adbright

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

Sunday, March 12, 2017

as I am so is all civilizations for all times

as I am so is all civilizations of all times

fiction
edward w pritchard

As I am so is all civilizations of all times; so write several prominent and important Germanic writers
such as Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Freud, Spengler and maybe Heidegger although no one ever finishes one of his essays. Mostly we postulate without science for verification, more fiction and creative daydreaming than fact synthesizing and fantasizing personal dilemmas and problems into epic growth cycles across the centuries progressing theologically toward me, my life, my discontents and most importantly my opinions.

Oh if only we all had been born in France with it's cafe society, and in my case could tolerate sitting around drinking coffee and had the social skills to have a few friends to listen to me and like the Frenchman Sartre a real woman, a willing feminist  to sit with me and lean in toward me as I whispered life's secrets.

It all comes together mystically with the Germans then bullying  an over confident Sartre and earlier today me sitting alone at the Panera bread reading a little Freud " Civilization and it's discontents" and I as an old man straining to find one of the women who is as attractive as females use to be back when, I was younger.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

quotable ed on travel

quotable ed on travel

fiction
edward w pritchard

Among the highest honors I can give myself is to quote myself to emphasize a point. Here are a few of my original thoughts presented as quotes on travel especially when it is a quest for self knowledge or enlightenment.

" no one returns from travel silent"
ed

" travel especially to other places is so exhausting"
ed

" Let's just not go"
ed

" a quest begins on a whim and ends on a thud"
ed

" pack the suitcase meticulously but be sure it will fit in the overhead compartment"
ed

Monday, February 27, 2017

purgatory for non believers

Purgatory for non believers

fiction
edward w pritchard

Purgatory for non believers is a place, here and now where there's never quite enough money, you never lose that last twenty pounds and a chest cold never finishes the charade of living because of the benefit evolution gave your immune system from  3300 generations of spunky ancestors.

Housing values never go up when you are in purgatory, only property taxes, both the old house and old car needing looming repairs, mortgages and loans are always adjustable with inflation threatening from the next recession, bank accounts are checking only with no savings and overdraft fees on the rise from bank consolidations, cash in hand is just more than enough to support your unhealthy habits and perversions, and military veterans with fat pensions and high school students with good life prospects are always soliciting lucre over and over when you enter a grocery store to buy an instant caffeine fix to get you through another interminable morning. You live in the wrong place and time happy to be just alive under the dome of a protective sky and timeless landscape.

Pretty women keep getting older and older when you are in perpetual purgatory, and they never have red hair anymore, and never know or want to know anything about art history, Vermeer's best paintings, their sparkle left then a dozen years ago, and you have to endure tons and tons of idle discussion about money, see inane most current movies, and when they finally invite into their circle you always remember someone else anyway.

Doctors only prescribe more/more/more pills in Purgatory, Ministers aren't spiritual only officious, pedantic and obtuse and politicians not only aren't philosopher Kings, but they are dishonest, and are raving fans, [rah rah rah $], about their party to a fault.

The sky is too bright at night where you live in Purgatory for non believers to see the wonder of the distant universe and the hiking trails are crowded with over population on sunny days during your walks and every one drives way too fast in over-sized trucks to ruin your bike rides on the serene hilly roads.

Old Jesus was just another poor fellow, one of about three million the cruel ambitious Romans crucified in rows, Jesus who was another perfectly beautiful baby but grew up to have lots of problems with authority and got in all kinds of trouble because of talking about class warfare in his times and place. If you try to talk to Jesus silently in your head inspired by your childhood faith he sends you thoughts deep in your brain about randomness, probability and maybe fate and determinism that you learned in college instead of ready solutions to your insurmountable problems.  

Purgatory for non believers is day to day but mercifully each morning about six am you get out of bed and get real busy doing nothing with about fifty important things to pass the time until it's time to go to sleep alone again after you are done worrying  about houses never going up in value and old cars never running right anymore and how many days there really are in five to ten more years.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

quiet students discontented octogenarians

quiet students discontented octogenarians

fiction
edward w pritchard

go ahead and blow up the bridge, the river's not as cold as it use to be

The students are polite and very quiet when the grandson learning to walk and I pass them on their campus. Students here seems to have no badges of unity and other than their backpacks and their student loan meal plan cards the college students in my town  display no communal party patches of solidarity at all observable to the casually interested.

Also wearing the backpacks now a days are the underclass of America best observed as humble folks traveling about on city buses or on street-corners carrying signs to pander coins from rushing motorists. The signs are not political messages against our leaders but pleas for sustenance presented handwritten in magic marker on cardboard signs stored under expressway bridges and sometimes shared by more than one of the near homeless standing in a cold rain around holidays here in our hometown. There seems to be no connections between the backpacks worn by the near homeless locally and the students use of backpacks as the students use backpacks starting in fifth grade and on into college to carry expensive books to learn how to succeed in the business world and the near homeless use backpacks to display an affiliation with American cultural norms to authority persons driving about in shiny uniforms and new expensive vehicles paid for by the Octogenarians in our Society.

The octogenarians are the ones who are discontented now a days. The old guys  don't listen to Barry McGuire " Eve of Destruction" anymore but they often complain vocally about inept government leadership, inequality in the implementation of taxation strategies across the Centuries, and have strong opinions on which middle age wealthy male glamour boy understands the forgotten man in America the best. Octogenarians should never wear a backpack- it's like putting a hat on a horse, and anyone over sixty five in America is pretty much harmless anyway in reality, that is unless he is an older  male politician. In any case the elderly including the octogenarians have no solidarity either. The elderly have no clout collectively at all because too many of them are sidetracked by economic issues but when sitting in a group at the McDonald's having  the discounted senior coffee the elderly express loudly to the entire dining area strong heart felt opinions on libertarian-ism, rising health insurance costs, property taxes and of course why if a person can stand in a cold rain all day holding a sign begging for money from drivers at expressway exits why can't they just get a job, like everyone else.

There is no Solidarity in America among the students, the under classes, the elderly or anyone else that I can see. But somehow we all maintain the Hope that the wealthy short haired conservative male politicians will look out for the interests of all of us commoners. Most of the time we just go on with our lives forgetting about how dysfunctional things are now compared to when Ulysses S Grant or Warren G. Harding was our President

Advice to students from one of the elderly? I hear our new President wants to beef up our navy with some new mega battle ships and restart the nuclear arms race. Students work for or invest in companies that make 1950's style bomb shelters and maybe listen to a little of Barry McGuire's " Eve of [Disruption] strike that of Destruction". Both are a little corny but since the future is so hard to predict I recommend -everything old is new again. Watch for me in a backpack hiking along watching and silently observing or maybe complaining and pontificating a little too loud over a McDonald's senior coffee.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Grandson's first birthday wishes

Grandson's first birthday wishes

fiction
edward w pritchard


Ordered by your Mother not to buy you a present for your first birthday party today I'll impart advice to sit with the Love and comfort  I give each time I am blessed fortunate enough to spend a few hours chasing you about as you perfect your walking and understanding. Fret not little King I'll slip you a cookie, vegan of course, with no sugar the next time we exchange vowel sounds standing in front of a mirror down at Quaker Square were we spent some time together way back in early Winter 2016 before the oat silos where torn down, you grew into a man, and I disappeared into your distant memory.

First listen more than you talk to those around you during this the next year as you face the daunting and extremely fascinating challenge of learning to talk to be understood and hearing to understand. From your Mother's parents may you harvest eternal curiosity with the nuances of words and symbols, spoken, written and sung and the intricacies between our language, our dreams, our Culture and the invisible Universe that sometimes is easy to forget and difficult to understand.

For your tenth Birthday Love and worship your Mother and smile kindly at your Father when you best him in a race. Play the piano with your uncle and grandmother when they sing you happy birthday. When you are twelve sleep outside on hard ground in the wind and cold, capture breakfast food from a Lake or stream and tramp joyously about the hills and valleys enclosing your environment.

For your nineteenth year be polite to your elders, kind to your girlfriend and respectful of your neighbors. Stay busy, value rare time alone, and stop and brush snow off your Mother's car in an early morning winter storm.

to be continued

and me, your grandfather, what was I like at about 65 years old coming to grips with my mortality?

here is something I wrote, some what related to how we are born, bloom and eventually die and must eventually pass on,

when the circus packs up and steadily moves out of town

when the circus packs up and steadily moves out of town

fiction
edward w Pritchard

Us farmers, store keepers, women and children milled around a long time after the circus packed up and steadily left town. The ground shook from the trump of the elephants, the squeak of the wagon wheels carrying the fat lady and the fire eating boy could be heard for a long, long way off and you could see the red hair of the world's tallest man for over a half mile before the entire circus retinue was out of sight; steadily traversing Cario hill off southwest to Carterville.

For four glorious days our lives were transformed by all the performers of the three ring circus but now the strongman who wrestles a giant bear, the woman who trains miniature horses, and the rest of the troupe are all gone; off to the next venue. 

Back to our lives tomorrow.


Monday, January 9, 2017

a poet, an artist, and a romantic in the trenches

a poet, an artist, and a romantic in the trenches

fiction
edward w pritchard

Captain says he don't need a poet, an artist or a romantic in the trenches when the enemy starts to bomb with the big guns, sends over the noxious gases on a foul wind, or sneaks up on you in the dark and sticks a twisting rusted bayonet in your buddies neck where it attaches at the jaw.

Ain't that the way it is, you try to behave with civility and some mercenary from over there blows a whistle and over the top they come at full gallop giving the rebel yell fighting with a fury for King, Country, big business interests and their own intricate long range plans of economic comfort after they retire from the competition to have stuff and earn a good comfortable living.

If you are going to carry a bible here in the trenches don't read it, and don't follow what it says about love thy fellow man; stick it in your shirt pocket it might just stop a bullet one day.

You can't reason with them on the other side, they ain't your friend, you don't owe them nothing and  this disagreement between countries is just a catastrophic explosion that will send pieces of the heart's of a poet, an artist and a romantic flying in all directions.

There ain't no civility or rules involved protect yourself at all costs and don't forgive them with passing time nor does self interested explanations  mitigate what the enemy did. Protect your heart from further damage.

Don't close your eyes for a moment staring out into the darkness and dust across no man's land. One day they will be a comin back over the top.