turtles.
My wife is a good egg I guess.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somehow my wife always knows things and as usual she figured out I was feeding the local vagrant at the lake. I fish up there again and I had been taking food to the man I had met releasing a snapping turtle one day.
The man was named Boswell and he was releasing a turtle with a little girl, Megan. She died about a year ago.
One day recently while I was fishing I had called police officer Johnson to stop up at the baseball field near the lake where I fish. Dispatch said Officer Johnson was on another call and wasn't available. I asked Boswell, who people now call the vagrant, to say something to the one team for me. The players had been drinking and were using a lot of very vulgar language. There were a lot of children up near the field and they shouldn't hear that kind of bad language. Boswell had been a champion cage boxer here in town, I am too old for such a confrontation and I asked Boswell to say something for me. That's when I noticed he had lost weight. As he walked over from his usual spot at the lake he took his shirt off. I saw he had lost about twenty pounds of muscle through the chest and shoulders. Of course he had no trouble getting the drinking baseball players to behave. After that I started taking Boswell food when I went fishing.
Out of the blue my wife started making me a basket to take up to the Lake with a double order of food. She is a great cook and Boswell and I enjoyed the fare. I might ad I am not much of a cook, I was a chef's helper in the army but my skills as a chef are very limited. I figured out that my wife had heard about the turtle release story with Boswell and the little girl Megan when she started putting a lot of bacon in our basket for the lake. I can't eat bacon. Somehow my wife through her network must have found out about the little girl who had died of cancer and the turtle release I had witnessed a few years ago. She put in the bacon for me and Boswell to feed to the snapping turtles.
My wife is a good egg I guess.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Fiona Apple; them eyes
Fiona Apple; them eyes
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
author writes elsewhere: [ that now transformed], [himself], At peace one thousand connections dissolve.
Still them eyes when espied suddenly are arresting and startling to behold. Case in Point Fiona Apple sings " after your gone" in rehearsal on you tube. Suddenly across a crowd and from a video Fiona Apple's eyes are center stage.
Homer writes of " the face that launched a thousand ships" of Helen of Troy; Fiona Apple and a few lesser Goddesses, Oh them eyes.
Women don't we love them and aren't they so provocative to behold.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
author writes elsewhere: [ that now transformed], [himself], At peace one thousand connections dissolve.
Still them eyes when espied suddenly are arresting and startling to behold. Case in Point Fiona Apple sings " after your gone" in rehearsal on you tube. Suddenly across a crowd and from a video Fiona Apple's eyes are center stage.
Homer writes of " the face that launched a thousand ships" of Helen of Troy; Fiona Apple and a few lesser Goddesses, Oh them eyes.
Women don't we love them and aren't they so provocative to behold.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
forgive us our trespasses
forgive us our trespasses
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Last week the country of Greece, which is chronically in debt and the sick member of the Euro community for financial transgressions, lashed out against thrifty Germany and decided that Germany should pay Greece 300 billion monetary units for outrageous behaviors the Nazi Germans did to Greece nearly seventy five years ago.
There needs to be a statue of limitations on such claims for Countries, Races and individuals so the world can move on and certain individuals with certain brain chemistries can move forward and not relive the muddy past endlessly.
The same goes for debts such as extinct student loans and for slights such as breaking up with a high school girl friend by phone or denting a car in a parking lot without a note as a fourteen year old.
All persons, institutions and places need a one time confessional when the diet has failed, caught peeking at the neighbors wife or copying essays and confronted with plagiarism charges.
Time to move on. Preach to the birds or sleep behind a Wal-Mart and then grant yourself redemption.
No perpetual protesting World.
The Nazi's were atrocious, the European-Americans sought to genocide the Native Americans out of contingent Progress, the Draft was wrong during the Viet Nam war, and the South was incorrect in it's position on Slavery from 1808 to 1865.
Forgive us our trespasses World.
Time to Move on. History is dead.
No perpetual protesting World. Just Be.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Last week the country of Greece, which is chronically in debt and the sick member of the Euro community for financial transgressions, lashed out against thrifty Germany and decided that Germany should pay Greece 300 billion monetary units for outrageous behaviors the Nazi Germans did to Greece nearly seventy five years ago.
There needs to be a statue of limitations on such claims for Countries, Races and individuals so the world can move on and certain individuals with certain brain chemistries can move forward and not relive the muddy past endlessly.
The same goes for debts such as extinct student loans and for slights such as breaking up with a high school girl friend by phone or denting a car in a parking lot without a note as a fourteen year old.
All persons, institutions and places need a one time confessional when the diet has failed, caught peeking at the neighbors wife or copying essays and confronted with plagiarism charges.
Time to move on. Preach to the birds or sleep behind a Wal-Mart and then grant yourself redemption.
No perpetual protesting World.
The Nazi's were atrocious, the European-Americans sought to genocide the Native Americans out of contingent Progress, the Draft was wrong during the Viet Nam war, and the South was incorrect in it's position on Slavery from 1808 to 1865.
Forgive us our trespasses World.
Time to Move on. History is dead.
No perpetual protesting World. Just Be.
Friday, April 17, 2015
our workout gym's somewhat sinister
our workout gym's somewhat sinister
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Author has one of his flight's of imagination today; the exercise gym here in town is secretly controlled by the devil for political purposes.
Start
Oh, they preach to you at my workout gym but only if you make the mistake of signing up for a group exercise class, individual personal training, or nutrition supplement information. Otherwise if you workout alone, come and go directly and silently and never make eye contact with the buff and cut members you never hear the secret political messages espoused at my Workout gym.
It's rumored that a cab driver owns the workout gym where I pay my dues five or six times a week and he is raking in huge monthly renewals from the armies of zombies who stumble into the gym early each morning to drink coffee, share strongly held opinions and perform unusual stretching routines behind hermetically sealed all bulletproof glass enclosed public workout classrooms.
I hear the cab driver owner of my gym has applied to Wall Street for financing to Internationalize and create a chain of ten thousand identically run and managed workout gym across the World. Each gym will have the same inanely stupid secret rules and procedures, fines and violations for breaches of protocol.
What an ideal way to invisibly concoct an organized nefarious mass political movement. Under the guise of an exercise gym the place where I workout has recruited armies of elderly persons, real strong guys with cut arms, and a few young women doing deep squats in short shorts for purposes of creating a mass political movement.
Perhaps the opinionated group of gym members at my gym are secretly Devil worshipers or worse.
Me, I don't make eye contact or listen too closely to their conversations at my gym as they circle and circle about the walking track; I just quickly perform my workout rituals and then quickly and silently leave the premises each day with eyes lowered and my arms closed across my chest.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Author has one of his flight's of imagination today; the exercise gym here in town is secretly controlled by the devil for political purposes.
Start
Oh, they preach to you at my workout gym but only if you make the mistake of signing up for a group exercise class, individual personal training, or nutrition supplement information. Otherwise if you workout alone, come and go directly and silently and never make eye contact with the buff and cut members you never hear the secret political messages espoused at my Workout gym.
It's rumored that a cab driver owns the workout gym where I pay my dues five or six times a week and he is raking in huge monthly renewals from the armies of zombies who stumble into the gym early each morning to drink coffee, share strongly held opinions and perform unusual stretching routines behind hermetically sealed all bulletproof glass enclosed public workout classrooms.
I hear the cab driver owner of my gym has applied to Wall Street for financing to Internationalize and create a chain of ten thousand identically run and managed workout gym across the World. Each gym will have the same inanely stupid secret rules and procedures, fines and violations for breaches of protocol.
What an ideal way to invisibly concoct an organized nefarious mass political movement. Under the guise of an exercise gym the place where I workout has recruited armies of elderly persons, real strong guys with cut arms, and a few young women doing deep squats in short shorts for purposes of creating a mass political movement.
Perhaps the opinionated group of gym members at my gym are secretly Devil worshipers or worse.
Me, I don't make eye contact or listen too closely to their conversations at my gym as they circle and circle about the walking track; I just quickly perform my workout rituals and then quickly and silently leave the premises each day with eyes lowered and my arms closed across my chest.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
living in the world of your imagination
living in the world of your imagination
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Worried that you have left the path and drifted off into the world of your imagination?
Take stock.
Did you eat today? Is there enough shelter and warmth for you ? Are you carrying any colossal secrets that are interfering with digestion and breathing?
Have you helped as you can and tried to be where you should be? Have you tried not to hurt anyone?
It's 2:30 AM here where I am and all over the world people are trying to predict the future based on what stocks, bonds, and commodity prices will do over the next few years. Rational and logical persons will fret and fuss over same. Feathering their nest against outrageous fortune.
Drift off into the world of your imagination a bit. Preach to the birds if you get lonely and watch a camp fire burn if you have trepidations when it get's dark tonight.
Be as you can then let it go. Life has no meaning only the intricate delicacy of it's sparkling mosaic.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Worried that you have left the path and drifted off into the world of your imagination?
Take stock.
Did you eat today? Is there enough shelter and warmth for you ? Are you carrying any colossal secrets that are interfering with digestion and breathing?
Have you helped as you can and tried to be where you should be? Have you tried not to hurt anyone?
It's 2:30 AM here where I am and all over the world people are trying to predict the future based on what stocks, bonds, and commodity prices will do over the next few years. Rational and logical persons will fret and fuss over same. Feathering their nest against outrageous fortune.
Drift off into the world of your imagination a bit. Preach to the birds if you get lonely and watch a camp fire burn if you have trepidations when it get's dark tonight.
Be as you can then let it go. Life has no meaning only the intricate delicacy of it's sparkling mosaic.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Reaffirm our existence ye Federal Reserve
Reaffirm our existence ye Federal Reserve
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Now it's hard for the Devil to have a place in the world with the Federal Reserve defining reality and existence for us here and now. If no one thinks and remembers the Devil will he cease to exist?
Not only has the Federal reserve, that's the economic policy making consensus arm of our Government, caused near extinction for Army General's, short sellers and mortgage refinance salesmen; now they are causing the Devil to cease to exist. The Devil will cease to exist as in as the philosopher Bishop George Berkeley positing material objects exist only if thought of occasionally in the minds of us and others.
Who needs the Devil when the Federal Reserve manages our Reality? Reaffirm our existence ye Federal Reserve.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Now it's hard for the Devil to have a place in the world with the Federal Reserve defining reality and existence for us here and now. If no one thinks and remembers the Devil will he cease to exist?
Not only has the Federal reserve, that's the economic policy making consensus arm of our Government, caused near extinction for Army General's, short sellers and mortgage refinance salesmen; now they are causing the Devil to cease to exist. The Devil will cease to exist as in as the philosopher Bishop George Berkeley positing material objects exist only if thought of occasionally in the minds of us and others.
Who needs the Devil when the Federal Reserve manages our Reality? Reaffirm our existence ye Federal Reserve.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Do it while you can
Do it while you can
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Quotable Ed Pritchard minor writer; "you have to be alive to stage a comeback".
Do it while you can.
That's what Pritchard says and this time he is not confusing to read, " you have to be alive to stage a comeback" Here's the story below, its a little confusing but it says " you have to be alive to stage a comeback. Do it while you can.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Quotable Ed Pritchard minor writer; "you have to be alive to stage a comeback".
Do it while you can.
That's what Pritchard says and this time he is not confusing to read, " you have to be alive to stage a comeback" Here's the story below, its a little confusing but it says " you have to be alive to stage a comeback. Do it while you can.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
you have to be alive to stage a come back
You have to be alive to stage a come back
fiction
edward w pritchard
You have to be alive to stage a comeback. Bertha "Chippie" Hill was a blues singer born in 1905 who performed blues music as early as 1920 and sang later in that decade with Louis Armstrong and others. She retired in the 1930's to raise her seven children. Chippie Hill staged a comeback starting in 1945. World War 2 was over and black musicians would dominate American Music for the next several decades.
In 1950 Chippie Hill was struck and killed by a hit and run driver in New York City. She never experienced the growth in popularity that blues music would generate in American culture. Bessie Smith had died in 1937 at age 43 from a car accident and Billie Holiday died in 1959 at age 44. Bessie Smith of course is considered along with Billie Holiday as the greatest of the women blues singers. Chippie Hill's voice and presentation compares favorably to Bessie Smith. All three of these women's music has a deep sorrowful basis that is difficult to duplicate because of changes in American society.
Other women strongly influenced blues music in America as well, notably Ma Rainey who died in 1939 at the age of 52 of natural causes.
As rock music matured in the 1960' several main stream white bands acknowledged the contributions of blues musicians to the American and British music scene. Several Black male blues artists were acknowledged as influences on Rock and Roll music and mainstream artists. Unfortunately for a variety of reason several of the great Black female blues artist did not survive into the 1960's and later to benefit economically from the Civil Rights induced benefits for blacks in America and the movement to mainstream music for blues artists in general.
Technology exists to record the music of the vanished female blues artist but they are gone and the suffering and sorrow that nurtured their music is gone as well. Never to return. Hopefully talented female musicians now living will record the great blues standards while they can and not let the economics of the music business silence their God given gifts.
fiction
edward w pritchard
You have to be alive to stage a comeback. Bertha "Chippie" Hill was a blues singer born in 1905 who performed blues music as early as 1920 and sang later in that decade with Louis Armstrong and others. She retired in the 1930's to raise her seven children. Chippie Hill staged a comeback starting in 1945. World War 2 was over and black musicians would dominate American Music for the next several decades.
In 1950 Chippie Hill was struck and killed by a hit and run driver in New York City. She never experienced the growth in popularity that blues music would generate in American culture. Bessie Smith had died in 1937 at age 43 from a car accident and Billie Holiday died in 1959 at age 44. Bessie Smith of course is considered along with Billie Holiday as the greatest of the women blues singers. Chippie Hill's voice and presentation compares favorably to Bessie Smith. All three of these women's music has a deep sorrowful basis that is difficult to duplicate because of changes in American society.
Other women strongly influenced blues music in America as well, notably Ma Rainey who died in 1939 at the age of 52 of natural causes.
As rock music matured in the 1960' several main stream white bands acknowledged the contributions of blues musicians to the American and British music scene. Several Black male blues artists were acknowledged as influences on Rock and Roll music and mainstream artists. Unfortunately for a variety of reason several of the great Black female blues artist did not survive into the 1960's and later to benefit economically from the Civil Rights induced benefits for blacks in America and the movement to mainstream music for blues artists in general.
Technology exists to record the music of the vanished female blues artist but they are gone and the suffering and sorrow that nurtured their music is gone as well. Never to return. Hopefully talented female musicians now living will record the great blues standards while they can and not let the economics of the music business silence their God given gifts.
Monday, April 13, 2015
educating the child/ part 1
educating the child/ part 1
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Dr. Mauk- "Go on please"
patient- "I was at work at my desk when I saw the girl." [pause] drinks from plastic cup, looking off for a moment, continues
"a beat up Suburban style white large station wagon pulled up just in front of the window near my desk and I was fumbling for money to pay the driver, it was some sort of a taxi, there were three children and the driver and the baby girl was sitting two seats over from me as we drove through the crowded streets"
Dr. Mauk- "what was the mood inside the conveyance vehicle"
patient- "the driver kept turning around to talk to myself and others, a few times he stood up and faced the rear of the bus and I could see the vehicle in front of us was going very fast but we were gaining on it and I was afraid we would collide. I feared for the baby's life. That was the first time she looked at me directly and I could see the understanding in her eyes"
Dr. Mauk- "tell me about the other vehicle in front of the taxi"
myself-it's the same as before, the vehicle is full of men with machine guns and masks over their eyes and the Van began to swerve dangerously side to side"
Doctor- "excuse me I must take this phone call"
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Dr. Mauk- "Go on please"
patient- "I was at work at my desk when I saw the girl." [pause] drinks from plastic cup, looking off for a moment, continues
"a beat up Suburban style white large station wagon pulled up just in front of the window near my desk and I was fumbling for money to pay the driver, it was some sort of a taxi, there were three children and the driver and the baby girl was sitting two seats over from me as we drove through the crowded streets"
Dr. Mauk- "what was the mood inside the conveyance vehicle"
patient- "the driver kept turning around to talk to myself and others, a few times he stood up and faced the rear of the bus and I could see the vehicle in front of us was going very fast but we were gaining on it and I was afraid we would collide. I feared for the baby's life. That was the first time she looked at me directly and I could see the understanding in her eyes"
Dr. Mauk- "tell me about the other vehicle in front of the taxi"
myself-it's the same as before, the vehicle is full of men with machine guns and masks over their eyes and the Van began to swerve dangerously side to side"
Doctor- "excuse me I must take this phone call"
Sunday, April 12, 2015
loss of divinity
loss of divinity
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
One's divinity is not a delusion but a real thing quietly existing within ourselves; never near again, forever moving beyond us, leaving away from us into and across with the expanding universe.
The pain of the realization of lost divinity is palpable.
Hanging, slumping, sagging on the cross it's impossible to still the Mind from the latest insight.
Circle and circle all the possessions in a ring around ourselves. Rearrange the piles over and over order cannot be re-established.
Explain things again and again to Dead Relatives. The denouement will never reoccur.
Stillness and silence.
All is changed.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
One's divinity is not a delusion but a real thing quietly existing within ourselves; never near again, forever moving beyond us, leaving away from us into and across with the expanding universe.
The pain of the realization of lost divinity is palpable.
Hanging, slumping, sagging on the cross it's impossible to still the Mind from the latest insight.
Circle and circle all the possessions in a ring around ourselves. Rearrange the piles over and over order cannot be re-established.
Explain things again and again to Dead Relatives. The denouement will never reoccur.
Stillness and silence.
All is changed.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Beautiful women and world peace; can the Euro find parity with the Dollar
Beautiful women and world peace; can the Euro find parity with the Dollar
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Nothing is so harsh on the ear than to hear a European in a strange language and accent butcher a fine American love song like " Love is Blue" . Unfortunately I must include the British in this criticism because the language that they speak is often hostile to my ears especially Scottish or Cockney.
Technically it is true that "Love is Blue" was originally sung in French by Greek singer Vicki [ Leandros] and composed by Pierre Popp with lyrics by Pierre Cour but everyone knows " Love is Blue" is now an American institution beloved by American audiences and always sang here in American English.
While author acknowledges that " Vicki " [ Leandross ] was a beautiful woman back in the sixties with the cute short haircut Europeans should accept that the dollar is the world currency, gold included as well, and soon parity between the Dollar and Euro will balance many past injustices such as Europeans singing classic American love songs like " Love is blue" in unusual languages. As for the British pound no one in America can understand or remember what is a pence or a bob so it is irrelevant we are sorry to say.
International Economics isn't that difficult if you approach the subject from a common ground between the great nations of the world.
end
" Love is blue" by Greek Vicki Leandros is on you tube in French with commentary in American English
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Nothing is so harsh on the ear than to hear a European in a strange language and accent butcher a fine American love song like " Love is Blue" . Unfortunately I must include the British in this criticism because the language that they speak is often hostile to my ears especially Scottish or Cockney.
Technically it is true that "Love is Blue" was originally sung in French by Greek singer Vicki [ Leandros] and composed by Pierre Popp with lyrics by Pierre Cour but everyone knows " Love is Blue" is now an American institution beloved by American audiences and always sang here in American English.
While author acknowledges that " Vicki " [ Leandross ] was a beautiful woman back in the sixties with the cute short haircut Europeans should accept that the dollar is the world currency, gold included as well, and soon parity between the Dollar and Euro will balance many past injustices such as Europeans singing classic American love songs like " Love is blue" in unusual languages. As for the British pound no one in America can understand or remember what is a pence or a bob so it is irrelevant we are sorry to say.
International Economics isn't that difficult if you approach the subject from a common ground between the great nations of the world.
end
" Love is blue" by Greek Vicki Leandros is on you tube in French with commentary in American English
Monday, April 6, 2015
Save and invest your way to a new you
Save and invest your way to a new you
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
You can't take it with you but can you change who you are by the acquisition of wealth?
Here's what I wrote before on that subject:
Capitalist wanabe
fiction
edward w pritchard
I took classes once in philosophy from citizen Chou now our section leader here on the farm in Marxist China. I asked my section leader citizen Chou humbly to reclassify my aged Grand Father a capitalist. Citizen Chou refused my request, a bourgeois is a bourgeois.
My Grandfather must not put on airs.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
You can't take it with you but can you change who you are by the acquisition of wealth?
Here's what I wrote before on that subject:
Capitalist wanabe
fiction
edward w pritchard
I took classes once in philosophy from citizen Chou now our section leader here on the farm in Marxist China. I asked my section leader citizen Chou humbly to reclassify my aged Grand Father a capitalist. Citizen Chou refused my request, a bourgeois is a bourgeois.
My Grandfather must not put on airs.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Cynthia and John Lennon-life on trac two; ob la di ob la da the Beatles lyrics in a minor key
Cynthia and John Lennon-life on trac two; ob la di ob la da the Beatles lyrics in a minor key
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Forget seeing the world a little differently we hear things in a minor key. It's so dramatic and ominous this listening in universals. Cynthia and John Lennon-life on trac two; ob la di ob la da the Beatles lyrics in a minor key.
Call to me softly in a minor key it will travel over the din and I will understand everything, from the big bang to the night they called it a day.
Trac two; life goes on " happy ever after in the market place."[1] Hearing the world a little differently these days.
[1] Beatles- ob la di ob la da
good bye to Cynthia Lennon friend of a friend
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Forget seeing the world a little differently we hear things in a minor key. It's so dramatic and ominous this listening in universals. Cynthia and John Lennon-life on trac two; ob la di ob la da the Beatles lyrics in a minor key.
Call to me softly in a minor key it will travel over the din and I will understand everything, from the big bang to the night they called it a day.
Trac two; life goes on " happy ever after in the market place."[1] Hearing the world a little differently these days.
[1] Beatles- ob la di ob la da
good bye to Cynthia Lennon friend of a friend
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Ten year sentence/ part 1 / edit 2
Ten year sentence/ part 1/ edit 2
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Here's something again I wrote on June 8, 2010 about a guy who is lonely working far away from his girl. Like a Gold miner out to California to find Gold in 1849 in the West last century but this guy is farther out, on Io a Moon of Jupiter.
Soon, soon your children will hear about mining opportunities in inner space from Mars to Jupiter, soon. It doesn't rain at night on Io but the nights are long and lonely. Read on:
10 year sentence
fiction
edward w pritchard
To raise money I am doing a ten year stint here on Io, a Moon of Jupiter, at the mining company Styler and Meserow.
I have been here on Io for two years and the money is very good but the days seem like weeks and relations with company management are very bad.
I worry about Sharon my girl back on earth. I worry that I will end up sterile from the rocks we mine day in and out. The rocks also can make you crazy because of the high frequency waves they emit. Sometimes when I write blues song on my day off I think that the waves are influencing my thoughts and the words I write. I never had a problem like this, with my mind, and of course it could just be the loneliness and isolation, or the intense stress and danger of the mining job I do, or the labor management problems here, or like some of my fellow workers say it could be the waves emitted from the rocks we mine. I am afraid at times I am going crazy.
To save money today on my one day off out of seven I am mostly staying in my bunk. Because of the intense gravity from Jupiter it costs extra to move about the complex other than for work duties. I am trying to save money so I am laying on my bunk, composing blues songs and playing my harmonica. My father was black back on earth and my relatives down in Mississippi on the Delta where a long time ago my relatives lived and brought the blues to Chicago where I was born.
I can lay here on my bunk lonely for Sharon and get into my inner blues. I haven't been drinking tonight which is rare for a day off. I miss Sharon and worry that she will find someone else. Two years and twenty days since I saw her and my groin hurts from the rocks we mine more than it does from missing her. Sometimes I worry I will crack up like others do here regularly. I have my next physical and psychological in 5 weeks. If I don't pass it I get shipped back to earth with a penalty passage fee. That would wipe out about a third of the Money that I have made here so far.
I need the money because jobs are so difficult to get on earth and taxes are outrageous. If I am going to support Sharon in the style she is accustomed to I have to at least make it to the five year mark here; 10,855 days till that.
I am working on a song called five year blues now. Sometimes I feel like Sharon can hear my songs that I sing while I lay in my bunk and play my harmonica. No recording devices or radio signals can be sent from Io because of the waves emitted by the rocks we mine. So if that was true that she could hear my songs to her that would be OK, but I have to remind myself not to ever mention that when I take the company physical and psychological.
This job is lousy but I know I can make it five years, maybe ten long years, others have. The money is good here and if I can make it five years I can accomplish some of my goals concerning me and Sharon my girl back on Earth.
end Part 1
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Here's something again I wrote on June 8, 2010 about a guy who is lonely working far away from his girl. Like a Gold miner out to California to find Gold in 1849 in the West last century but this guy is farther out, on Io a Moon of Jupiter.
Soon, soon your children will hear about mining opportunities in inner space from Mars to Jupiter, soon. It doesn't rain at night on Io but the nights are long and lonely. Read on:
10 year sentence
fiction
edward w pritchard
To raise money I am doing a ten year stint here on Io, a Moon of Jupiter, at the mining company Styler and Meserow.
I have been here on Io for two years and the money is very good but the days seem like weeks and relations with company management are very bad.
I worry about Sharon my girl back on earth. I worry that I will end up sterile from the rocks we mine day in and out. The rocks also can make you crazy because of the high frequency waves they emit. Sometimes when I write blues song on my day off I think that the waves are influencing my thoughts and the words I write. I never had a problem like this, with my mind, and of course it could just be the loneliness and isolation, or the intense stress and danger of the mining job I do, or the labor management problems here, or like some of my fellow workers say it could be the waves emitted from the rocks we mine. I am afraid at times I am going crazy.
To save money today on my one day off out of seven I am mostly staying in my bunk. Because of the intense gravity from Jupiter it costs extra to move about the complex other than for work duties. I am trying to save money so I am laying on my bunk, composing blues songs and playing my harmonica. My father was black back on earth and my relatives down in Mississippi on the Delta where a long time ago my relatives lived and brought the blues to Chicago where I was born.
I can lay here on my bunk lonely for Sharon and get into my inner blues. I haven't been drinking tonight which is rare for a day off. I miss Sharon and worry that she will find someone else. Two years and twenty days since I saw her and my groin hurts from the rocks we mine more than it does from missing her. Sometimes I worry I will crack up like others do here regularly. I have my next physical and psychological in 5 weeks. If I don't pass it I get shipped back to earth with a penalty passage fee. That would wipe out about a third of the Money that I have made here so far.
I need the money because jobs are so difficult to get on earth and taxes are outrageous. If I am going to support Sharon in the style she is accustomed to I have to at least make it to the five year mark here; 10,855 days till that.
I am working on a song called five year blues now. Sometimes I feel like Sharon can hear my songs that I sing while I lay in my bunk and play my harmonica. No recording devices or radio signals can be sent from Io because of the waves emitted by the rocks we mine. So if that was true that she could hear my songs to her that would be OK, but I have to remind myself not to ever mention that when I take the company physical and psychological.
This job is lousy but I know I can make it five years, maybe ten long years, others have. The money is good here and if I can make it five years I can accomplish some of my goals concerning me and Sharon my girl back on Earth.
end Part 1
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