workhouse diaries/ daily record 4

workhouse diaries/ daily record 4

fiction
edward w pritchard

I know I am no two bit writer or anything like that but my new shrink here at the jail wants me to keep a diary of my four days here in the workhouse, which is actually just picking up trash and papers out along the highway. So here is my first attempts at keeping a journal sort of like that Samuel Pepys guy we studied in high school who wrote about being in London in the Plague year of 1666.[ sic 1665]

First of all I am not sorry that I am incarcerated, that's what the Black prisoners always call it and they should know for they get arrested for a lot of little things. I won't go into it again how I got arrested this time but please read below about my girlfriend Rachel and how she got me arrested by coming home drunk and causing a ruckus on a school night.

Speaking of Rachel she is kind of a trashy girl and her life is a real mess but she and me are tight, usually. I like that blues song by big Bill Broonzy that the black guys play here in the workhouse called " the Midnight special" about a guy in the old south being put in prison for just sort of being poor. Well in the song the guy is going to be executed for something or other not too bad and his girl comes in to see the Warden or the governor to " free her man" and the woman in the song is wearing an apron over her best dress when she comes to the jail. Sometimes when I lay here in my bunk I fantasize about my girl Rachel coming down to the jail to just see me once wearing a pink crisp linen apron and being sober and decent to me. But no such luck for me, if Rachel did come down while I was in jail it would be to try to borrow money and she would have a pair of hip hugger blue jeans with her tattoos on her ass showing all the secret messages she had printed on her butt for posterity.

Life's just hard for you once you get involved with the prisons and the legal system. No one comes to see you or write to you when you are in jail and to everyone that knows you are an invisible person. After you get out you are a non- person in the business world from then on.

One thing you can do in jail with no distractions is to workout with weights. A lot of the guys here spend three or four hours a day pumping iron and then a few hours studying the bible to keep highly motivated reading positive and inspirational scriptures. No one comes to see them either, not even the good people from the local churches. It's kind of sad really and that's one of the reasons I don't lift weights or read the bible here in the jail.

They do have a good library here at the jail and I am reading a book called the " prison notebooks" by an Italian Marxist called Antonio Gramsci. It's interesting stuff to me to read Gramsci's book but it makes me so sad not because Gramsci spent so much time in prison for his beliefs but because of his handicap. If I could write so anyone would read it I would like to write to raise normal people's awareness about how people with handicaps struggle to just survive but it exhausts me to think how to go about organizing to get that message out. Most people I have met follow the philosophy of objectivism  of Ayn Rand whose book I also tried to read here from the prison library but I got in trouble for flinging Rand's book against the wall of our ward here in the workhouse after I read the first four pages. Just what the world needs another book telling normal people how to be selfish and self centered.

Reading Ayn Rand's books did get me thinking about whether people have free will or not in how to live their lives. A jail is a good place to think about such things, there are so few distractions. I hope I still have time to think a little after I get back to real life.

Well that's the end of daily record four. If I could have anything right now it would be a cold beer in a tall chilled glass served by a pretty waitress. The temptations of the flesh and all, like the weight lifters here at the jail preach about.
end


three days on a chain gang

fiction
edward w pritchard

A woman policeman was responsible for me spending four nights in jail and three days on the chain gang. There are no real chains it's more of a pick up trash detail but even years later I always referred to that week as my time on a chain gang.

I was helping Druanne with her homework, that's my girl friend Rachel's twelve year old daughter; when Rachel came in drunk and hit me several times on my arms. By the time the police had arrived Rachel was laying in on the bed calling me to come and join her. Too late, Mrs. White the neighbor had called the police, Rachel yells very loud.

The policewoman sized up things in about two seconds. Rachel looked exceptionally trashy today and Druanne was sticking up for me and the policewoman said someone had to go downtown. The lady officer knew I was in a jam and had to go to jail so she was very polite to me. Before we left the officer had me and her talk with Druanne about doing her homework and stuff while I was gone. I guess she had children.

Anyway the police woman told Druanne I would call her everyday while I was in jail to follow up on things. The surprising thing was the Judge in Muni court put on an order the next morning to that effect- that I was to call Druanne everyday. The prosecutor objected to that but it was too bad, it was the Judge's home court.

My punishment was four nights in local jail and also picking up papers and trash by day out along 157 west going into Canton Ohio. I was part of quite a team lead by Deputy Willie J. Watkins who used to be a famous football coach in Louisville about 40 years ago. Like all deputy sheriff's Coach Watkins, we all six inmates on the trash detail called him Coach,  had about 5 jobs at once and was actually quite wealthy. Now Watkins was old, retiring next Winter at 67, although he would still be a dairy farmer, a debt collector for the probate court in Stark County part time and substitute teacher. Anyway Coach has diabetes and can't walk much, that's why he gets to do the trash detail. The interesting thing about him is he still is an amazing coach and organizer. From us six miscreants assigned to trash detail this fall between Louisville, and Canton Ohio Coach Watkins formed a fantastic team dedicated to the mundane job of picking up trash. Because of his bad legs and knees any one of us could have escaped by walking off the trash detail but none of us would out of respect to coach and because of the fact that the other five guys would beat the hell of them when they were eventually caught and came back.

Well that's how we were over at Walsh college watching the girls soccer team run around in short shorts while we ate pizza courtesy of the oldest guy in our group Ed Williams 61. We were arguing about how old a girl should be for a theoretical one of us to have sex with. As we watched these girls who were very good athletes and looked like nice young girls; poor old Coach Watkins had to hobble over because we were getting a little heated in our argument with the slime ball Pounders who kept saying a girl of 14 was fair game. I guess I was the real psycho in the group because I kept thinking of poor Druanne at home, just twelve years old, the closest thing I will ever have to my own daughter,  with a Mother who didn't notice her, and a sleazeball like Pounders after her. Coach doesn't mess around I found out. Just before Pounders started to kill me, I am a little  guy, coach grabbed a piece of pizza, pointed his revolver at Pounders and said " where do you want it". Then coach jumped on me for being argumentative. Next day Pounders was off the trash detail, I had to carry water to everyone as well as pickup trash for being argumentative and we had Byron Littlejohn as our sixth team member. I'll tell you about Byron next in part 2.

History of the devil's piano music/ part 2

History of the devil's piano music/ part 2

fiction
edward w pritchard

Back 1847 down South of Old Mexico City A few very fat Black piano artists would travel about the American south and play a battered Wurlitzer organ while the other negro workers rolled Havana cigars. During the lunch break, there at the factory, the fat piano man wanting to eat too being the only music in the establishment would have to carry a boogie woogie tune with his tired left hand setting the beat 16 to the bar while the members of the proletariat relaxed before returning to the production line.

Although no recordings officially exist of these early Race music songs just prior to the American civil war a black piano artist is credited with an early barrelhouse tune called "be not dismayed God will take care of you" played in the strong left hand of god style and tempo on the Wurlitzer organ.

As a boy of six or seven I met an old man at a rent party in a speak easy up St Louis way who claimed to have heard a 138 year old negro man play the Wurlitzer in the Santa Fe boogie woogie style named Eubie who is usually now credited to be the originator of the first boogie. That old man never made a dime for his recordings having to work as a cab driver and washer of cars on Chicago's west side to earn his daily bread.

Now no matter how blue I get with life I always remember " be not dismayed God will take care of you".

That's my recollection of my first associations with the boogie woogie music of the American Negro.

recurrent dreams of Franz Kafka/ part 3

recurrent dreams of Franz Kafka/ Part 3

fiction
edward w pritchard

Wood wheels on a tumbrel cart on the trip to the guillotine makes for a bumpy ride for the guest of honor.

Something very bad has happen to the guest of honor and everyone looks at him sideways and no one may speak to him. No one taunts him either for what has happen to him could happen to you. The incident involves new pink underwear and clandestine liaisons. Under no circumstances may the Guest of honor hear of such rumors.

The guillotine is broken so the alternate execution is commenced of a square board being placed across the Guest's chest after he has comfortably found a spot to lay on the raised platform. The executioner will have to work hard and quickly for he must remount the platform by the eight steps each time to choose a large stone piled for emergency use should the Guillotine not function and then skillfully fit the odd shaped stones on the board on the Guest of Honors chest that will eventually crush him, extinguish his breath, and break his Will.

In his haste the executioner has forgotten to ask the Guest of honor if he has anything to say. Too late, the guest of honor is crushed. Just as well for it would be absurd to speak public-ally of what has happened and it makes people uncomfortable. Surely the executioner will be reprimanded for his lapse in granting the guest of honor a few words, although in the executioners defense the guillotine was broken and a makeshift alternate had to be commenced.

recurrent dreams of Franz Kafka/ part 2

recurrent dreams of Franz Kafka/part 2

fiction
edward w pritchard

Swim fast underwater like a duck you still are in surveillance of Divine beings above. Tread water, dog paddle, float down the river or across the pond. You can't swim away from yourself, wherever you go there you are.

Take a deep breath, dive deep, bump you head on the bottom. You can't swim down to Hell, you can't reach up to the sky. You can't find yourself, you can't touch anybody else.

Stones in my pillow

stones in my pillow

fiction
edward w pritchard


Stones in my pillow, too much space in the Bed, nighttime be interminable; hurry sunrise start my life over, spin me another chance.

Rocks in my engine. due bills in the wallet, blues in the past, hurry darkness; shut my eyes, cover my sins, let me forget where I am.  

Night train conductor, save a third class seat for me, sell me a ticket; I'll go anyplace but here, anytime but now.

let the sweet past melt

let the sweet past melt

fiction
edward w pritchard


Gracious lord, thank you for granting me five minutes of happiness in the middle of life's crashing parade. It seemed to last for years and years. Although I have done nothing to deserve Grace for an instant I was content with my lot in the providential scheme for the Universe.

Listen sweet Lord, hear the sound of gentle pattering of rain on the roof of my temporary abode; as I tend to my daily devotions I am at Rest, a infinitesimally small part of your Grand simulations of Being.

For a moment I felt connected to something bigger than myself. Let the sweet past melt like slumping flesh as I fade away beyond the fringes of being.

The pope speaks; what's so archaic about peace, love and understanding

The Pope speaks; what's so archaic about peace, love and understanding

fiction
edward w pritchard

Many injustices are caused in the name of liberalism but for me well intention-ed  plans and policies that fail are better than mean spirited philosophies that divide based on wealth, lack of abilities, or bad luck in terms of birth station.

It was refreshing to hear the Pope's liberal message to Congress which was honest, timely and non partisan. Too bad the Dali Lama, a Muslim Caliphate and other world wide religious figures do not have more of a voice in politics and World Wide affairs.

So many sins are committed by the fortunate and ambitious under the cover of Market forces and free choice.

It was timely to hear the Pope's message, although I am not a Catholic; what's so archaic about Peace, Love and understanding?

living in the past

living in the past

fiction
edward w pritchard

When the grind of life gets me down from being alone and having no purpose to pursue, me I return in my mind to my past in Mayberry, North Carolina a place and time where I spent the best years of my life.

Happy times yes, but hard times for me because I always was a step out of sync and I never understood the characters around me and closest to me. Good food, a comfortable home and a little money in the local bank could not alleviate the feeling I had that things were not quite real.

It all seemed scripted, each day had dilemmas and little complications that all seemed to work out by the end of each episode but upon reflection I never understood the motivations of my part. It pains me to think of how much I left on the table and of all the shortcomings I left out of the performance of my humble role in things.

The past is stuck in my throat and Bee, Floyd, and especially Helen refuse to melt away; yet now it all seems merely a dream. As if too much such happiness was not meant for the likes of myself although happy I was despite my shortcomings in diligently performing my part.

There are no small parts only little actors so you will find no Oscars or trophies on my shelf, only a fading memory of what might have been,

Oh that if only blind and indifferent fate had chosen to script a different ending to it all.

what you don't know about your Father

what you don't know about your Father

fiction
edward w pritchard

You don't know that your Father visited a whore house or two back when he was in the military or that your Father loved the blues music particular to the American Negro and more than anything your Father wanted to play blues piano and have his hair piled up and wavy on his head like a colored man from Chicago singing at a Rent party on a Saturday night and before he met your Mother your Father wanted a woman built from the ground up.

Sad how we never really know anybody even those closest to us and most people are remembered only by what the Preacher who never knew them says at their funeral. Naturally no one tells the Preacher when they went to Whore houses, or gambled day and night for five years or lived off base with a local girl back in World War two.

So many generations come and go and before you know it your on your way out too and you haven't told anyone your sins  and no one knows what you originally wanted to do and you don't look like yourself even to you anymore, in fact there is no more you just a compilation of edited memories passed on to a few off springs.

Truth is neither you, or your Father or his Father or any of your great grandfathers ever became that wickedly cool character they wanted to be but back then there was a lot of unique stuff about your Relatives that now everyone has forgotten or whitewashed for reasons of respectability.

Here's what I wrote about my Father who I never knew at all who once wanted to be a professional piano player and a few times would play a little boogie woogie piano and always liked and respected Black people way before it was politically correct to do so.

VARIETY OF SUBJECTS.

ADBRIGHT

FRIDAY, AUGUST 9, 2013

how Elmore James and my Father integrated the US military

how Elmore James and my Father integrated the US military

fiction
edward w pritchard
 note- my Father would never discuss his military service, so this story has a lot of surmising in it, no proof exists to collaborate things.

Guam in the Pacific Ocean in 1944 smack in the middle of the air war against Japan. My Father then 20 years old was company clerk working in a Quonset hut on the edge of the jungle and he had a big problem. The company's radio was on the blink, there was no one to fix it since all the engineers were working on the bomber planes, the Captain was about to have the privates head [my Father], and drastic measures were necessary to fix the radio to allow the war effort against the Japanese from Guam to move forward.

That's how my Father Ed Pritchard Sr. US Air force company clerk came to meet Elmore James radio repairman US Navy. The radio was duly fixed by James and the two enlisted men became friends over a joint interest in music. Pritchard wanted to be a classical piano player and James played guitar, an electric guitar amplified by his own secret methods, across the American South before the war.

After a fight between white and black soldiers at the local off duty bar Pritchard, who studied piano and violin at University before he was drafted,  found himself ordered by his Captain to play boogie boogie piano under the direction of Elmo James who had experience leading several pickup bands in the American South before the war. For several months Elmore James would sing and play backed up by my Father on piano as lonely white and black soldiers listened to the new style of blues music from the Mississippi delta. There were no more racially motivated fights among the American soldiers on Guam. Some credited it to the music played at the local enlisted men's club.

Later after the war both men would die early deaths from heart problems perhaps suffered from the stress of world war two, and neither received any veterans benefits. Elmore James strongly influenced world wide music in the 1960's although he never received top billing or star status and fame during his lifetime. Ed Pritchard sr., never became a classical piano player, but  once in a while he fooled around with boogie woogie piano for his oldest son before his death in 1969. 

recurrent dreams of Franz Kafka

recurrent dreams of Franz Kafka

fiction
edward w pritchard


At street level three of us shoulder a large chunk of triangular cement that once was half of a proper sidewalk block. The block cuts the hands and scrapes the side of the face as one struggles to  carry it to the top of the twisting stair way through the burning building, to the roof and then back down to the street.

Three men are competing the race for an unknown prize. The prize is to be successful at the game of life. One must hurry in the race for the game of life is short and the sooner one completes the race through the burning building the quicker one can enjoy the spoils of a successful journey.

The building we race through is an old baroque mansion resplendent with the treasures of past generations. Typically the legs begin to give out first as one races up and down the steep stairwell. It's hard to catch a clean breath for the halls are dusty with age. Notice the sunset when you reach the open roof but don't tarry for the game is nearly over.

If you trip and fall racing down the steep stairwell likely the thundering block of plunging cement will injure or decapitate yourself.

Should you successfully navigate the treacherous journey up and down a steep stairway in a burning building balancing a heavy block of cement on your shoulder be not surprised if the journey seems inconsequential. Don't live in the past.

Watch the mystery of a burning building that endures generation after generation.

infinite ideal justice and refugees

infinite ideal justice and refugees

fiction
edward w pritchard


America claims that they have admitted more than their share of unfortunate refugees from pitiful circumstance and places in the nineteenth century and therefore do not have an obligation to admit ambitious males from Syria and Iraq who might want to resettle to the land of Opportunity.

America further states refugees from Countries South of the American border are currently already sinking "lifeboat America".

Does infinite ideal justice require America to reach out to emigrants from Syria and Iraq looking to immigrate to America?

See Garrett Hardin's 1974 "Psycholgy Today" magazine article":

Lifeboat Ethics: the Case Against Helping the Poor

by Garrett Hardin, Psychology Today, September 1974

for an interesting take on the current migrant problems facing Europe and America today.  

Should people in fortunate situations be required risk sinking their Countries unique cultures in the name of infinite ideal justice? It's not a parlor game anymore. Ten of thousands of ambitious and aggressive young men are coming. Who will admit them and where will they call Home in the future? 

what happened to Ed?

What happened to Ed?

fiction
edward w pritchard

In answer to the query "What happen to Ed" we post Alexander Pope's poem on the ends of life below which is hard to improve on.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

So where did Ed go? 

A little boy racing on a bike riding uphill for hours and hours unseen and unsupervised. Playing third place, twenty paces too close to home plate and stopping a sharp line drive by catching it in the base of the neck and whipping the ball over to first just in time. Then small time poker pro sharing the wealth to and fro. Reading and reading too interested in knowledge to learn a trade. Too long a Father. Vanishing friend. Listening to the trains at night and walking and walking a little less each day. Then travel in the mind, back to Italy on a slow train, to St Petersburg Russia to view the Heritage Art collection. Then a final walk to the Lake. Then to boot hill, buried with no marker. Excuse me if the ending was without proper ceremony; I've thrown the memorabilia away and I have forgotten what's to become of myself. 

SATURDAY, MAY 31, 2014

buried on boot hill with no marker

buried on boot hill with no marker

fiction
Edward w Pritchard


For over a century I felt a certain distinction to be buried on boot hill with no marker. Eventually however my lack of respectability and status began to gnaw at me and I began to contemplate how to remedy my situation by changing how I would face the rest of my time in eternity.

I've decided  to become a tourist attraction. Now that I know what I want it shouldn't be so hard to accomplish my goals.

prayer

prayer

fiction
edward w pritchard

Like losing weight, or learning how to get up early, you don't need advice from a book to learn how to pray properly. No intermediary is needed either.

When you have thought and tried all the options you eventually come to the proper frame of mind to correctly ask for what is needed. If you are in an appropriate frame of spirit it will be a request for some one else and you won't spend time or fret over creating an elaborate plan for pre-conceived desired results.

Ask, wait, it may take more than one lifetime, Lay down your burden, take a deep breath and let events unfold.

a day at the roller rink

a day at the roller rink

fiction
edward w pritchard


Life is like at day at the Roller Rink. You race around and around the creaking wavy wooden floors in a big circle and contemplate the cracks in the walls and once in a while you stare out the dirty smudged windows at the scenery outside.

When you are young you hang around the aisle where the new arrivals lace on their skates and fantasize about girls in tight blouses. When you get a little older you skate fast and practice traveling backwards over and over.

Later you really look forward to a large salty dill pickle from a gigantic jar that sits on a dirty counter there in the snack bar.

Before you know it you are dragging a couple of your children around the rink worrying they will fall hard and crack their head's open and the ambulance crew will be called into the rink again through the secret back double doors.

Near closing time you get to circle the rink one more time arm in arm with you special girl during the polka couple's skate. You refuse to dance the hokey pokey though even for her.

Before you know it you are walking home alone. Out in the cold. It's a long walk and for a moment you panic because you are not sure which of houses you have ever lived in is your Home now and you forget who you really are.You forget when is Now.

Then you get a warm happy feeling and remember; you are an eleven year old boy in the dark circling and circling the roller rink thinking about pretty girls in pink skates and tight clothes.

Life is like a day at the roller rink.

right for once

right for once

fiction
edward w pritchard


The good looking bad guy, Weston, actor  [ Rory Calhoun] in " River of no Return" tells adoring girl friend Marilyn Monroe that he was always told " stick to your peanut stand even if you never sell another nut". Great advice.

Author in fairness must praise himself for making the right call on the Chinese stock Alibaba [Baba] an online retailer. Author originally said stock was way over priced when the stock was soaring and 125 and 200 price targets abounded.

Now stock sells below IPO price in 60's and Barron's predicts a further 50% drop. No matter the stocks high was close to 120 and now may fall to 30. That's still a high valuation for a company with Chinese governance of their book keeping and business practices.

The Chinese government will one day learn how to oversee the stock market and companies there. Meanwhile it will be a bumpy ride for investors.

Here's what I wrote before on Alibaba:

 PS author has been reading, watching and studying intensely the stock market for forty some years if anyone is asking and is occasionally competent in valuing stocks in an irrational market maybe based on his training as a loan workout guy.

ADBRIGHT

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2014

alibaba soars; meanwhile where are the dissenters?

Alibaba soars; meanwhile where are the dissenters?

fiction
Edward w Pritchard


Singles buying day in China. The premise being if you have no love interest in your life you go on line and buy your self something. Since there are so many people in China retail on line volume was voluminous yesterday on single's day.

Alibaba controls 75% of on-line shopping in China and the stock exploded again. Alibaba [ baba] came public at $68, first buy/sell order during IPO at $90, now at $116 [AM premarket]. That's down a bit from yesterdays high price on the stock but the stock is soaring.

China has had an unusual amount of social change in the last fifty years. Google Cultural revolution [here]. Now China embraces Capitalism with open arms [ sort of]. Meanwhile the ruling communist party strains their brains to create new slogans to describe how to merge Communist ideals of social order with capitalism's flights of fancy designed to create a hundred ways to sell stuff to everyone. Every day becomes a new reason to buy stuff which is good for business and creates jobs, surging GDP and stockholder value. Everyone in China will get a new apartment, new job and a latest generation cell phone. All will be well in China and hence the world.

Meanwhile what happens to those lonely singles after their room in their grandmother's basement is full of stuff they don't use and they lose their job or begin to fall behind in the race to the top " American style" to have more money, more things, and more of their lives spent chasing the new emphasis on the material side of reality. Slogans forgotten, Confucius ideas on one's place in the World laughed at as old fashioned.

Here's what I wrote on the occupy wall street movement in America. Occupy wall street and it's ideals and discontents is a movement now sleeping in America but probably not dead. A few rioters in St Louis being the latest generation of critics of the American way of life.

What happens when the disaffected in China get tired of chasing the elusive American dream of owning lots of neat stuff? How will Ablibaba keep selling and growing if the ruling Chinese communist party decides to change the slogans back to the old Confucius ideals of individual sacrifice and communist corporate communal values of less is more.

Here's what I wrote before on the occupy wall street movement in America. America has it's divide between rich and poor, happy and disaffected, lonely and contented, and hopeful and nihilistic.

What changes are coming to the American dream and how will it effect China and of perverse interest to this discontented lonely author, the long term stockholders of Alibaba?

nowhere by train

nowhere by train

fiction
edward w pritchard


I'll leave others to take time's winged chariot, I want to go anywhere by train. If the train's six hours behind schedule I don't care; give me a window seat in tourist class and I'll pass the time dreaming I was in a sleeper car watching a beautiful woman spending hours and hours getting made up and dressed to take her clothes off.

I wonder if they have a train yet that run's along the steep ocean cliffs across the cinque terre  in Italy? I'll put up with the gangs of gypsy children pickpockets in the train stations of Italy if they ever run an ocean front train from Genoa to Ligorno. I'll even pay dining car prices for so so Italian train food.

If I do take a scenic train journey in Italy no Frecciasrossa high speed trains for me. I'll rumble along on the local across the hill towns miles and miles away from the tourists and I won't even debark to see the great art in the World's finest museums and churches.

Even if I don't get to go nowhere by train anymore an Amtrac run of old 48 Cleveland to Chicago is Heaven to me.

no endless cycles

no endless cycles

fiction
edward w prithcard

The endless cycles and rebirths of the Hindu's and Buddhists are a metaphor for the journey back to the source of all original energy in the Universe.

Consciousness is obtained only once across the eons then there Is an urgent need to ultimately return to a deconstructed state of nothingness. Nothingness being no energy, no spacial occupancy, and no existence in time.

On Earth there is billions of years of reuse as elementary everything is reused and recycled over and over into terrifying frantic chaotic evolution's without purpose only repetition.

Finally the Earth explodes back into the Sun and then eventually the Sun explodes into the Galaxy until the Galaxy collapses backward into a shrinking ball of originality which deconstructs into Nothing. Time ceases.

One conscious entity eventually becomes aware. Existence begins anew. Things become more complex all over again. Time commences. Complicated changes happen.

ducks of destruction

ducks of destruction

fiction
edward w pritchard


It's not easy for ducks to disable and drop a grown person but attacking en mass the Achilles tendons and by ham stringing the backs of the knees even the strongest is disabled to the turf in pain and agony.

After a brief pause as the sexual regions are enmeshed and the elbow and shoulder connectors are split a gaggle of ducks will attack the soft organs inside the body before preceding to the choice meats of the heart, the brain, and the liver.

Once satiated the Ducks move on to rest after their large meal allowing smaller predators a chance at the spoils until eventually the smallest scavengers and micro-bacteria finish the deconstruction.

It's a strange music the ducks produce after such a feast.

monononous

monotonous

fiction
edward w pritchard


There is a certain monotony to life that drives one to change even when change is not always for the better.

We have our needs which when satisfied do not appease us; our wants multiply and we get into trouble as our discontents lead us down a short road to trouble and misery.

A successful sales man prospects, closes the sale gets referrals and repeats to a prosperous life. It's not enough, soon he is envious of the richer and famous and is driven to and caught in the act of embezzling from the community fund that he oversees.

A school teacher helps dozens of  children year after year learn to read and learn their sums until driven by boredom to request transfer to high school and gets tripped up fantasizing on the pre-legals.

A spouse hears secret distant Rachmaninoff piano music and longs for the grass across the other side of the local hill and becomes pathetically enmeshed in an unseemly miasma.

Bloom where you are planted and accept the role the maker has assigned you to. Things could be a lot worse and no one can dis-tangle what was once straight and wholesome.

free will or determinism?

free will or determinism

fiction
edward w pritchard


Talking to an intelligent woman recently we got to disagreeing on free will vs. determinism in achieving happiness. Her being a lot smarter than I but me being much older and battered around more by life.

Your are supposed to be happy where ever you find yourself, four walls do not a prison make, given a year after a tragedy or windfall most people will be about as happy as before said she. Her quoting without realize it Socrates, the stoics and those guys. Her position being living a good life of moral virtues, meaning a life well lived upholding the values and ethics we are taught and believe and using them to approach the opportunities and challenges of life will lead to happiness. We make our own luck, we are free agents in the world.

Me sometimes a bit sad myself in the world took the approach of Aristotle. To be happy requires along with proper attitude, understanding and action a bit of good fortune or if a believer sufficient blessing from the Lord.

To be born severely handicapped, more than an acceptable amount of emotionally ill, a slave in Pre- civil war America, a child in severe poverty anywhere in the world today is more than unfortunate; your choices in life are severely determined.

I choose to listen to blues music sometimes and ache for the inequities in the World even if they are far away from me here and now.

Macyn Taylor singer and guitarist; ambient and entrophic

Macyn Taylor singer and guitarist; ambient and entrophic

fiction
edward w pritchard

I heard something new on you tube by Macyn Taylor who I wrote about a few years ago,[ below], which I enjoyed. Macyn Taylor stands in an old vacant building and plays " Billie Jean" on guitar. She is a talented guitar player and her style has matured. Too bad she doesn't sing in the you tube piece as she has an intriguing  voice as well. Check out Macyn Taylor on you tube play " Billie Jean on guitar.

So many musicians are so talented yet most fade from memory eventually forgotten. But once they made beautiful music. In their youth they pick up ambient influences from the environment and through inspiration and perspiration develop their unique talent and eventually with the distractions of life their talent becomes personal and secret. Hopefully that's not the case with Macyn Taylor who is a talented artist. May her music gift not fall to the practical necessities of life.

Like the forgotten great black blues artists Macyn Taylor has a gift of musical genius, Hope to hear more from her soon.





God given talent; Macyn Taylor

fiction
Edward w Pritchard


You tube is an ideal place to display God given talent before it moves on to another area of life. Case in point Macyn Taylor playing "I Get the Blues When It Rains" on you tube.

I was fortunate enough once to hear " I get the blues when it rains" preformed on a long rainy afternoon in the Quarter in New Orleans. I haven't heard the song since, but as I remember things it was Kuumba Williams I heard singing at a club in New Orleans.

Skipping about you tube the other day I came across a cover by Macyn Taylor of "I get the blues when it rains". I enjoyed Macyn Taylor's performance and guitar playing immensely.

Technical production wasn't top notch in the you tube production I watched, it never is.  A baby ran about the set and one suspects that Macyn Taylor has macaroni boiling on the stove in the kitchen but the music, but the music.

Where does such talent come from? Macyn Taylor looks like just another pretty girl one would see walking about the local University campus. However her guitar playing is so enjoyable to listen to. Her voice is just authentic, nothing more needed.

Check out Macyn Taylor on you tube, if she wants to she is going places  as a singer although one suspects she will excel at whatever she chooses to do with her life.

Listen to Macyn Taylor sing on you tube; it's almost as good as sitting at a small table in a club in New Orleans on a long rainy afternoon hearing the song " I get the blues when it rains" for the first time.

cuckoo clock

cuckoo clock

fiction
edward w pritchard

The family cuckoo clock is always broken or going to broken soon, Still a cuckoo clock is a beautiful thing when it works properly.

A Family is always broken or going to broken soon, Still a Family is a beautiful exquisite thing when it is working properly.

No one around here knows how to fix a cuckoo clock but everyone loves the song the cuckoo clock makes day in and day out when it's working.

No one around here knows how to fix a broken family but everyone loves the music a Family makes day in and day out when it's properly working,

Some one had to travel clear to Germany to find a cuckoo clock for the Family Home.

Some one had to cast a lot of bread on the water to start a Family.

Box up the cuckoo clock and cram it high up in the hall storage closet it's broken again.

There's no music in the Home the family is broken again.

Even though it's boxed up in the closet the broken cuckoo still can sing.

Take the the boxes from the storage closet before you sell the House, the new Family takes possession soon.

Kuckuck.

one summer as a Hippy

one Summer as a Hippy

fiction
edward w pritchard

What happen to all the Hippies who didn't have to scrimp to pay car insurance, go to the Dentist,  watch calories, use sunscreen or take cholesterol pills?

What happen to all the Hippies who had girlish figures, green eyes, long hair, intriguing flamboyant personalities and stopped by the apartment unannounced carrying a bottle of no name non vintage wine?

What happen to all the Hippies who laughed when they got a low draft number, covered their eyes with their right hand and hung their heads when they heard about the dead students at Kent or Jackson State?

What happened to all the Hippies who hated Nixon, drove a VW, stared at the planets from the second story apartment window and wanted for everybody to do their own thing without hassle?

What happened to the Summer of 1969 when all were young and nothing was hurried or planned and introverted people could watch the Hippies hold hands and dance joyously around a campfire while the rest stood watching having one beer feeling part of the zeitgeist of Youth.

What happen to the Summer of Love of 1967 and why did alienation, ennui and doleful hassle become one's companions?

What happen to survivors bias of Happiness and why are some always alone in a crowd, what ever  endless Summer's epic Movement is de rigueur or du jure?

What happen to d'amour; where did endless time go and how long is now this Winter?

sea peoples

sea peoples

fiction
edward w pritchard

A few of us here in our town have become concerned about the plight of the children of these refugees or is it immigrants looking to enter Europe hoping for better opportunities. Some of these unfortunates walk and some travel by sea to places unknown. Many even bring their children along.

With no belongings and little money the immigrant children of the sea peoples suffer terribly.

Wanting to help and not knowing what to do we of our modest town here in Ohio have been sending metal clothes hangers to Italy, Greece and Gibraltar, the Texas border and other places to give to the children of the sea peoples. The clothes hangers are skillfully folded into exquisite origami animal figurines and birds by the starving dejected children of the sea peoples.

It's a joy to behold the slipping smiles on the faces of the big eyed desperate children when they play with the origami hanger figures often twisted into the national bird of the Homeland they have left behind to risk dangerous and unwelcome journeys to find another place to call Home, often behind high barb wire fenced compounds between the borders of European or American Countries.

If the sorrowful Children could speak a language we understood it's surely true that they would thank us for our compassion.

to Hillary Clinton, Mrs. President

to Hillary Clinton, Mrs. President

fiction
edward w pritchard

An ominous movement of peoples seems to be developing as young ambitious refugees walk and float from their troubled homelands to havens of opportunity. Embolden by the internet refugees cross borders worldwide in search of a chance at prosperity. Meanwhile in many well off countries on earth the elderly live in poverty and in most third world countries women and children constantly live on the verge of being below the poverty line. Both situations appear to be getting worse.

What can America do additionally to help alleviate worldwide poverty?

 Independent of foreign aide, military aid, or humanitarian aid the next President, hopefully a Woman of compassion and reason, could initiate a 1% off the top surtax to fight worldwide poverty imposed on any future tax payer aide to Wall Street and regional banks such as the 2008 TARP program.

Should any tax payer financing in the future be provided to failing banks in any circumstance at any time at below market interest rates [ such as the 2008 TARP program] then a 1% penalty would  be taken off the top and distributed to designated religious and charitable organizations duly qualified to fairly disperse said funds.

Whatever alleged straights the future TARP receipts presented themselves to be in the 1% would be mandatory.

The program should be created in boom times so that no in power bank CEO's or boosters in Government would object to the program. We leave the details and implementation in your capable hands Mrs President. Should poverty be lower than normal at the point in future time in question then the money could be partially dispersed to handicapped persons world wide.

spiders on a train

spiders on a train

fiction
edward w pritchard

As our train curves around the long Mountain pass, looking out my window seat I can see clear back to the rear car and I have become aware that spiders are insidiously working the way through the long train up toward the dining cars several cars toward the front from where I repose here on my bunk.

My conductor is so busy in his work I hate to interrupt him with the news of the spiders invading our train. Still he must always see to the welfare of the the passengers assigned to him and an invasion of spiders could easily ruin a good voyage across the scenic Mountains and plains of our Homeland.

Perhaps I shall wait until after my postprandial cigar to discuss my observation about the invading spiders with the Conductor and his staff. The passengers are bound to be upset but whatever their plans and ambitions they will eventually find out about the invasion of the spiders that are destined to interrupt everyone's journey whatever car they travel in here on the Train.

fallen angel

fallen angel

fiction
edward w pritchard

The family angel has fallen from our tree and stands in the hot sun out along the exit under the red light at the corner of Manchester Rd and the expressway carrying a cardboard hand lettered sign begging change and dollar bills praying for a twenty between smiling with a flat affect at all the angry drivers.

Dust yourself off and show me the other side of your cardboard sign fallen angel. I need a message from the Lord.

There's no symmetry to things anymore and I am tired of waiting in line for the traffic light to change.

three days running

three days running

fiction
edward w pritchard

Three days running I received the same text message via my trac-phone and after due consideration weighing all the possibilities and potentialities I have deduced I have sent the message to myself; yet I have no conscious or logical proof that only I sent the important message to me myself, yet there can be no other explanation for who, why and how was sent the message received now and here by me and although the information received is of supreme importance to me the mystery of how and why I sent myself a life changing message has preempted the news conveyed.

Going about a routine we often ignore what is important to ourselves choosing to immerse ourselves in detail and diversion.

You might guess the message was " we have no real self " but what does it mean and why can't I remember sending it via text over my trac phone?

dis-ambient, distant and deteriorating

dis-ambient, distant and deteriorating

fiction
edward w pritchard

Not once a chief or great warrior I walked sun-blind to the new Homeland, to distant Oklahoma broken of heart and spirit across the treacherous trail of Tears. Unaffiliated, distant and deteriorating I dared dream of uniting the vanished tribe anew in hostile terrain.

Vanished is my campfire, foreign is my tee-pee. Friend and Foe disappeared, memories forgotten and unfamiliar.

Where thunder the great herds of buffalo who owned the territory; where gone my companions who once shared the flickering fire?

Where gone my youth that once drove me to run East to West? Dis-spirited and dis-ambient I drop the seedlings from the sacred pouch onto the parched barren ground and begin to chant, chant, chant the tribal corn dance.