the world as a stage
fiction
edward w pritchard
The world as a stage and I stumble about without a script.
My part long since over I can't find a way through the curtains.
Once at 10AM I played the young gentleman to be,
Standing center stage for a moment I put my arm around the waist of a proper bride.
Then fashions changed, tastes came and went and time crept forward.
Now it's 10PM and I watch myself still on stage repeating my 10AM gentleman to be lines
Thousands of small dramas occur simultaneously about me by other players as the audience takes five, waiting for order to return to the theatre.
I walk about upstage, upstage with the other finished actors,
circling, circling , waiting for my next cue.
I'll take one last look back at the young gentleman and his timeless bride, before the director clears me from the stage.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
past, present and futrue
past, present and future
fiction
edward w Pritchard
past
John Lennon, I wanted you to be me
fiction
edward w pritchard
John Lennon I wanted you to be me.
Where the swagger, where the pomp,
where the crowds of adoring fans,
where the newspaper men stirring up controversies,
where swooning girls, where that special one.
Where Mark David Chapman to end the travesty.
Where swaying candles to mourn you gone.
John Lennon you left me too soon.
John, I'll never make it alone.
John, life is so long,
it continues.
I peer forward.
John, light a candle in the dark for me,
lead me John, integrate my tired soul.
present
lamentation number 8
Lord, with an envious heart I look on the success of others.
Yet I know that all suffer the same end,
and most suffer in silence day to day.
For years I have relied on fate
which due to my proclivities is indifferent.
Lift my eyes to the Mountains
and guide my actions through instruction
revealed nightly in my troubling dreams.
I harm no one,
but accomplish little.
A waste of precious days.
Flash your light into
my weary eyes.
Reach to my outstretched hand.
Also reprinted:
fiction
edward w Pritchard
past
John Lennon, I wanted you to be me
fiction
edward w pritchard
John Lennon I wanted you to be me.
Where the swagger, where the pomp,
where the crowds of adoring fans,
where the newspaper men stirring up controversies,
where swooning girls, where that special one.
Where Mark David Chapman to end the travesty.
Where swaying candles to mourn you gone.
John Lennon you left me too soon.
John, I'll never make it alone.
John, life is so long,
it continues.
I peer forward.
John, light a candle in the dark for me,
lead me John, integrate my tired soul.
present
lamentation number 8
Lord, with an envious heart I look on the success of others.
Yet I know that all suffer the same end,
and most suffer in silence day to day.
For years I have relied on fate
which due to my proclivities is indifferent.
Lift my eyes to the Mountains
and guide my actions through instruction
revealed nightly in my troubling dreams.
I harm no one,
but accomplish little.
A waste of precious days.
Flash your light into
my weary eyes.
Reach to my outstretched hand.
Also reprinted:
lamentation number 6
fiction
edward w pritchard
I am cast in a pit but I wait patiently for the return of your favor Lord. Hear my quiet prayer and take note of my suffering. Night is long and darkness interminable, raise your hand Lord and guide me into the light of your grace. Humbly I endure the punishment for my sins. Send winds and light rain to cleanse my soul and heal my spirit. Birds sing and gardens grow when the Lord is pleased. Drinking water is sweet and food flavorful when the Lord smiles upon his prodigal sons.
future
i never built a building
fiction
edward w pritchard
I never built a building,
I never surveyed a new State,
I never constructed a house,
I never tried a case,
I never grew a business.
I'm glad someone built three art museums,
the Uffizi, the Prado and the Met.
I am glad someone painted paintings,
Leonardo, Van Gogh and Vermeer.
I am glad that someone built a house to keep off the rain and snow.
I am glad that soldiers stand in the ready to deter attack.
Mostly I just think, and ask questions and challenge God's motives.
Someday I'll be gone,
I hope somebody looks after the paintings
fiction
edward w pritchard
I am cast in a pit but I wait patiently for the return of your favor Lord. Hear my quiet prayer and take note of my suffering. Night is long and darkness interminable, raise your hand Lord and guide me into the light of your grace. Humbly I endure the punishment for my sins. Send winds and light rain to cleanse my soul and heal my spirit. Birds sing and gardens grow when the Lord is pleased. Drinking water is sweet and food flavorful when the Lord smiles upon his prodigal sons.
future
i never built a building
fiction
edward w pritchard
I never built a building,
I never surveyed a new State,
I never constructed a house,
I never tried a case,
I never grew a business.
I'm glad someone built three art museums,
the Uffizi, the Prado and the Met.
I am glad someone painted paintings,
Leonardo, Van Gogh and Vermeer.
I am glad that someone built a house to keep off the rain and snow.
I am glad that soldiers stand in the ready to deter attack.
Mostly I just think, and ask questions and challenge God's motives.
Someday I'll be gone,
I hope somebody looks after the paintings
bring the horses to Germany/ part one
bring the horses to Germany/ part one
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I couldn't tolerate the way we were treating the Polish civilians but being a member of the Nazi party I couldn't let my officers know.
I gathered the eleven other soldiers who refused to commit war crimes here in the Warsaw ghetto and without admitting my true feelings of sympathy for the rest of the group I arranged for us to drive a valuable herd of Lipizzaner horses back to Germany.
No trains were available to transport the horses, all of the trains were full of human cargo going to the concentration camps here and there.
I was able to get an Argentine advisor who was once a gaucho to help us with the horse drive and we have been marching the fine Lipizzaner horses now back through the lines we quickly crossed using the new blitzkrieg technique that I and others recently helped perfect as the modern way to wage war.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I couldn't tolerate the way we were treating the Polish civilians but being a member of the Nazi party I couldn't let my officers know.
I gathered the eleven other soldiers who refused to commit war crimes here in the Warsaw ghetto and without admitting my true feelings of sympathy for the rest of the group I arranged for us to drive a valuable herd of Lipizzaner horses back to Germany.
No trains were available to transport the horses, all of the trains were full of human cargo going to the concentration camps here and there.
I was able to get an Argentine advisor who was once a gaucho to help us with the horse drive and we have been marching the fine Lipizzaner horses now back through the lines we quickly crossed using the new blitzkrieg technique that I and others recently helped perfect as the modern way to wage war.
hello from hospital /repost sending dead flowers
Sunday, September 4, 2011
sending dead flowers
sending dead flowers
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sending dead flowers to someone if you are mad at them is counter intuitive. If they are of a certain ilk they will appreciate the notoriety your devious attempt to discredit them causes; you will unwittingly bring them positive publicity more than public scorn. Best to send dead flowers to someone in such circumstances at their funeral, when they can't comment on your action.
Such was the case and Rosie had sent flowers to Tyrone and I was admiring the card and dead flowers near the coffin as a dead Tyrone looked on. Rosie had sent the withered dead Tyrone withered dead flowers, the funeral director had not vetoed her action, the flowers were on public display and a buzz was occurring at the calling hours because of Rosie's defiant last act toward Tyrone; her motivation unknown to me. Naturally as I looked over at the dead Tyrone I swear he had a decided pompous smirk on his pasty white face laying there in public display near the dead flowers from Rosie.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sending dead flowers to someone if you are mad at them is counter intuitive. If they are of a certain ilk they will appreciate the notoriety your devious attempt to discredit them causes; you will unwittingly bring them positive publicity more than public scorn. Best to send dead flowers to someone in such circumstances at their funeral, when they can't comment on your action.
Such was the case and Rosie had sent flowers to Tyrone and I was admiring the card and dead flowers near the coffin as a dead Tyrone looked on. Rosie had sent the withered dead Tyrone withered dead flowers, the funeral director had not vetoed her action, the flowers were on public display and a buzz was occurring at the calling hours because of Rosie's defiant last act toward Tyrone; her motivation unknown to me. Naturally as I looked over at the dead Tyrone I swear he had a decided pompous smirk on his pasty white face laying there in public display near the dead flowers from Rosie.
end
Saturday, June 8, 2013
only a homey counts as a friend
only a homey counts as a friend
fiction
edward w pritchard
Go through your card file, review you emails, peruse your phone logs. Are they acquaintances or are they homeys.
A homey knows you through and through, faults and all and has your back. You can always count on homey. No maintenance or supervision necessary.
Famous homeys: Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony, Romeo and Benvolio, Batman and Robin. Female Homey's? How about Thelma and Louise.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Go through your card file, review you emails, peruse your phone logs. Are they acquaintances or are they homeys.
A homey knows you through and through, faults and all and has your back. You can always count on homey. No maintenance or supervision necessary.
Famous homeys: Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony, Romeo and Benvolio, Batman and Robin. Female Homey's? How about Thelma and Louise.
end
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Life in space/part 1
Life in space/part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
editor's note
Bold and adventurous attempts to see the future and tell how things might be deserve to be applauded. None more bold or often wrong than minor writer ed pritchard. Here look how Pritchard sees Mars from a vantage before anyone went there. [ harry bailey editor]
start
life in space/[part 1]
When you first get to Mars it's not what you thought it would be like. Later after your illusions about yourself and life have dried into the red dusty rock of the Martian surface you blame the writers, the writers who you read as a child and who speculated from the security of earth on what Mars and space travel would be like. The writers who got things so wrong about Mars. It's really not about Mars at all, but it's about life trying desperately to thrive; even if for a while in the hostile environment of space and anywhere away from the sanctuary of Earth.
I came out to Mars on the rumble run, from the Moon to Mars nonstop. Me and my eighteen year old bride Daria. Just the two of us on a seven month extended honeymoon; us and an eleven man crew and 75 security cadets headed for a three year tour of Jupiter. All eighty six of them and me too couldn't keep our eyes or thoughts off Daria after the first two weeks away from earth.. A Woman in space is a rarity and a pretty woman is very unusual.
Mars first impression:
The first thing I saw on disembarking on Mars was the Mercator rats. On the tail, for defense and protection they have a large bulb of flesh. Through evolution or something the bulb is flashed at anything behind the rat and shows as a distinctly human face. The faces are supposed to look like celebrities from earth, or at least that's what general opinion is. It's unsettling and a good inhuman way to start to accommodate one to the unfamiliar Martian environment.
end part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
editor's note
Bold and adventurous attempts to see the future and tell how things might be deserve to be applauded. None more bold or often wrong than minor writer ed pritchard. Here look how Pritchard sees Mars from a vantage before anyone went there. [ harry bailey editor]
start
life in space/[part 1]
When you first get to Mars it's not what you thought it would be like. Later after your illusions about yourself and life have dried into the red dusty rock of the Martian surface you blame the writers, the writers who you read as a child and who speculated from the security of earth on what Mars and space travel would be like. The writers who got things so wrong about Mars. It's really not about Mars at all, but it's about life trying desperately to thrive; even if for a while in the hostile environment of space and anywhere away from the sanctuary of Earth.
I came out to Mars on the rumble run, from the Moon to Mars nonstop. Me and my eighteen year old bride Daria. Just the two of us on a seven month extended honeymoon; us and an eleven man crew and 75 security cadets headed for a three year tour of Jupiter. All eighty six of them and me too couldn't keep our eyes or thoughts off Daria after the first two weeks away from earth.. A Woman in space is a rarity and a pretty woman is very unusual.
Mars first impression:
The first thing I saw on disembarking on Mars was the Mercator rats. On the tail, for defense and protection they have a large bulb of flesh. Through evolution or something the bulb is flashed at anything behind the rat and shows as a distinctly human face. The faces are supposed to look like celebrities from earth, or at least that's what general opinion is. It's unsettling and a good inhuman way to start to accommodate one to the unfamiliar Martian environment.
end part 1
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
voyeur/previous post
Saturday, November 5, 2011
first dance number at the beauty college reunion/draft 1
first dance number at the beauty college reunion/draft 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
They are not called chairs but stations. It is an honor to call us who work or once worked at the stations girls, for no matter how far one of us who once was a beautician at the beauty college goes in life, our hearts are always partly here. Here being Mrs. Donna Washingon's School of Beauty in Richmond, Va.
At the first night get acquainted meeting of current beauticians in training, alumni, and instructors something spontaneous occurred. A beautiful outpouring of harmonious camaraderie.
Everyone was giving free styling and makeovers to the young high school seniors from the nearby local schools. Mostly pretty girls, the students from secondary, and most of the students in training attending Mrs. Donna's [Washington] school of beauty were dolled up for the ceremony, for they get their first designation tomorrow night; and the alumni were beautiful as only an older woman can be who was once a doll themselves.
I was bringing in the cake for Mrs. Washington for tomorrow night's ceremony and I couldn't stop my eyes from feasting on the beauty in the room. I had come in in the middle of things and every woman present at all of the stations was singing and dancing. Each singing to their imaginary to be lovers, even those who had already found him and had to settle for him as he was. But the school girls and some of the beauticians in training didn't know that yet and there was an electricity of subdued sexuality filling the mirrored, low ceilinged, bright white beauty college floor.
Beauty is the lust of the eye and I couldn't not watch. Swaying and strutting, but feminine and modest all at once. Everywhere. I looked and peeked, back, forth, up and down; nearly tripping over the cake, devil's food delight. Occasionally someone took notice of me but mostly the dancers were somewhere else. To supplement the sound system many many of the older women sang and gestured as they moved.
No matter how far a girl from Mrs. Donna's goes in life, Lawyer, Doctor or Real Estate Broker; she will always be bewitching and enticing to the afictionado's of beauty thanks to the teachings she started out with at Mrs. Donna's School of Beauty of 14 Harris Street, Richmond, Virginia.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
They are not called chairs but stations. It is an honor to call us who work or once worked at the stations girls, for no matter how far one of us who once was a beautician at the beauty college goes in life, our hearts are always partly here. Here being Mrs. Donna Washingon's School of Beauty in Richmond, Va.
At the first night get acquainted meeting of current beauticians in training, alumni, and instructors something spontaneous occurred. A beautiful outpouring of harmonious camaraderie.
Everyone was giving free styling and makeovers to the young high school seniors from the nearby local schools. Mostly pretty girls, the students from secondary, and most of the students in training attending Mrs. Donna's [Washington] school of beauty were dolled up for the ceremony, for they get their first designation tomorrow night; and the alumni were beautiful as only an older woman can be who was once a doll themselves.
I was bringing in the cake for Mrs. Washington for tomorrow night's ceremony and I couldn't stop my eyes from feasting on the beauty in the room. I had come in in the middle of things and every woman present at all of the stations was singing and dancing. Each singing to their imaginary to be lovers, even those who had already found him and had to settle for him as he was. But the school girls and some of the beauticians in training didn't know that yet and there was an electricity of subdued sexuality filling the mirrored, low ceilinged, bright white beauty college floor.
Beauty is the lust of the eye and I couldn't not watch. Swaying and strutting, but feminine and modest all at once. Everywhere. I looked and peeked, back, forth, up and down; nearly tripping over the cake, devil's food delight. Occasionally someone took notice of me but mostly the dancers were somewhere else. To supplement the sound system many many of the older women sang and gestured as they moved.
No matter how far a girl from Mrs. Donna's goes in life, Lawyer, Doctor or Real Estate Broker; she will always be bewitching and enticing to the afictionado's of beauty thanks to the teachings she started out with at Mrs. Donna's School of Beauty of 14 Harris Street, Richmond, Virginia.
end
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