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Thursday, December 14, 2017

where is America's first female President

where is America's first female President

fiction
edward w pritchard

Where and when comes to the rescue of shrinking American ideals our first female President?

I was rooting for Hilary Clinton but alas it wasn't to be. Our current President I will comment not towards other than he hasn't surprised me in office having once myself watched his TV show for a minute or two entitled,  I think,  " your fired" a running gag that kept the show in the top of the charts for several years I understand.

In an effort to predict where our country's first female President will come from I have turned into my mind filled with many delusions and just simple lack of reasonable judgments and come up with what I think is a likely scenario for where and maybe when our first women President will come from. Naively, I hope a woman President will be the philosopher King the country has been waiting for who will put truth ahead of materialism and gain and justice ahead of sectionalism and party interest.

Bear with me for this is convulsed and wishful thinking:

1. In about 1757 future British author Edward Gibbon, who wrote three large volumes on " the rise and fall of the roman empire"  met and fell in Love with a French girl by the name of Suzanne Curchold and was unable to marry her because of his wish to obey his stern but dictatorial father. The couple apparently had no offspring. Miss Curchold later married famous French economist and genius Jacques Necker and they had a genius daughter Madame de/Stahl famous for being witty and urbane and founding several Parisian intellectual salons.

2. In 1776 with  French help fledgling Americans waged war on Britain to start their own Country. Successful around 1790 Americans began to have Presidents a new one elected every four to eight years. To present date there has never been an American women President.

3. Meanwhile, throughout history,  Great Britian, India, Egypt,  Germany and many other countries have had a woman President, queen or ruler often very successful at her job.

4. If Edward Gibbon historical genius and Suzanne Curchold great beauty and a Mother of a genius daughter had had children, and if said child had migrated to the Untied States and that child's eventual relatives, a  great great great [etc.]  grand daughter had ran for American President some time after 1980 [ say ] then America would have had a women President by now

and our Country now, wouldn't be in quite the mess we are in today or headed for it, it would seem, despite the large gain in stock prices, growth growth growth, and huge looming tax cuts for the wealthy [ the old regime].

and the nagging fears that many of us secretly have about our Country's political future would subside.

therefore, less us pray, pray for the wisdom of our leaders in office now, us needing divine intervention into our politics, since British historian Edward Gibbon never followed his heart and produced a daughter with Suzanne Curchold who would be the one to teach and inspire her daughters daughters to teach their offspring to be modern and wise and produce and accept a woman as American President.  '

end

Faust the ambitious American male

Faust the ambitious American male

fiction
edward w pritchard


The madness of crowds of mass delusion has descended on America again here in our time in the form of middle age women revealing that a successful and powerful American male of some renown previously made unwelcome advances sexually towards her when she was younger, alluringly attractive, irresistible and pure and quite naive. Now said maiden is pointing the finger at said wealthy and pompous arrogant horses-assed  males to bring cosmic revenge for her and others like her. All in the name of Justice not just revenge or even setting the record straight.

Faust, the ambitious american male meanwhile strains to remember was it real or just one of his delusions. Did such happen in fact. For surveying this present day Gretchen [1] of his youth how could he have and why would he? How much have they both changed and in fact he has forgotten why the fuss about sex when money and power are now so much more captivating.

Ladies you are setting back feminism a few dozen years. As your Father taught you when you were twelve and teaching you to fight " keep your guard up at all times and always shield your mid section" Or as grand Mother said avoid intimate situations with Men unless you can control the tempo of the dance.

Here in our time in america the battle of the sexes has become a farce. Traditional male female in-fighting has morphed into male-male, female female, second sex no sex and I would rather be alone
solitaire.

Sex and power its so passe. Men apologize and donate money to build a temple to shelter the poor. Women sorry about that men are animals it seems.

[1] Author is remembering Goethe's " Faust" part one and two that no American has ever read. Faust was the male lead and Gretchen his innocent and luscious, as I imagined having never seen the play, "victim" happily both end up in heaven at the end of act one [ I think].

Goethe treats the subject of male female in fighting much better " in the sorrows of young Werther " which is also much more readable than Faust and justice be, Werther the confused young man kills himself at the end.

to my critic- remember Chaucer said " we mustn't take the game too seriously"

pound for pound

pound for pound

fiction
edward w pritchard

fiction

Like between people sometimes relationships between Countries have a tendency to be somewhat one-sided leading to turmoil and disrespect over long periods of time. Such has become the relationship between the United States and Iran. Mostly, I say sadly, the fault is on the part of the United States who seem to have historically a vague disrespect and ignorance of one of the great cultures on Earth.

Ask the man on the street in an American State about Iran and the pat answer for the attitude here against Iran will have something to do with the foreignness Americans feel against all Muslim countries. Something about any place that has a call to prayer five times a day starting at 4:30 Am does not seem reasonable and seems out of balance to American sensibilities. Additionally nearly all Americans have secret fears about the fervor of Jihad and aggrandizement that seem to be at odds to the quaint American sense of fair play. Americans have guilt towards our own Country's history of conquest and dislike being confronted by same historically here or elsewhere.

Pound for pound so to speak Iran is one of the most important cultures on Earth. To improve relationships between Iran and America I suggest that more emphasis be put on children in America while in school spending  a little more time learning the pre-Muslim culture of Iran and the Arab world. Having taught History in American classrooms it saddens me to see how little time is spent on the curriculum of history in our schools. In the case of Muslim countries being studied by American students the problem is intensified by our teacher's fears of teaching religion in school.

We should include Iranian history during pre-Muslim times in American schools by using Sassanian art as the medium to teach American students respect for the rich history of the Country of Iran. As we will recall the Sassanian empire in Iran and the nearby environs was the  last period of Persian empire in Iran before Muslim culture there, circa 660,  and it's relationships with Rome, China and India was centered on the politics and strategic warfare of the times. Additionally Sassanian art was and is highly respected in China and India  and Sassanian art is accessible to Americans in our great art museums.

Lastly there is something profound in viewing Sassanian art that has always made me curious about Iran, Zoroasterism- which is a religion slowly and sadly vanishing, and the History of the [nearby to Iran], Arab world in particular. Curiosity leads to knowledge which leads to respect for our fellow citizens of the vast cultures of the world.

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

putting words in the mouth of mouth of

putting words in the mouth of

fiction
edward w pritchard

I reread recently British author David Hume, enlightenment scholar's, treatise " On Miracles" which is actually if you will remember a curt summary of logically and convincingly reasons against anything actually ever being a miracle throughout history, then and now and why someone would propagate stories of miraculous happenings for their own purposes and gain.

In my opinion based on my readings and somewhat on feelings from my heart Jesus was a teacher, and a Jewish scholar who spoke Aramaic and was charismatic enough to attract large crowds, probably measured in up to a few hundreds, and had a message that resonated with the common people of his times. Probably he attracted a few extra devout and dedicated followers who wished to honor him with stories of his remembrance after he was gone, silenced by the powers that be of his times for his subversive messages of peace and comfort to the poor and suffering.

Rome at the time of Jesus was a superpower in the Mediterranean region a police state the likes of which the world has never seen since. What was the power of Jesus' verbal message that for the next three hundred years slowly and inevitably it seems to us looking back, a few parables and homey sayings in Aramaic could challenge the Majesty, order and structure of the Latin world of one of the strongest civilizations of all time? Made the more remarkable by the fact that neither Jesus or any of his earlier devoutest followers spoke or wrote the exalted Greek language, in all probability, of the learned and well positioned intellectuals of the times.

Most scholars will dismiss such questions blithely with a point to Paul of Tarsus and or John of wherever who were the great synthesizers of the gospels who quietly put words as appropriate into the mouth of Jesus and others that morphed into a concise earth shattering message at the time of Constantine and the council of Nicea.

Would that David Hume were wrong. Would that miraculously we could extract the echo's of the vibrations of Jesus' actual voice from the stones of Judea in the years around 20 to 30  CE. Maybe if the science is found to do such a thing it won't seem a miracle to the people of the future to use such a scientific tool to let ordinary people hear the actual and verified voice of Jesus preaching. No that wouldn't be a miracle but it would be worth a few hours of anyone's time to hear among the many offerings and messages on a future you tube channel.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

reluctantly I must censure one of my favorite American authors

reluctantly I must censure one of my favorite American authors

fiction
edward w pritchard

Reluctantly I must censure one of my favorite American authors Bill Bryson over negative comments in his books he has made against two of my favorite celebrities, intellectuals and media personalities

I say Reluctantly because I have read most of Bill Bryson's books, watched exerts of his travel videos of you tube and watched his book made into a movie " A walk in the woods " twice. Additionally I have given as gifts most of his books to members of my family, in hard back I might add Bill. Lastly, I watched and enjoyed in video the very short commencement speech Mr. Bryson made at a University in Great Britain entitled " seven rules to a good life" and admired same. Mostly however I enjoy Bill Bryson's writing very much.

Reluctantly I must censure Bill Bryson for comments he made in one of earlier books that I read about a dozen years ago about another writer I admire Paul Theroux. As I recall, Mr. Bryson was very catty in his comments about Mr. Theroux relating to how when Paul Theroux sits in a seat on a train around Britain or to the far East to a place he will write a book about Paul always manages to randomly pick a seat next to about half a dozen extremely interesting and articulate persons who share funny and insightful paragraph after paragraphs and comments that will soon fill Paul Theroux's next best seller. At the time I held my tongue chalking Bryson's comments up to a mild case of professional jealousy by the younger author against a rival writer working the same genre as himself.

Now in Mr. Bryson latest book I am reading " the road to little Dribbing" an update to his earlier " Notes from a small island" I find I must speak up as Bill Bryson has damned with faint praise ex Politician and travel host who I thoroughly enjoy his travel videos Michael Portillo. Portillo is a charming and sincere man who travels about Great Britain and the world by train and has or had a show about it on the BBC. On page 95 of " the road to little Dribbling while traveling into the forest with friends Bryson can find nothing on the BBC at the hotel to watch on TV except Portillo's show "Great British railway journeys" and Bill knocks Portillo's overly zealous taste in colored suits and here's the part that I must speak out against Bill insinuates that the subject matter of Portillo's show is inane as are the guests on the railway journeys travel show.

Bill Bryson I read all your books and I like Michael Portillo. As proof of my good taste after I finish " the road to little Dribbling" I plan on reading next your book which I bought in paperback " One Summer, America 1927 which looks interesting.

I am not really upset with you Bill Bryson and hope you continue to write and publish and continue to take me with you as a guest on your travels. From a fan/ed

eyes downtrodden gazing forward in silence

eyes downtrodden gazing forward in silence

fiction
edward w pritchard

Go to any great museum and Egyptian statues of famous emperor-Kings loom in ageless granite and marble ten thousand times larger than millions of faceless peasants who did the work of empire. At the same museum see the miniature clumps of clay formed into crude images of ordinary Mesopotamian citizens and Kings gazing fearfully skyward dreading what came next.

Egyptian Kings were confident of the future, Mesopotamian peoples and rulers living not far away from Egypt lived fearful in this life and the next eyes downtrodden gazing forward  in anxious silence.

Sustenance in this life and the next achieved by following a few rules sent from on high to the ruler for everyone to follow. Was that it were that simple to achieve. That would be the good news. 

many layers of myth

many layers of myth

fiction
edward w pritchard

Awaking on a dark cold winter's night, one with no stars, moon or sunrise anywhere visual, many many layers of myth sent to me from generation after generation of my ancient relatives and ancestors are stacked like paper thin sheets of valuable gold somewhere in the recesses of my brain urging me in dreams to remember the importance of warmth and stores of foodstuff for the next four lean months.

Wood and foodstuff were life itself  in the fearful freezing winter cold months to our ancient surviving ancestors and they were resourceful, hard working  and lucky to be alive as they sent hardwired to our brains inclinations that we all carry now that insure our success in life today even in a world of vast material resources and confidence about our future stretching forward uninterrupted in our lives for tens and twenties of prosperous years.

In our time even the elderly are confident about the looming future.

Hear the howling winter winds driving us to arise early, tramp over the frozen ground gathering small clumps of wood for fires and to steal nuts and edibles from the squirrels and small rodents for today's sustenance.

Start your day there in the early morning darkness with a plea-ful prayer to the hidden nameless God who if appeased will send Spring in four long months to allow food to grow and water to thaw.

Saturday, December 9, 2017

way out across the left bank of Paris

way out across the left bank of Paris

fiction
edward w pritchard


It's  about to have the first snow here, the temperature is into the twenties, it's dark on a Saturday night with me alone and I am remembering my vacation trip to Paris less than 25 years ago.

Paris is one of the only places I have ever been that surpasses the hype about it. It has the best museum, no not the Louvre but to my taste the Cluny medieval museum with it's unicorn tapestry and early middle ages atmosphere. Paris has the world's most beautiful women especially if you take one with you from home on your trip. When I was in Paris the Seine was nearly dried up and the walks up the stairs, hills and Butte's around Montmartre were higher than ever but the views were spectacular. Sacre Coeur [ sacred heart] the beautiful white stone church there in Montmartre at the top top of many many steps and more steps stays with you after your first glimpse forever as it is as a church should be magestic, serene and unobtrusive, surely worthy to be  a home of God. The best  two meals I had in Paris were at the cafeteria at the museum [Louvre ] and an early lunch at a dive bar that had an open restroom for two tired american tourists. A casual breakfast at the high end Hotel included a free gaggle of run way models displaying haute couture fashions quietly parading among the tables. Oh, by the way the George the fifth hotel where I stayed is the best hotel in the world at least it seemed so to me, even worth the $400 per night [ current price is $1100 per day].

I try very hard now to not live in the past and to live now in day tight compartments. Sometimes though when it's about to have the first snow on a dark lonely Saturday night I go way out across the left bank into the Latin quarter of Paris and stroll the narrow lanes until well past midnight in my imagination and remember good times past.

Go to Paris, it's worth the money and the time and you surely won't regret it later.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

point of honor

point of honor

fiction
edward w pritchard


All in one week a lot of changes occurred in my life. My 21 year old nephew became my sergeant, I spend hours and hours each day putting together and taking apart an M-16 rifle complete with three varieties of bayonets, and at 7am I report to our barracks which in my case is the gym I until recently was a member of less than a thousand yards from my house. Because I am over 65 years old I am able to sleep at home although it is not unusual for me to be on duty each day from 7am to 8pm each day. With training, meetings and orientations the time passes quickly.

I am paid for my services, $827 per month with a lot of benefits.

My sergeant has put me on a diet. I need to lose 21 pounds over the next 61 days with a daily weigh in after 8am breakfast. I am only average at my timed rifle assembly and there is no handicap for my age. After my first week in the regiment I learned not to volunteer and not too speak out. No one wants to hear your suggestions anyway.

Once I compared my experience here as a soldier to my impressions from my extensive readings in History to what it must have been like to be a  draftee in the French army at the beginning of world war two. That resulted in a meeting with Sarge and extra duty.

Most of the time there is a lot of sitting around and waiting. Nothing happening. I still don't smoke but if I did it would have to be Luckies like my new comrades. Oh, yes, we have women in the unit.

Something is coming, something will be happening soon, I can feel it. Despite the military display of drill and shiny uniforms which I hate I know soon that our unit will perform greatly for our country.

Rifle range in a few minutes. Firing real bullets into a wall at the back of a gym over and over.

Point of honor; I take what we do very seriously, I follow orders, I perform to the best of my ability, and God grant me bravery and obedience in the coming ordeals.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

working familiar territory

working familiar territory

fiction
edward w pritchard

Hamilcar was sitting along side the road at the bottom of a small hill where the road curved sharply and traffic as it passed him had to slow to a near stop and then accelerate quickly to make grade as the road meandered into a sleepy rural town.

Although Hamilcar awoke confused and out of sorts, not quite himself,  he had worked this territory long before as a druggist salesman's assistant so as he devised a plan of where to go now this dark night he remembered that there were a few bars and a general store that might still be open as the position of a new full moon told him it was not quite midnight.

Struggling to walk along the dark road and avoid the infrequent traffic it was a pity that he didn't have his car with him as Hamilcar had difficulty with the small hill sloping into town and more than once he wished he could climb and summit the new fifteen foot security fence that ran along side the road to protect the few dark houses from traffic and provide the simple country folk living hereby privacy from tourists wishing to observe the rural lifestyle which in truth was vanishing rather quickly as the area here in this part of the Country urbanized. Also it was unpleasant for Hamilcar when the drivers of the infrequent speeding cars on the country road slowed a bit to see who was walking on such a dark night as few people actually walked anymore especially after dark. Smiling to himself Hamilcar remembered the hefty weight of the druggist salesman assistant's supply samples bag he used to carry about with ease back in the day in the old territory rain or shine over hill over dale day in day out for twenty two years.

At last, at last the small rural town appeared. The bar had changed hands more than a few times since the last time he was here and country music wasn't Hamilcar's thing especially played this loud. For some reason people here were still allowed to smoke indoors as even the deputy sheriff's sitting in the back were smoking as they tried very hard to make time with the girl tending bar who looked to be half their age. Hamilcar decided to order his beer to go as he had a headache and his knees throbbed from the walk into town but, the good news,  the small bar carried his brand of beer and by the quart, cold and available.

There was some trouble with the money Hamilcar used to try to pay the owner of the bar. There was a large wad of small bills in his wallet but the printing on the bills was unfamiliar and foreign. Rather than the familiar stately dead presidents faces on the bills in his wallet most of his money seemed to contain faces of women. Finally Hamilcar passed the entire wallet to the bar owner. He would have to trust him to make the right change on the cost of the three quarts of beer just this once it seemed. The deputies in the back of the smoky bar were beginning to take note of what was happening there at the cash register and Hamilcar was shy to cause a scene of any sort.

Hamilcar decided to go back down hill when he left the bar, back to where he had just came from because of his ancient aching knees and the darkness. Temptation was high to drink a little from one of the quarts of his favorite beer as he semi marched on, easier on the sore knees, but as an former druggist salesman assistant Hamilcar was shy to cause a scene of any sort and it wouldn't do for him to be pulled over for public intoxication especially in the old territory, even out here in the boon docks where sales were hard to generate without a car or a proper suit and no druggist salesman's assistant sample case. 

Monday, December 4, 2017

three women in a box on a shelf

three women in a box on a shelf

fiction
edward w pritchard

I keep three women in a box on a shelf and each wears a high hat characteristic of her type. Less a box for storing things but a box of location, like private seats in the bleachers at a stadium such as at  the ancient Roman coliseum is where the three ladies stay and it's always night where they are.

All are eternally silent and the hats are more intriguing than the faces. The names are loneliness, betrayal and death.

Sometimes I rush about to follow my bliss but the three women in the hats are always whispering to me in psychic babble even through they never say anything.

Once I asked one of the three ladies to remove her hat but each merely smiled in concert.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

the soul of mindfulness

the soul of mindfulness

fictiion
edward w pritchard


It's all the rage. This quest for mindfulness. Where-ever thou find-est thou self -there thou be-ist. So simple, so profound.

Modern's need to seek and journey into their own head's to find how to practice mindfulness because of the conflict occurring everyday between one's obsessions to love thyself and for the difficulty we endure now-a- days when we have to tolerate others who intervene into our space by existing. 

Surrounded by the miracle of technology-we say a chant to thy self and gently pass thou-est's hand from left to right over a rectangular flat phone, the latest generation of the apple's temptation  and the entire world beckons you, image by image on a flat screen. Where ever you are at that moment technology will take you somewhere else. Everything your heart desires and more there on the little screen in front of you. You no longer exist in your little mundane world, instead everything beckons you instantly, everything elsewhere. Available in an instant- without momentary delay. 

Nobody actually listens to anybody anymore or cares what they are about anymore,- instead of gentle conversation and kindness, -we  practice over and over the art of escape into our own head's. Into our head where no one can annoy us and no one can interrupt us.

The grand conflict of modern american culture. No Nature- no moon, no lakes and rivers and no night sky do we see. Nor do we attempt genuinely to see and understand others. We wish to escape into our own world safe within our own head.

There is an antidote.

Put down thou's device and look to the sky for your freedom.

Friday, December 1, 2017

mysticism and negation

mysticism and negation

fiction
edward w pritchard

When I see the sky and the mountains, I never saw the face of God
when I watched the two year old boy develop, first to the hunt
When I suffered severely at loss,
when I ached for the human condition, aging, death and banality
When I dashed everyone's hopes with tired practicality,
when I was unsure, at loss for an answer,
I smiled as I listened
and being negative by nature and nurture
suggested there might be another way,
I see the sky and the mountains, I never saw the face of God
except in the small Byzantine painting, I keep on the wall in the room where I sleep

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

how thick the glass

how thick the glass

fiction
edward w pritchard

Query- How thick would the glass have to be in the Cloud to in addition to keeping  hackers and bad guys seeking profit out but also to keep information stored inside from forming consciousness, becoming self, and seeking to replicate, expand and control; without morality or compassion.

Best Answer- originally in the tower of babel before it fell, near the very top, at the final stairway up, access was strictly limited and in point of fact was never breached. Destruction of the paradigm eventually occurred through unforeseen and abnormal interventions.

Related and of interest- legend among the Laplander people of parts of ancient Russia tell  the original tradition of following the herds occurred in an attempt to keep the children and the society safe from all outside influences of ideas and interventions which were dangerous to the continuation of the community.

fanciful- as a child we lived high up, in the sky behind thick quartz glass windows, in floating castles, in luxury and safety, that parents looked out constantly at the approaching clouds for new ideas and revelations that would change and tarnish traditions. Sadly, we grew out of the security of the castle and became confused and unsure of what we knew and believed. 


Saturday, November 25, 2017

Simeon stylites

Simeon stylites

fiction
edward w pritchard

I wrote a poem, I whistled a prayer,  gave away possessions,  chanted endless recantations

suffered calumny sloughing off detraction, loving and cherishing accusers, proclaiming loss of  name and reputation, foregoing justice and restitution humbly

practiced good deeds, walking the elderly, bowing to children, tending to babies

accepted probability, endured inevitability, rehearsed mortality

three times walking around the earth alone, sins absolved, lies of convenience receipted

Standing stooped on a pillar, bowing endlessly from the waist, exiled from human community

in dreams, standing on a pillar in Syria, waiting

Wake softly Syria

Wake softly Syria

fiction
edward w pritchard

Wake softly Syria,
the sun has risen bringing morning breezes to soothe your sorrows.

Look to the horizon Damascus ancient Mother city.
Streaks of gold light entice you, awake; stir again Mother Damascus arouse your children
to productive activity.

Up and about to the souk hearty Aleppo.
Send men to trade and build.
Daylight is upon us Halab, greet foreign traders in the marketplaces.

Whisper in Aramaic humble Ma'aloula, tell the nations what comes next.

Joy and create sleepy Ras Shamrah, out to Ugarit to remind the world who taught them to write.

Awake sleeping Syria, ancient land. Your friends far away bid you reclaim your destiny.

Wake softly Syria.



Sunday, November 19, 2017

beyond man and woman

beyond man and woman

fiction
edward w pritchard

Beyond man and woman
beyond near and far
beyond for richer for poorer
beyond here or there
a comet streaking across space
with a long distant tail
visible over millions of miles
both coming and going
familiar but not near
two familiar parts of a vanished whole
his hand on her forehead
an instant checking for pulse
amigo
return again
maybe
in hundreds and two years

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Brightness, ambient lightening and crazy Indian chief

Brightness, ambient lightening and crazy Indian chief

fiction
edward w pritchard


How many billions of times was unique bright Moon in exact position on west horizon over quiet Lake causing rippling commotion among jumping fish and fowl in streaks of brilliant reflection in  water full of bursting electricity from yesterdays storm produced luminous lightening strikes one hour previous to darkness? How many times would sequence happen before like fish and fowl silent dignified Moon endure dutiful ritual before awareness occurred to quiet Moon that it was influencing
cause and effect near moody lake spreading in ripples across partner planet?

How many times would crazy Indian chief turn back on flickering fire, wrap arms around knees drawn to chest watching and hearing splashing fish and fowl disturbing neutral Lake eyeball brilliant Moon, decamp anosognosia, slither to tee pee and toss and turn in disturbing flickering dreams until warm sun banished commotion?

Monday, October 23, 2017

wisdom to the future

wisdom to the future

fiction
edward w pritchard


Sleep softly good pilgrim
strain to remember where everyone is gone.
True, bears or baboons no longer attack the camp on mass
but one early am you awaken utterly alone,
not a sound,
all are vanished into insignificant befores.
Where is the campfire that warmed the clan
where is the nourishment that settled the group.
Once, once one two- three flaming meteors flash lighted the predawn sky
and generations followed you to find the sound and fragments.
Now the bears are extinct and the children are grown.
You preparing to vanish into inchoate skies.

Saturday, October 21, 2017

le chanson de la guerre

le chanson de la guerre

fiction
edward w pritchard

As they are clever and have a saying for everything, that is every conceivable situation I am sure that  the Frenchmen Rochefoucauld or Voltaire must have coined the terms le chanson de la guerre hundreds of years ago to designate a time when the sitting government and the armaments industries
collude to manufacture a war with imaginary evil enemies oceans away. Le Chanson de la guerre implying  with a wink a fake tune patriotically sung to rally hatred toward another culture.

Such seems to be the case now with our leaders as they bad mouth the North Koreans and Iranians
in the song of the times "tweets" designed in the end  to promote growth in the armament industries and hence the stock markets and general prosperity.

Those of you who still do- 'please pray for wisdom for our Country's leaders:

Here's what I wrote before on the subject-EWP


Syrian War August 2012, The death of chief Big Foot; Symbolic victim of America's rise to world power/ draft 2

fiction
edward w pritchard

As reported elsewhere of this blog American soldiers of the seventh cavalry carried Chief Big Foot  from his sickbed onto the field and shot him when he was suffering with pneumonia at the Battle of Wounded Knee in 1890.

Pneumonia is debilitating. Burning deep in the chest and lungs the victim is helplessly weak. Unable to much move. The will collapses in an attempt to buy the system time for miraculous recovery. Meanwhile the body retreats into itself racked with pain and fearing death. A slow demise destroys.

First to the hunt as a boy, honored in battle as a brave and revered as a Chief far and wide Chief Big Foot overcame his environment seeing himself as capable of miraculous accomplishments. Known as an excellent diplomat and negotiator Big foot realistically faced the Native Americans pre-ordained lost causes against the advancing American civilization and urged a defensive strategy based on the sorry facts.

By shooting Chief Big Foot, soldiers merely ended his life a few days or weeks early. A day earlier, unable to walk Big Foot as the White's called him, or Spotted Elk, his Indian name, was dragged by dogs on an Indian travois to the soldiers hospital to surrender. Sadly days later he lay dead, on the battle field,  grotesquely frozen. Someone  took his picture and history preserved his last picture; un-regal in death.

Mourn Chief Big Foot, a victim of America's Manifest Destiny; it was no way for a warrior to die.
Chief Big Foot we apologize sincerely for what we did to you. May your spirit guide our leaders meeting in Turkey today, 08/12/2012, as they discuss the situation in Syria. Before we unleash horrific bombs against Iran's under ground nuclear facilities causing unforeseen environmental damages or get drawn into a spreading Middle Eastern war far from home because of the randomness of causality that leads to unforseen major wars; please Big Foot send wisdom to our diplomats and silence the voices of aggression still very prevalent in our society.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

subversive sentiments

subversive sentiments

fiction
edward w pritchard

Because of my subversive sentiments I achieved the dubious honor of living in one of the twenty seven randomly selected homes in America each year invaded for clean shot occurrence procedure 4b described below.

" Homeland Security
clear shot occurrence 4b

from time to time randomly any domicile may be entered with due cause by assault officers for clean shot occurrence. Such entering will not be considered unlawful quartering of troops and will not last for elapsed time of over twenty minutes. Any property damage occurring during temporary invasion will be reimbursed by the State government of the appropriate district.

The three very polite swat officers who knocked did not break anything nor did they daddle in there work. The children were scared but the event was really over very quickly. The weapons involved in the clean shot occurrence procedure were quite intimidating.

self seeking infighting

self seeking infighting

fiction
edward w pritchard


Our leaders' self seeking infighting has become absurd to observe. So virtuous, so self righteous. Over and over so self satisfied they go on about their way picking the public's purse and pockets until they are showered with filthy lucre bribes to resign and move on so another generation of miscreants can take their place in the political arena behind a facade of ancient obsolete laws and traditions.

Drowning in a sea of personal debt from conspicuous consumption the young are strangely silent to the whole mess. Mesmerized in their latest hand held electronic devices they text and whisper to save a few bit coins on the latest generation of pizza pies and flavored coffees.

Each time a savior on a white horses arrives its the same old letdown from the left or right. Patriotism and propaganda. Lies and damn lies. Rich man, brilliant woman, all succumb to the lure of personal fame, glory and the book deal that will follow a short career in politics.

Fatigue and disillusionment all over again. I have lost my faith in our benevolent leaders.

Put me on a train traveling from great museum to great museum to see the paintings. Like an ancient Chinese scholar I sit and watch for the rebound.

Friday, September 29, 2017

It was gone before it started

It was gone before it started

fiction
edward w pritchard


Back 1967 the summer of love came and went and 1969 "what you gonna do about me me" [1] was covered a half dozen times before we here understood that a change was gonna come but by then it was gone before it started.

Fifty years forward to now it's the same refrain. Them and us but now we know it's all we; we put them all in the penitentiaries, and we aggravated all the wars, and we just put everyone on [2].

The Appalachian Mountain chain at 300 million years old stand a little lower than the Himalayan Mountains which are younger at a mere forty million years old. So to we now in our old age.

 Slumping along we realize we missed something as our leaders continue to " not tell us the whole story" [3] over and over again.

But oh to be young again and sit next to an apparition with a flower in her hair and listen for the revolution to arrive.

[1, 2 and 3] Quick Silver Messenger Service " what you gonna do about me" covered by Richie Havens

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Mundane miracle

Mundane miracle

fiction
edward  w pritchard


Childbirth is the mundane miracle. A woman's crowning achievement.

A woman with other children about to enter the final stages of labor is pre-blessed prior to the sacred event by a long tight squeezing embrace about her neck by her pensive child who senses the upcoming miracle and ordeal for the Mother.

Alone in a crowd a woman entering labor for the second time rushes into the future.

Monday, September 18, 2017

don't follow your thoughts, just observe them

don't follow your thoughts just observe them

fiction
edward w pritchard

When I was three or four years old my primary dictate from my Mother was " just be normal", over and over she told me that which was quite confusing really. Later I came to find out she had some mental issues from an unusual childhood and having a baby die after birth. To cope I became quite straight, not laughing much and over controlling and containing my emotions. My personality was lost in the darkness.

Still something inside myself, to compensate perhaps, was driving me to become more impulsive as I matured as a young adult. Sex, gambling which is the lust for Money and power, and a desire for Faustian intellectual awakening produced powerful urges within. It's all quite normal I hear.

In time, but still not always successfully, I regulated those compulsions. My duty lay elsewhere.

Don't follow your thoughts just observe them. Self discipline day to day will develop.

Now I take beta blockers hidden in my heart medicine. It's much easier now. It's hard sometimes to just be one of the troops, not specially awakened to new thoughts and ideas but it is oh so much easier day by day.

Saint Augustine and Rousseau both wrote their confessions and these are part of mine.

ed

Friday, September 15, 2017

always dress for dinner

always dress for dinner

fiction
edward w pritchard

Whether drifting down the Nile in a glass encased boat or on safari in Africa voyeuristic-ally shooting a few vanishing lions the Rich of a bygone era always found time to dress for dinner. After the multi coursed repast the Men of the past had their fine cigars and the Ladies had their gossip. Neither group found time for Politics. Which was a very good thing.

How much better would the Country be if the rich kept their opinions to their selves and stuck to the business of business. No one is so harmlessly occupied as when they are obsessed with making more Money. For the wealthy no speaking into microphones and no voicing their opinions.

And, once elected let the President become a silent faceless bureaucrat.

Friday, September 1, 2017

just another opinion

just another opinion

fiction
edward w pritchard

Some people like to fish, some like to read, some like to text or chat with their many acquaintances and some of us like to watch baseball on TV. When I was young I had no idea why the Cleveland Indians mascot would be considered racist. When I found out and understood, as an aside I always cheered the native Americans in cowboy shows, I still liked to watch my Home team but I decided we should remove the offensive mascot.

Let's remove the racist Indian mascot after this season. Remove the mascot -Win or lose -in the playoffs. Life is too short to fight losing battles over embarrassing and antiquated issues.

Native Americans were cool, they worked hard, they taught us many things, let's not insult their decedents alive today.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

100 % of the people

100% of the people

fiction
edward w pritchard

100% of the people deserve certain basic human rights at all times and in all places.

I saw a speech on book TV by Law professor Michelle Alexander on her book " the New Jim Crow" that was original and not conventional, that was insightful and important, and timely and awareness changing. Ms. Alexander furthers the grand ideas of justice vs charity as from the Bible and in the work of Harvard professor John Rawls.

Read the book or at least digest her main ideas.

Without using the words- insidious american capitalistic system walks all over justice -I will restate "
100% of the people deserve certain basic human rights at all times and in all places."

Sunday, August 27, 2017

prosaic swan boat through Hell

Prosaic swan boat through Hell

fiction
edward w pritchard

Knowing all things simultaneously and eternally from hence forward I ascertained that I should be honored to have the Devil himself strap me into the seat in the swan boat about to sojourn across the trillions of dimensions of Hell. Like a creaking old grandfather the Devil carefully and lovingly attended to my safety strapping me modestly into the tattered tethered crusty straps that would secure me legally protected into the weathered old swan boat as I began my journey.

Alone off I went. Smiling at the demon as he unblushingly picked up a rusted old Pepsi can from the floor of my conveyance into my seat I squirmed to find a comfortable position. This was to be a low budget operation it seemed.

"Where to next blithely I asked" Gently tapping the door twice of the shuddering swan boat like a carny starting a blind horse at the annual VFW county fair  the boat began to move across time and space shaking and groaning as we shook along the invisible ancient rusty cables.

Friday, August 25, 2017

hit three times with the stick

hit three times with the stick

fiction
edward w pritchard


Everywhere and at all times it is within my power to accept reverently my present condition. [1] Any disapprobation reaped upon myself justly will pass as no pain and no shame lasts forever.

If I have made a mistaken judgment that has injured another and have tried to right the matter timely and justly it is finished. There is no need to continue to grieve and berate myself.

As a boy I was hit quickly three times with a stick as instruction. Such pain passed quickly and is long since forgotten. My sense of justice was formed by those encounters.

Take your stand, stand your assigned post. It is a divine thing to try to be just and to be censured. Retire into yourself. Soon I will be gone and all that will be remembered is did he do his duty as best his weak character, slipping behavior and worrisome nature could generate.

[1] author is paraphrasing Marcus Aurelius

Sunday, August 20, 2017

total eclipse

total eclipse

fiction
edward w pritchard

A site of great pilgrimage the Serpent Mound in Peebles Ohio is a great place to view the total eclipse of the sun or the moon at anytime. An Effigy shrine built basket by basket with soil, sod and stones by stooped shouldered women, and children Adena Indians on the pre-historic site of a millions of year old sacred meteor strike which split the earth to the womb in times before humans could speak or walk upright; the serpent mound provides a small elevation to the viewing subject that enhances the visual viewing of a total solar eclipse of the sun.


Protective viewing glasses will be provided by local Ohio park rangers On august 21 for viewing of total eclipse of the sun.



Tuesday, August 8, 2017

routes and paths

routes and paths

fiction
edward w pritchard

Everyone is taking a different route or paths but eventually they all end up in the same place. I didn't know where I was going until recently but it doesn't make it any easier to get there.

There's no map or program and no recently developed technology by google will be of any help. If you ask questions or directions along the way it just confuses things. Even someone who is absolutely double dog sure of the ultimate destination is just sorta fooling themselves. Too bad they don't finish your trip in the end anyway. At the end of your road there is no one to reach for.

Recently I stopped looking for pacer gold mines placed into river beds by volcanoes a  few hundred million years ago. I came to find they are always somewhere else. Fame and fortune disappeared with haley's comet in 1910 the night mark twain died. Destiny had manifested itself and all the mines were played out.

I live in a ghost town now in one of the empty houses. Sometimes I can hear the echos in the middle of the night of the drunken ambitious young men who came west by boat or burro looking for riches and ready to stake their claim.

Mornings very early I am up with the sunrise because some times I walk around with my grandson.We teach each other things. I doubt he sees the ghost town yet. I sure won't tell him. A few days ago we saw a hawk take a fish from the lake. Later this week we are going to tie a rope  to a tree on a hill and pull our way towards the crest. Just for practice.

It's bad luck to write your own epitaph.

Here's what I wrote before:

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.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

unless one is lucky enough to be killed in one of those epic battles that typify the national identity life is not a team sport

unless one is lucky enough to be killed in one of those epic battles that typify the national identity life is not a team sport

fiction
edward w pritchard

Unless one is lucky enough to be killed in one of those epic battles that typify the national identity life is not a team sport.

Things change. Your old pal the baby who used to sit quietly respectfully silent waiting while you competed a few business matters before you and he tossed the baseball now has to work to pay for the new second car and can't fish, walk along the railway tracks, or sit by the campfire these days.

The plot of life now is secondary to philosophical introspection. Teams are redundant, life is solitary.

Things change.


Thursday, July 6, 2017

all the people had to stand in public line

all the people had to stand in public line

fiction
edward w pritchard

Recently I went to an out-clinic of one of the large local hospital chains for my annual blood work for an upcoming Doctor's visit. A merger had occurred corporately with the hospital network so it was necessary to update my records for government supervision of my person which included being electronically fingerprinted for future identification purposes. Going forward both the hospital and government of Ohio shall know that it is in fact me who is fifteen pounds overweight and will have a chance to check my background conduct each time I visit that Hospital should they wish to monitor my conduct for any reason. Hopefully monitoring will be limited to health behaviors only.

That clinic was very busy so I had to take a number electronically at a computer station before I could sit before the technician who performed the finger print scan. After I had to wait with the rest of the patients a while in the lobby to have the actual blood work drawn in the locked medical area. That day at the hospital clinic all the people had to stand in public line only for a few minutes to have their lab work done.

I always feel like Winston Smith from George Orwell's novel " 1984" when I visit the hospital or it's satellites and it's the same with the Government and it's satellites. At the same time, even though I am being monitored,  I often find myself humming BB King's " Why I sing the blues" when I have to join " all the people, all the people [ who ] have to stand in public line.

slow time has silenced me

slow time has silenced me

fiction
edward w pritchard

Slow time has silenced me. So I have taken to looking for my-self.

First I discovered and acknowledged the other. That was long before I could properly talk. Then Love and betrayal. Ho, hum. And impending Death. Slow, slow time again.

Everything else is just a background hum of the gears quietly turning starting with the dawn.

Look up, look down where is me-self. Categorically missing somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

the paranoia caused by the insidious system of capitalism

the paranoia caused by the insidious system of capitalism

fiction
edward w pritchard


One day realization strikes that the paranoia caused by the insidious system of capitalism is real, not a figment of the imagination, but an actual everyday structural vast edifice that treats each and everyone thing and stone as a means to an end. Something to be discarded, something to be depreciated until obsolete and defunct.

Slowly perhaps others enmeshed in the system may see the light. Understanding that what is happening to them is systemic and universal is the first step in untangling the net that entraps us all.

It's the system, it's the system. See the light.

Sunday, June 18, 2017

the department of named disturbances

the department of named disturbances

fiction
edward w pritchard


In this story set sometime in the near future an ordinary  human subject is being interviewed by a bureaucratic machine psychologist at the VA  hospital. It is just another day for Doctor, Ghe 884, Ghe being a title of honor usually a-titled as address when speaking to an artificial intelligence machine class seven or higher at time of the incident discussed below.

Human subject- " I like early mornings, before it is fully dawned, when awoken by the cool winds from an open window with a reddish hued light before a pending storm. At such time it seems that nothing can harm me, nothing will happen and for a moment when the wind stops completely just before the storm breaks with a fury I feel alive."

Ghe 884- and at other times

human subject- not listening and far away- " one lone bird will be chirping with modulating voice talking to the storm about to strike" " suddenly and without warning a cracking will occur, and to my ear a movement will be detected, it is a falling large heavy branch from a distant tree dropping and crashes and instantly I will know the bird was predestined to have his perch destroyed by the ancient deity known here locally as Wind".

doctor Ghe 884- well that's about it for today, thank you for meeting with me here in the department of named disturbances, wing four department 7A Ohio district.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

the plight of horses and cows in Nazi occupied Prague circa 1942

the plight of horses and cows in Nazi occupied Prague circa 1942

fiction
edward w pritchard

A year is a long time to live under Nazi occupation of your homeland. Despite attempts to be optimistic, forward looking and to live in the present day to day life is a struggle for me here in Prague. Often I wish I could leave the beautiful City of Prague, the place of my birth and best years and move off into the countryside. Away from the confusion, regrets and away from recriminations of the here and now.

Perhaps I shall go up country to Lidice a small mining village two dozen miles North of historic Prague. Things are slower in a place like Lidice, even in these troubled time not much happens there and a person can get a new start in a rural setting in a place like Lidice.

Thursday, June 8, 2017

accent on the wrong syllable

accent on the wrong syllable

fiction
edward w pritchard

The boss would call us into a brief meeting at a mini board room and after hearing a few lies from some of the team about why things were going so poorly would shake his head and looking into the distance would mutter" accent on the wrong syllable." Summing up the entire human condition in one pithy platitude.

Sometimes listening to Chopin's "Liebestraum",  love dream my mind will rearrange the tempo to re-set the mood caused by the beat of the external world pulsing around me. The march of History I have heard that stuttering march that surrounds our temporal reality called by the wise men of the ancient past.

Today, I awake, I march about seamlessly through the madding throngs of faceless strangers. Me the invisible man of the crowd [1] them accent on the wrong syllable.

[1] author is referencing Edgar Allen Poe

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

imaginary lover's unreal

imaginary lovers unreal

fiction
edward w pritchard

How can we be expected to have and vividly recall racial memories of our distant ancestors of tens of thousands of years ago walking about the Savannah or scavenging shells and mussels for survival at the ocean side when in fact we can't remember a lover now so changed who a mere twenty or thirty years ago acted so different towards us? Were they once authentic and spontaneous or was it imaginary, never happened, and is this remembrance a shadow of a dream?

Before the motivations of weighing and accounting's for the benefit in every situation day to day things and activities seemed real, solid and permanent. Could that fleeting recollection that now occasionally arises spontaneously in the deep unconscious that blooms so temporary a smile be based on a false memory? Was the snippet of fading memory that is now not what they were then, who now acts only with  everything pre-planned, was that person then unreal or is the memory and the occasional and fading smile a fragment of a dream?

Imaginary lover's unreal. We never walked joyfully together oblivious to the dangers, hidden motivations and coming mercenary accounting's. Imaginary lover's unreal. A dream in a dream of a memory.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Boethius in Folsom Prison

Boethius in Folsom Prison

fiction
edward w pritchard

Editor's note- Pritchard often uses the future hate of intelligent machines for mankind, which is a project of his tortured imagination, as a metaphor for " the gods". Boethius was a philosopher, once happy and successful like Job [ from the bible] who, he, Boethius  wrote " consolations of philosophy" while in actual prison waiting to be tortured and dismembered by the authorities for his imaginary crimes against the state. " the gods, or fate, you see  eventually torture us for our imaginary crimes caused by normal living by our death. "Fulsome Prison" is a song written and performed by Johnny Cash which succinctly expresses the theme of our angst for our "sins" and our acceptance of our guilt in four enjoyable verses.

Boethius in Folsom Prison

Camera pans in
Boethius sitting on his bed rubbing his right dislocated shoulder with his left hand
a far off train whistle is heard
a thought is expressed in Boethius tired eyes [ he is thinking as usual about how they were kill him in the end, what method of final destruction will be used to finish him]
since it is a train I hear I deduce I will not be thrown to the sharks as sharks do not inhabit the prairie where the train track is laid across
but there are many large rocks strewn about the prairie and the guards who are lazy may simply pile boulders on my chest until I expire from the weight, or they could make me push a large boulder up a steep hill until it rolls back over me
smiling Boethius begins to sing
" if they freed from from this prison if that railroad train was mine, I know I would move it on a little farther down the line"
end

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

sons, grandsons and a feminist perceptive on achievement

sons, grandsons and a feminist perspective on achievement

fiction
edward w pritchard

Once I sat with my two oldest sons on the banks of the Mississippi river high above the town of Hannibal, Missouri where the author Mark Twain sat as a boy circa 1845 and watched the waters of that mighty river flow off into the future. Sitting there watching the magnificent river flow I thought how hurriedly time flowed away and worried a bit about what would become of my two beautiful oldest sons then both less than ten years old sitting quietly with me very much at peace and was saddened by the thought that one of the realities of passing time was soon every boy and their memory is faced with the eventuality that boys grow old and are gone into silent obscurity. So to author Mark Twain, his fictional creation "Tom Sawyer" who no one reads anymore, my Father who played Tom Sawyer and once kissed his schools " Becky"character as lead in the class play of "Tom Sawyer" at Morgantown high school, myself who played as a real boy over canals, lakes and rivers, me  play acting alone the roles of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn as a boy and now as myself who tries to help my only grandson create the same 1840's over hills and rivers American experiences as a boy of less than two years old. In my small way I give my grandson some time to be outside as a boy.

Intellectually I have been perplexed in my readings and studies on why no woman painters or philosophers jumps to mind among avid learners or the general public when the general subject of women of achievement historically is discussed. It's more than just men writing the historical record, or lack of opportunity for women; Paintings and philosophical writings among women of genius in those fields throughout history often seem a side line only. Perhaps when a female is ten years old contemplating a flowing river they have a different biological spin on the mysterious angst of the realities of passing time because of their unique ability to actually create life, in fact, in finality. Perhaps that is all there is to our brief existence.  Creating and passing on life being our only immortality.

I have never understood the biological side of women well enough to understand the feminine perspective on achievement and our biological destiny as people. Hopefully I will do better with the brief time I will have with my second grand daughter who I am soon to meet.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Two faced

Two faced

fiction
edward w pritchard

Two faced woman
I see only your eyes
lead me to biological destiny
stumbling blindly onto
unknown futures
forsaking, friend, foe
months are centuries
dashing, bashing
fro and yon
union at
sacred source

Friday, May 12, 2017

beautiful people

beautiful people

fiction
edward w pritchard



beautiful people
it's so fleeting,
80 years and they're gone forever

Monday, May 8, 2017

lucky day

lucky day

fiction
edward w pritchard

Two things happened on the bus ride down to the office for the babysitting job the other day between me and the white guy bus driver that were significant in an insignificant type of way for a Monday morning. Of course since most everyday a different bus driver is assigned to drive my bus route  lucky number 19 downtown I won't be able to tell my bus driver about the unusual co-incidence concerning lucky number 19 I bet at the casino yesterday, Sunday, when I enjoyed a fine nearly free buffet with my son.

The buffet after we got up to the casino up North of town in my son's car that I helped fix recently with the miracle of dry gas from the auto zone, that worked quite well by the way, wasn't exactly free but it was very good and cost for the two of us only six dollars after the free $25. credit I got in the daily card swipe when you walk into the casino. Most of the six dollars was for tips for the waitress who brought us our ice teas as I like to share my good fortune with working folks, and she did a good job of bringing us ice teas even though we had another drink, our two dollar beers from the secret special bar there at the casino room that I am allowed to enter because I am " gold" member  because of regular attendance. I also got a card for a lucky thousand dollar drawing which I dropped into a drum already holding about 10,000 other potential winners.

Anyway that white bus driver on the previous Monday when I walked the 1200 steps on the garmin from where I stay to the awning covered stop that rainy morning was doing his route book notes when I entered the bus and since I didn't have my usual 50 cents, two quarters for the the senior citizen discount rate I gave him a buck, into the auto-matic ticket counter and I remarked making conversation, that the 50 cent ticket credit card I got back as change was just like winning at the casino, [I was implying -another time] and then I asked him, who he was kind of cold and straight, for a bus driver, if he frequented the casino, as I was the only person on the bus, it being the first stop, there at the low income grocery store, on the white side of town, and he replied emphatically- absolutely not, meaning and further saying "  I don't waste my hard earned money".

Well a few miles later over in the black side of town on the same 19 route last Monday, a thirty something black guy gets on the bus, with a kind of pushy type black girl friend, and her beautiful and very special maybe 11 year old daughter and for some reason the white bus driver will  let the man and woman on the bus for free as it is customary to let homeless type people on for free but not the young girl as she is wearing a back pack and is obviously a student and therefore she can't ride for free although by custom free service on the bus is typical in this type of situation. Well the guy is ready to get off, and not take their trip this early Monday morning with his family but the woman makes a bit of a ruckus and eventually the little girl is allowed to ride for free, the woman sits behind me and complains about the bus driver the entire ride, none of us five other passengers had to get up and give the bus driver the 1.50 student fare for the little girl, and she the special young girl with a back pack, she  got to school last Monday, and hopefully forgot that incident and I got off that guys bus at the terminal and walked the rest of the way [ 1100 step] steps on the garmin to babysit and forgot about that little girl with the backpack until, about a week later, yesterday Sunday at the casino.

I was thinking yesterday Sunday at the casino about choosing my lucky bus number 19 when I choose my six numbers for keno, when I started to play with the twenty bucks I had earmarked for gambling, after my son and I finished our six dollar buffet when Lucky day- happy day, over the loud speaker Ed P - last three numbers of my gold member card 922 had won a thousand dollars in free play! Which since free play is not a thousand dollars in real money I had to work real hard there at the casino over the next five hours to run one thousand dollars of free play through the machines until I left happy, happy, happy with six hundred actual US dollars.

For some reason on the way out of the casino with an extra $600 dollars in my pocket I was thinking about the white bus driver implying to me what a chump I was, that's how I took his comment that, absolutely not, "he wouldn't gamble at the casino", I probably thought of the bus driver because of me thinking about the number 19 bus earlier when I just won the drawing, a ten thousand to one shot, having my entry card picked out of the spinning barrel.

I have to get up in a few hours today, this Monday morning to catch the nineteen bus and for sure, odds are, I won't have that same white guy bus driver but if I do I am going to tell him about my $600 dollar happy, happy Sunday yesterday and give him a five [$] bill to let someone ride for free who is in need.

I hope that little girl didn't feel bad about almost getting asked to leave a public bus last Monday. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to give her a few bucks if I see her again, and certainly her Mother doesn't like older white folks anyway, but I bet if her Mother's boyfriend heard the story of the winning ticket I got at the casino he would give me a smile for my luck. I bet he, that little girl with the backpack's Mother's friend,  could empathize with what it is like to be me, an older White guy and routinely take a bus to work early on an ordinary insignificant Monday morning and have the good fortune of having an extra $600 to start your week.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

space is deep but the ship is small

space is deep but the ship is small

fiction
edward w pritchard

It's hard to avoid periodic contact with one that one has been intimate with when far across the galaxy on a journey of exploration. Space is deep but the ship we travel on is small in the vastness of the expanding universe.

This vessel owed by Rand corporation bringing rare minerals back to Earth is seven earth miles long and nearly two earth miles deep with over sixteen thousand quadri-deck levels transporting along with all the economic cargo several thousand scientists, Doctors, engineers and at least one attractive lady lawyers among the crew and personnel. In such proximate quarters and habit I am bound to bump into my former mate now and then.

It's awkward for me because Rand personnel number 27,888 refuses to follow standard space travel protocol rules 28 to 32 when we randomly meet. At such times I often become distracted on my mission to the mystic source. Later recriminations and regrets interrupt annual six month deep sleep suspended animation patterns sometimes for hours at a time.
      

the super computer in the head that comprehends it all

the super computer in the head that comprehends it all

fiction
edward w pritchard

Ring.

The phone never rang and should have been off the hook anyway. It was an inopportune time for a phone call on the stout black solid bell phone that never rang and shouldn't ring because the only person who ever called out on the phone was occupied and the
only
ever
caller on that Bell phone that
cost fourteen dollars a month to sit most of the time silently waiting for a mysterious phone call  was the occupier.

One ring and the super computer in the head that comprehends it all raced through fifty million future
intereactions
and starved for opportunity and danger answered the phone. Uncharacteristically impolite
the deal was set, the future mortgaged, joy/sorrow,exhilaration/regret two grandchildren with another on the way
later
no one has a stout black solid Bell phone anymore, viewing texted messages instead at inopportune times now a days and where will future grandchildren come from and where will the super computer in the head that comprehends it all glean the opportunity and danger that procreates the Earth?

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

what time is it

what time is it

fiction
edward w pritchard

Here where I stay there is the party going on but we can't find it anymore. Something about a very fine building with cascading decks and new never driven cars and long term contracts and enjoyable music but we can't hear the music, we can't find the party, and the new car is very old and needs expensive stuff from the auto zone pretty much everyday anymore.

No one I know is at the party. At the party are the people from television, the movies, the internet social clubs, the one's who take long expensive trips, have extra new cars parked about and who are always courted by the banking and financial industries about their retirement. The people at the party spend a lot of time thinking about long term phone/data contracts, all kinds of insurance stuff, medical problems and prescriptions, tables and tables of restaurant food,  and minute to minute changes in the President's opinions about the first hundred days.

The music has stopped, I can't find the party anymore and the contract we signed has expired. What happens next?

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

more politics

more politics

fiction
edward w pritchard


Is the world a global village or just a big quagmire of troubles better avoided.

Here's what we wrote before on the timely subject of North Korea:

North Korea/South Korea

fiction
edward w pritchard

Avoid foreign entanglements America.

The United States continues to police the world, far away in Asia. China drives up the price of everything for everyone, too busy accumulating all the world's wealth to worry about North Korea for now. Why does the United States have to police China's backyard. It's no longer 1950. The United States cannot afford any longer to police the world. The big picture has gotten too big and too expensive for the United States to control alone.

Let's just be another player on the world stage. Concerned yes, humanitarian aid always; obsessed with controlling everything and everyone no. Avoid foreign entanglements America.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Syria's President

Syria's President

fiction
edward w pritchard


Along with the Nationalism toward homeland goes strong paternal feelings toward one's President. Here I what I wrote before on President al-Assad of Syria.

ADBRIGHT


MONDAY, JULY 23, 2012


big deck/ more on Syria

big deck

fiction
edward w pritchard

Near the souk but not within the souk the lanes are narrow, not meant for large vehicles. Big deck is  a 1981 Ford stretch van, white with a sliding side door leading to four rows of uncomfortable seats. A very ugly carriage but she has supported me for thirty years as my taxi here in Damascus. This week, I have been using big deck as an ambulance during the uprising here in Damascus; being a poor man I have been forced by circumstance to charge my fellow citizens who are suffering terribly during the violence for my services and those of big deck as an ambulance.

At the hospital the chief surgeon ordered me to take one lone passenger to an outpatient clinic for recovery. It was an eight year old girl whose eyes have been hurt badly in an explosion and was temporarily blind. I am being paid to sit with her during the day until she can return to the hospital for further surgery on her eyes to restore her sight. I had a lot of trouble getting big deck and the girl through the narrow alleys south of the souk here in Damascus. Of course adding to my troubles is the potential of violence caused by the uprising. Many commercial ambulances are reluctant to entering some of the areas of the violence and I have been making more money than usual. The chief surgeon at the hospital paid me three hundred Euros to transport the girl and has promised me another 700 Euros when I return with her in three to four days.

The clinic where I brought the girl is for wealthy patients recovering from surgery in normal times. Now the clinic is mostly empty, because of the violence there is little elective surgery being performed. The little girl is nearly alone here and all of the other patients are adults. To keep her company and myself busy, for I am being paid to sit with her, I have been reading to her. The only book for a child I could find here was an American story for girls, Nancy Drew " The Bungalow Mystery". My English is now poor although I attended University in New Jersey over fifty years ago.

I continued with my reading. I had to be careful. Although the girl's eyes were heavily bandaged like all children she knew when i was skipping parts of the novel and she would call me on it. As she was ill I did not want to upset her so I read carefully.

The unexpected prow--ler

"An embezzlement case! Nancy was excited. What she wondered,"

I stopped suddenly for in my concentration on the book I had not noticed our Syrian President enter the room.  He was standing next to me smiling and nodding at me. He had come to visit the little girl.

He asked me if he could read for a moment. Taking the little girl's hand our President continued the Nancy Drew story.

" what she wondered did her father want her to do."

Nodding very slightly to me our President put the book down and still holding the girls hand and talking softly to her now in our language he began to review her medical chart that he had apparently  carried into the room.

I watched our President intently as he read. He was a tall handsome regal man and I was very proud of him and proud to be a Syrian.  Gently placing his spare hand on the girl's face he looked at the skin around the bandages, touched at her neck, I think taking her pulse.

As quickly as he had entered the room our President handed me the book, bowed to me ever ever so slightly and exited the ward where the girl was laying.

I still remember that meeting in the hospital as one of the most important days of my life.

end

Nancy Drew
" The Bungalow Mystery"
quoted page 45[ chapter 5]
Book #3 of series
by Carolyn Keene
Grosset&Dunlap

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

mystical thinking

mystical thinking

fiction
edward w pritchard

Mystical thinking has replaced magical thinking as mine latest life force. Course I miss the ease of a life lead in honor of magical thinking as it had a naturalness to it. A neither this nor that non dualistic patina, the shining light in the eternal night of darkness that guided my stumbling on the path to nowhere. Then being and nothingness were neither this nor that to myself and I. Merely did this entity preservere till fortune dealt a timely, lucky hand of cards this Way.

Mystical thinking takes preparation and rigor in following the deleted stages of a difficult physical regimen of selfless sensual and spiritual purgation. Night after dark night one is hungry, cold and alone. But eternal joy, should it happen, that we will hear and see when understanding, reason and the senses are negated. What sights shall we behold?

Meanwhile, patiently must the non self wait in timeless duration for the reunion without entity within.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

where will be the American Bastille

where will be the American Bastille

fiction
edward w pritchard

Where will be the American Bastille?

Will it be in a housing project in Saint Louis after another child is hit by a stray bullet?

How about a few million gun owners acting in unison?

Or maybe at a colossal wall in Texas separating us from Mexico?

Will the American Bastille be an electronic message denouncing the Administration with four million Likes in one minute?

Or an American soldier walking off the line in North Korea done in by the paranoia?

Will it be an older person opening his mail and silently reading another high handed proclamation from the capitalistic establishment about why the cost of living is jumping skyward again?

Where-ever and whenever the American Bastille [1] occurs please don't behead the Governor-he was just doing his job the best he knew how at the time.

[1] french citizens July 14, 1789 beheaded the governor in charge of the Bastille when they broke down the doors of the hated State Prison.  I am glad I wasn't there. I so detest mayhem, disorder, lack of civility and violence; whether in the classroom, the streets or the prisons.

Friday, March 24, 2017

the lost ace in the hole

the lost ace in the hole

fiction
edward w pritchard

You never know when you gonna need that lost ace in the hole.

Then, not now, worse not better.

Ace in the hole kaput, old deck gone missing.

Game finished

Consensual integrity

Consensual Integrity

fiction
edward w pritchard

There is the fact and then there is the motivation.

So many sins follow from the original motivation to let nature take it's course, the children to grow properly to adulthood, maintenance of the status quo, following the biological course of reality. Sin being later accountability for previous actions to maintain the status quo by omission from timely intervention.

Should we bear moral responsibility for not taking negative action to rectify an acknowledged fact dictated by another mover that will effect parties without legal capacity to contract or survive as independent agents? Speaking here of minor children. Some not then yet born.

We must bear moral responsibility for our actions but do we have negative responsibility for our omissions?

Don't count your sins resulting from biological dictates to maintain the species, to procreate offspring. When it comes to accounting for sins gentleness is sweet reasonableness.

Be slow to Judge. People can be good and not perfect.

Sometimes only parts of the story were told. Selective integrity compartmentalizes the truth.

One can not have endless responsibility for an act of consensual integrity.

Lord have mercy on us all.


Thursday, March 16, 2017

the American angst of having fallen from the middle class

the American angst of heaving fallen from the middle class

fiction
edward w pritchard

In my case the American angst of having fallen from the middle class is cushioned by the not totally uncomfortable old vinyl padded seats of the reliable cross town number 19 bus that I sit on as I head downtown to make war with the good government employees at the social security office concerning my need to pay for additional premiums for medicare part D prescription coverage so I can continue to be a good consumer of pharma services now and into the future. As the trusty old bus bounces along from stop to stop I hang on to my American dreams by using the shiny metal poles designed to cushion a sudden stop should the bus driver collide with anything or accelerate or brake too aggressively. Despite being in a constant rush to get from the initial pick point at any of the low income grocery store stops, to the metro/greyhound central terminal master Bus station downtown I have never experienced a bus driver being involved in any type of traffic altercation. Sometimes  a concerned driver will let a homeless type passenger or obviously poor student ride for free to maintain social order I suppose. To me, bus drivers seem like pretty good folks, especially the women drivers. I tolerate their smoking outside the bus when ahead of schedule because I assume they have a stressful job and life.


The bus is fifty cents a ride for the elderly and it appears that anyone can get for $2.50 an all day bus pass so you can go from the unemployment office, to the Medicaid, or social security offices for Medicare like me, or to the county health offices for mysterious other social services related to mental health and american angst. Fifty cents a ride is a good price to ride the eight miles to downtown from where I stay. I still have change in my pocket to buy an overpriced $1.75 20 oz. diet mountain from the vending machines designed to give the low income folks easy access to the varieties of American consumer culture. I am usally hit on by someone asking for money for groceries or to donate to their church next Sunday; probably as an older white guy I am not one of the stereotypical sub class types and appear an easy mark, or it could be a tribute to the local Goodwill Stores where I purchase one of half a dozen very nice, warm wool over coats that I wear about in Winter. Necessary, when I ride the bus since the local bus stop with the glass seated enclosure is 1350 steps on my garman from my abode.

The good thing about the metro bus is it gets about town rain or shine so I can reach downtown in snowy weather unlike the suburban local school buses near my house which only move about the streets of our area on clearer days. At least where I live metro bus drivers get less snow days off than Public school bus drivers from what I can unscientifically surmise from riding the metro bus past the school bus parking lot the last few snowy days. Probably school bus drivers aren't involved in decisions to close the suburban schools on wintry days, such decisions being left to school administrators and teachers unions I would imagine.

Recently I had to take two buses without a transfer to pick up a borrowed truck for the day. It only cost 50 cents times two but although inexpensive buses take a while to get about especially if where someone works or is going is off the beaten path. Usually though most people who ride a bus to work are younger women, a little too heavy to walk far, again being unscientific when it comes to proper sampling techniques, I am sure that the extra two hours it takes to get to the McDonald's or dollar store for work makes for a tiring day after doing an eight hour shift on one's feet all day. So, even  if  McDonald's and the dollar stores aren't off the beaten path it still lowers anyone's net profit from working there if because of circumstance they are forced to ride a bus to work because they aren't in proper shape to ride a bike or walk to work or if they have others things to do after working besides walking  for two hours to go say eight miles or ride a bike for an hour to go the same distance. Also it would be a lot easier if they had a nice new car to drive to McDonald's to work. Taking a bus to work for most people I again without a proper statistical sample surmise is stressful in itself even though one hears a lot of interesting conversations on a bus, even an introvert like myself, and one learns a bit about the American angst of having fallen from the middle class that one doesn't realize riding about in a new car especially if one isn't fortunate enough to have another new car as well being driven by their hard working spouse to their well paying career work location. Again without a proper sample I notice that from looking and listening to people who ride the buses about town most of the bus customers don't seem to have a sufficient other in their lives, who has their backs in the good times and bad in life and have a well paying career as well, which although probably their fault, the bus customers, their fault that they are alone, they not having a proper car, nor a store of Capital, capital C, in the Bank, then that is for the lonely person on the bus, one of several indices that can lead to the American angst of having recently fallen from the middle class. I assume such a situation happens more often to introverts without properly chosen careers, a store of Capital in the Bank and successful life partners but such an assumption would be a sweeping statement which would be unscientific, being mere here-say [hear-say sic.] on my part. Speaking of hear-say evidence and improper rules of disavowed evidence in a court of law for this fallen American angel of the American angst to imply the estoppel evidence rule, to why him and other lower class bus riders deserve special consideration and subsidy because of the current lack of equity, inherent hardheartedness, and lack of opportunity  involved in the pursuit of happiness in the Capitalistic system is disingenuous at best as well as just plain naive considering that everyone knows that if one is forced to rely on a estoppel defense in a court of Law, that one has a weak hand and is bound to lose before the court, estoppel defense, being here, in this argument that recently life has gotten so much the harder resulting in more and more good people falling out of the middle class in America even though once in some golden age there really was equal opportunity for all; when in fact any Jury knows that such was never the case and as any good lawyer knows Judge's have a very short attention span when it comes to interpreting the fairness of anything involving Equity either in court or Society at large. Summary Judgment being then Some are Bound to Lose. Case Dismissed.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

every life should have more than one act but no more than five

every life should have more than one act but no more than five

fiction
edward w pritchard

Every life should have more than one act but no more than five. What I am meaning here is how a baby's eyes that one has connected with express thousands of unspoken thoughts and sentiments instantly to the a-tuned lover/ receptor [1] and how scientifically other than light going in to those fascinating eyes to the babies brain no known scientific material process substance or ray/wave is actually coming out of those beautiful and intriguing eyes to the a-tuned lover/receptor who more often than not is performing the  ordinary, mundane task of caring for the " helpless" infant at the time of the mystic cosmic connection eye to eye in question; usually as the baby's Mother, but sometimes as dear old Grand Ma or Omey, Pa pa or just plain old ed. Prosaically that a-tuned connection between baby and grand-ma changes as baby matures and learns to communicate with language and predictably the nick names for Grandma change as the baby's masters the use of language and logical thought processes throughout the various " five acts' of a babies life.

The only other similar connection that old ed knows of that, that as expressed above, is, similarly non scientific and perhaps metaphysically/transcendent  apparent is with a Lover, but in that case, unlike with a Baby which a receptor can have more than one connection with other babies, perhaps half a dozen, including children descendants and other grand children, with a Lover that eye to eye mystery, connection, happens only once. The other times being strictly organic and materialistic.

Many attuned persons throughout time have sensed/experienced  the a-tuned lover/receptor eye to eye cosmic connection mentioned above in terms of " is there anything in iron clad reality and provable scientifically to suggest the actual existence of a soul, or spirit part of anything that survives the Body, after death" but alas such persons having the original sensed/ experience have never communicated the iron clad evidence after their death to  scientifically prove the conundrum. Still many persons living and dead heart felt-ed-ly  wonder if there is anything non material and scientifically provable that survives a defunct human after death.  Of course there are other forces involved such as time/tensed time  argument and as discussed recently the "selfish gene" theory [of Richard Dawkins], etc. etc.

1. original idea recently expressed by another

Monday, March 13, 2017

the most unusual job a vagrant ever had

the most unusual job a vagrant ever had

fiction
edward w pritchard

Some time when I was in college, its confusing to remember now, I started on the punishment of holding somewhere between twenty five and thirty different and unrelated jobs and professions in the course of my so called career. It wasn't  exactly my fault that I developed no security in life or went beyond the novice stage in so many ways of earning a living, every time I applied for a job I got it, although usually I was totally unprepared for the actual work involved in the day to day routines, and then after a lot of stumbling around, and a cloud of mental confusion on my part, I was sort of loved out of that particular business, although I was never actually fired or given a bad reverence. the plain fact was I looked properly to be in business and I was polite and intelligent especially for the first twenty years or so of my time in the commercial world. Later I developed an attitude toward free enterprise, capitalism, and the class system in America because of my lack of progress up the corporate ladder, dearth of security, and later dearth of the rewards and fruits of a life well spent in America of my time and place. But I digress

The most unusual job a vagrant ever had was when I worked down in the basement in the old vault, the one with the twelve foot thick cement walls lined with steel and the electronic timer on the impregnable steel door, that no one from the outside, bosses or fellow employees could open after I entered at nine AM until the end of my eight hour shift and half hour for lunch each day Monday to Friday back in 1986 at the old Goodyear bank there on main street in our home town. I was in charge of the loan collateral in a one man department which included a plethora of unusual items that over six hundred loan officers had diligently acquired over a fifty year period just before our friendly small town bank that was spectacularly successful was acquired in merger with the large New York bank and ran into the ground at least when it came to customer service and efficiency .

I had a CD player down in my job in the vault and listened to two or more  complete CD's each day from the thousands we had as collateral, and used a very fine thick leather chair to sit on, also collateral from a bankrupt car dealers estate, and here's the good part, I smoked some of the marijuana that was additional collateral on the Briar's estate loans back before the concept of medical marijuana existed, that I deemed a good way to relieve the stress of a boring day. That job routine lasted day to day Monday to Friday for about fifteen glorious months until that awful day I opened a special letter from our company President who I met once or twice when receiving an award for a job well done down there in the vault, a letter which I tore in half as I read the eleven reasons why the upcoming merger with big New York  made sense to the employees and stockholders of our small town Bank. Well the jig was up and I was back in the job market again, older but no wiser.

Later in my careers I specialized in watching the children and things like that and eventually qualified for the Social Security pension system here in America but sadly never got a corporate pension as well because other than working for more than two years in a law office as a runner once I never accrued the mandatory thirty years in one assignment to receive a defined pension plan from a benevolent employer. Somehow I am happy with my lot and seldom blame the system, it's the system, for my own personal shortcomings having taken the philosophical position that no one owes anyone a living or their daily bread that I heard someone say once somewhere or the other.

that's about it: a little advice from one in the trenches, or one crying out in the old wilderness on occasion