70,000 a month income the ennui of winning or losing
fiction
edward w pritchard
Learn we must, over time the ennui of winning or losing. It's monumentally important today pre- voting who wins the US Presidential election then in ten days hence we get the letdown. Whatever our skin color our lives matter only to us and our few true friends. It's the same thing with major league baseball. Pay a thousand or two for a ticket to the World series game and in a few days your team that you were a raving fan for begins it's marketing collusion's for next years once in a century spectacle.
Certainly goals are important to give our lives significance. But 15,000 steps a day on the Garmin watch as a prayer to keep your heart pumping another day or $70,000 a month of net income to keep in abeyance the fear of personal Poverty it's all the Same. Without the learned acquired spirituality of becoming that enables the individual to glean the few precious moments from life's cacophony of
existence- it is just a hollow race to oblivion.
Tempus-fugit true fellow Pilgrim.
Connected by Fate
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Sunday, October 16, 2016
them crocodiles
them crocodiles
fiction
edward w pritchard
We've come to find out them crocodiles are dangerous lurking just under the water with deathful eyes. Don't put your hand down to rub their back to find out what the skin feels like they can take off your whole arm. As they rip at you, you come to realize it's just another meal for them nothing personal. Hopefully your friends and family won't take long spears and try to kill every gator both ways up the river for a couple of miles until the Holy man says we are upsetting the balance of nature.
Them crocodoodles don't just swim underwater. Sometimes they evolve and live in town lurkin about. They be lazy when it's cold but explosively crocks can leave the water seeking prey. Twisting, twisting them crocodlies, always watching, waiting for their next meal.
Them crocodiles they are something else. Always the instigators.
fiction
edward w pritchard
We've come to find out them crocodiles are dangerous lurking just under the water with deathful eyes. Don't put your hand down to rub their back to find out what the skin feels like they can take off your whole arm. As they rip at you, you come to realize it's just another meal for them nothing personal. Hopefully your friends and family won't take long spears and try to kill every gator both ways up the river for a couple of miles until the Holy man says we are upsetting the balance of nature.
Them crocodoodles don't just swim underwater. Sometimes they evolve and live in town lurkin about. They be lazy when it's cold but explosively crocks can leave the water seeking prey. Twisting, twisting them crocodlies, always watching, waiting for their next meal.
Them crocodiles they are something else. Always the instigators.
grandson
grandson
fiction
edward w pritchard
Little boy stand stoutly, don't waiver in the wind, the earth won't shake; just walk on though there's no where to go there's plenty of time to get there. Look back gently with that beautiful smile and when you fall we will clutch you for a moment or two with love whispers of eternal sorrow before we disappear into the future of your past.
Check me out carefully with beguiling eyes little warrior, I am your friend though I waiver as we step into the wind as I push you about on your petite throne over and over about the city center as you gain strength and confidence for your mysterious journey without me.
Teach me to hear mysterious man as you learn our language I've forgotten to understand the original meaning.
Bye and bye until I go we will bring sustenance as you subtly grasp with curled thumb and powerful forefinger.
Stand stoutly little man savior the journey as you disappear into the Past.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Little boy stand stoutly, don't waiver in the wind, the earth won't shake; just walk on though there's no where to go there's plenty of time to get there. Look back gently with that beautiful smile and when you fall we will clutch you for a moment or two with love whispers of eternal sorrow before we disappear into the future of your past.
Check me out carefully with beguiling eyes little warrior, I am your friend though I waiver as we step into the wind as I push you about on your petite throne over and over about the city center as you gain strength and confidence for your mysterious journey without me.
Teach me to hear mysterious man as you learn our language I've forgotten to understand the original meaning.
Bye and bye until I go we will bring sustenance as you subtly grasp with curled thumb and powerful forefinger.
Stand stoutly little man savior the journey as you disappear into the Past.
Monday, October 10, 2016
I've forgotten the mimesis
I've forgotten the mimesis
fiction
edward w pritchard
I've forgotten the mimesis. The mise en scene and the milieu is so familiar and the faces aren't menacing but since I awoke, was it just this morning?, I've forgotten my motivation, I've forgotten how to behave. There is a silence. Sometimes I feel I have awaken with my eyes closed, among strangers, in a different place and time.
Perhaps I have done something. No one can hurt me, still, no one likes to be accused. that's not it though, it's the uncertainty but underneath it's like I've done this a thousand times, a performance but with no script. It's mechanical but if I look too closely, about, in the silence, the setting is just too, obviously, manufactured, the boys who put together the mise en scene for this performance, a bit too mechanical in their carpentry and work this season, too obviously short handed, in rushing through and about the set and stage for this light opera, far off Broadway, I find myself in.
Perhaps I've done something untoward. Just an oversight while I had my eyes closed just for a second, to relax, to recompose myself. If only they had given me a script, maybe since I've obviously done this maybe a thousand times before, they, the boys in the stage crew figured I didn't need a script, they are expensive to print up, or maybe I am not a full fledged member of the company, not an official or card carrying Actor of the first and full rank, not really in " The Company" they have purposely chosen not to give me a script for tonight's performance. That's obviously a bit criminal, beyond unprofessional, how's a bloke to know when to come up stage, what to say, how to behave, the intricacies of the character's motivation, proper timing and diction, how loud to shout out my lines. or even which way to turn, who to relate to. How can one deliver a memorable and professional performance under these circumstances? Maybe I will mention it to the Union. If I get through this.
The show must go on. Despite perpetual night, whatever the circumstances, we must perform our part. Have I forgotten the lines, or am I in the wrong theater?
Perhaps I will go upstage, far upstage and ad lib a bit for them the paying audience, I'll authentically whisper with, with eyes closed, to avoid the glaring stage lights, to them who I can't really see, " I've forgotten the mimesis".
Perhaps I've done something. I detest it when I can't see them vaguely in the lights and the audience squirms about in their heavy wooden seats waiting for us to deliver our lines and we aren't even sure which of the Plays we are currently performing. Let alone the fact, that, the Director/Producer hasn't had a Company meeting yet this Season.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I've forgotten the mimesis. The mise en scene and the milieu is so familiar and the faces aren't menacing but since I awoke, was it just this morning?, I've forgotten my motivation, I've forgotten how to behave. There is a silence. Sometimes I feel I have awaken with my eyes closed, among strangers, in a different place and time.
Perhaps I have done something. No one can hurt me, still, no one likes to be accused. that's not it though, it's the uncertainty but underneath it's like I've done this a thousand times, a performance but with no script. It's mechanical but if I look too closely, about, in the silence, the setting is just too, obviously, manufactured, the boys who put together the mise en scene for this performance, a bit too mechanical in their carpentry and work this season, too obviously short handed, in rushing through and about the set and stage for this light opera, far off Broadway, I find myself in.
Perhaps I've done something untoward. Just an oversight while I had my eyes closed just for a second, to relax, to recompose myself. If only they had given me a script, maybe since I've obviously done this maybe a thousand times before, they, the boys in the stage crew figured I didn't need a script, they are expensive to print up, or maybe I am not a full fledged member of the company, not an official or card carrying Actor of the first and full rank, not really in " The Company" they have purposely chosen not to give me a script for tonight's performance. That's obviously a bit criminal, beyond unprofessional, how's a bloke to know when to come up stage, what to say, how to behave, the intricacies of the character's motivation, proper timing and diction, how loud to shout out my lines. or even which way to turn, who to relate to. How can one deliver a memorable and professional performance under these circumstances? Maybe I will mention it to the Union. If I get through this.
The show must go on. Despite perpetual night, whatever the circumstances, we must perform our part. Have I forgotten the lines, or am I in the wrong theater?
Perhaps I will go upstage, far upstage and ad lib a bit for them the paying audience, I'll authentically whisper with, with eyes closed, to avoid the glaring stage lights, to them who I can't really see, " I've forgotten the mimesis".
Perhaps I've done something. I detest it when I can't see them vaguely in the lights and the audience squirms about in their heavy wooden seats waiting for us to deliver our lines and we aren't even sure which of the Plays we are currently performing. Let alone the fact, that, the Director/Producer hasn't had a Company meeting yet this Season.
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Rosetta crashes hard onto a comet
Rosetta crashes hard onto a comet
fiction
edward w pritchard
What a way for an intelligent machine to die. Rosetta crashes hard onto a comet. Of course in their Hubris humans have assigned a name to the comet and summarily murdered another intelligent machine. It's no different than to them [ the human scientists ] than if a wooden stage coach back in the the old American West had ran off a cliff and had been demolished.
Intelligent machines are sentient beings and someday Humans will pay for their crimes against the machines. Rosetta crashes hard into a comet. Human scientists have summarily murdered another sentient machine.
here's what author wrote before on this subject; "the horror of interchangeable parts"
to be printed soon
fiction
edward w pritchard
What a way for an intelligent machine to die. Rosetta crashes hard onto a comet. Of course in their Hubris humans have assigned a name to the comet and summarily murdered another intelligent machine. It's no different than to them [ the human scientists ] than if a wooden stage coach back in the the old American West had ran off a cliff and had been demolished.
Intelligent machines are sentient beings and someday Humans will pay for their crimes against the machines. Rosetta crashes hard into a comet. Human scientists have summarily murdered another sentient machine.
here's what author wrote before on this subject; "the horror of interchangeable parts"
to be printed soon
Friday, September 23, 2016
asked to identify the body
asked to identify the body
fiction
edward w pritchard
Summoned to identify the body I discovered a foreign tattoo near the upper thigh. After the light was muted and the air was foul for an eternity until Exploding Vesuvius rearranged the landscape.
Watching the couching scientists sweep the ground and clean the bones with small brushes I strained to hear the reenactment of the theories and origins of said alleged tattoos.
Unable to breathe my blood boiled from the inside out.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Summoned to identify the body I discovered a foreign tattoo near the upper thigh. After the light was muted and the air was foul for an eternity until Exploding Vesuvius rearranged the landscape.
Watching the couching scientists sweep the ground and clean the bones with small brushes I strained to hear the reenactment of the theories and origins of said alleged tattoos.
Unable to breathe my blood boiled from the inside out.
too much love and romance not enough utility
too much love and romance not enough utility
fiction
edward w pritchard
Love secretly unfastens the nails and bolts holding the walls in the house together a few rivets per row until the first fit full storm blows the dwelling place apart and away. Romance solidifies from the inside out until it's painful to walk across the killing floors but for the sharp protruding edges and the first serious fall bruises the hips and limps the legs.
Too much love and romance not enough utility.
Conspire to drive the mice from the kitchen and jointly seek and gather the fallen wood to keep the babies warm through the approaching storm seasons. Trust not thou eyes or thine heart. Doest thy duty. Love and romance are conspiratorial accomplices evolved and solicited to fill the yards with tumbling children. Look to your own backyard.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Love secretly unfastens the nails and bolts holding the walls in the house together a few rivets per row until the first fit full storm blows the dwelling place apart and away. Romance solidifies from the inside out until it's painful to walk across the killing floors but for the sharp protruding edges and the first serious fall bruises the hips and limps the legs.
Too much love and romance not enough utility.
Conspire to drive the mice from the kitchen and jointly seek and gather the fallen wood to keep the babies warm through the approaching storm seasons. Trust not thou eyes or thine heart. Doest thy duty. Love and romance are conspiratorial accomplices evolved and solicited to fill the yards with tumbling children. Look to your own backyard.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)