a soldier at night celebrates his 68th birthday
fiction
edward w pritchard
the night is clear but
the Moon is always at the quarter
a soldier lost in dark night celebrates his 68th birthday
his fingers aching from scratching at the hard frozen earth to bury himself
in for cover from angry low flying rifle bullets
randomly fired by unseen enemies
oh for a tattered flag or soft woman to
wrap himself in until next light
Monday, February 17, 2020
Friday, February 14, 2020
a walk in Istanbul
a walk in Istanbul
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sometimes in my imagination I'll take a walk in Istanbul and sometimes I'll just watch somebodies walking tour of modern Istanbul on the you tube. Either way along with my awe of seeing the blue Mosque I like to see the beautiful stately Muslim women who are intriguing in their scarves and veils.
Rather than Istanbul a poetic type is supposed to call it Byzantium which for some reason is supposed to be no county for old men. Whatever the ancient city is called I enjoy seeing representations arranged of the Iznic tiles at the Topkapi palace and blue Mosque.
At night waking from dreams sometimes I'll imagine seeing Coptic and Byzantine iconic paintings of
Jesus in the churches of pre-Muslim Istanbul. Other times I am a Muslim soldier with Sultan Mehmed in 1453 staring across the battlefield at the high fortified walls of Byzantium at night wishing I was elsewhere.
An old man at night staring across the milky way a bit reluctant to storm the walls and carry off a little treasure.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sometimes in my imagination I'll take a walk in Istanbul and sometimes I'll just watch somebodies walking tour of modern Istanbul on the you tube. Either way along with my awe of seeing the blue Mosque I like to see the beautiful stately Muslim women who are intriguing in their scarves and veils.
Rather than Istanbul a poetic type is supposed to call it Byzantium which for some reason is supposed to be no county for old men. Whatever the ancient city is called I enjoy seeing representations arranged of the Iznic tiles at the Topkapi palace and blue Mosque.
At night waking from dreams sometimes I'll imagine seeing Coptic and Byzantine iconic paintings of
Jesus in the churches of pre-Muslim Istanbul. Other times I am a Muslim soldier with Sultan Mehmed in 1453 staring across the battlefield at the high fortified walls of Byzantium at night wishing I was elsewhere.
An old man at night staring across the milky way a bit reluctant to storm the walls and carry off a little treasure.
Thursday, January 23, 2020
the shadow on the wall of the Holy Ghost
the shadow on the wall of the Holy Ghost
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most likely place to witness the Holy Ghost is stumbling to one's knees with thirst in the desert
being slowly and methodically pursued by a mirage of an imaginary wolf. Next most likely spot to experience the Holy Ghost is on the back wall of your cave flickering in the shadows of the fire as you sit with your back to the World.
The Holy ghost prefers small quiet rooms to castles or elaborate Gothic churches or cathedrals no matter how much gold or how many twisted marble statues of saints adorn the candled interior.
The Holy Ghost is no where and somewhere and cannot be experienced in real time or witnessed in
any organized grouping of persons. The Holy Ghost cannot be authentically read about or remembered.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most likely place to witness the Holy Ghost is stumbling to one's knees with thirst in the desert
being slowly and methodically pursued by a mirage of an imaginary wolf. Next most likely spot to experience the Holy Ghost is on the back wall of your cave flickering in the shadows of the fire as you sit with your back to the World.
The Holy ghost prefers small quiet rooms to castles or elaborate Gothic churches or cathedrals no matter how much gold or how many twisted marble statues of saints adorn the candled interior.
The Holy Ghost is no where and somewhere and cannot be experienced in real time or witnessed in
any organized grouping of persons. The Holy Ghost cannot be authentically read about or remembered.
Friday, January 17, 2020
who's the waitress in the donut shop now
who's the waitress in the donut shop now
fiction
edward w pritchard
I been reading about which books make up the definitive Western Canon by Harold Bloom and others of late. You know so many thick old novels it's impossible to read or remember. Shakespeare, Plato, Homer and Aristotle are the foundation stones of western literature and thought and rightly so I suppose.
Still curious to understand why so few women authors are represented in the agreed upon Canonical books I went beyond Harold Bloom's Cannon and gnosis and read some feminist, persons of color, and trans gender ideas on great books throughout History. Desiring a brief synopsis of the subject I settled on Lillian S. Robinson's "Treason our Text" Feminist challenges to the Literary challenges.
Stealing an idea from Lillian Robinson I thought perhaps the Black blues singer "big" Mamma Thorton's masterpiece which influenced modern American rock and roll, the memorable "You a'int nothing but a Hound dog" might classify somehow as an underground part of some body's Cannon of great authorship. Alas not so. And, incidentally the song Houndog was written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.
Neither considered as worthy of being canonical the song "Sweetheart" better known as "waitress in a donut shop" which I came to find out was not written by Suzy Bogus or Maria Maldaur but a man Ken Burgan.
To my way of thinking "you ain't nothing but a hound dog" or "waitress in a donut shop" summarize a lot of wisdom in a few short words and I never forget or fail to understand such concepts once I hear them.
Why so few canonical women authors throughout history? In my opinion it has a lot to do with who takes care of the children and the low status of the job and the exhausting nature of the task. Besides it doesn't matter who is the waitress in the donut shop anymore when it comes to inter personal domestic matters, such as who cares for the children. The children just keep on coming onto the scene and it's always a challenge to care for and nurture them and no amount of IQ or creativity can substitute for the time and attention to detail necessary to do a competent job as a caregiver.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I been reading about which books make up the definitive Western Canon by Harold Bloom and others of late. You know so many thick old novels it's impossible to read or remember. Shakespeare, Plato, Homer and Aristotle are the foundation stones of western literature and thought and rightly so I suppose.
Still curious to understand why so few women authors are represented in the agreed upon Canonical books I went beyond Harold Bloom's Cannon and gnosis and read some feminist, persons of color, and trans gender ideas on great books throughout History. Desiring a brief synopsis of the subject I settled on Lillian S. Robinson's "Treason our Text" Feminist challenges to the Literary challenges.
Stealing an idea from Lillian Robinson I thought perhaps the Black blues singer "big" Mamma Thorton's masterpiece which influenced modern American rock and roll, the memorable "You a'int nothing but a Hound dog" might classify somehow as an underground part of some body's Cannon of great authorship. Alas not so. And, incidentally the song Houndog was written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.
Neither considered as worthy of being canonical the song "Sweetheart" better known as "waitress in a donut shop" which I came to find out was not written by Suzy Bogus or Maria Maldaur but a man Ken Burgan.
To my way of thinking "you ain't nothing but a hound dog" or "waitress in a donut shop" summarize a lot of wisdom in a few short words and I never forget or fail to understand such concepts once I hear them.
Why so few canonical women authors throughout history? In my opinion it has a lot to do with who takes care of the children and the low status of the job and the exhausting nature of the task. Besides it doesn't matter who is the waitress in the donut shop anymore when it comes to inter personal domestic matters, such as who cares for the children. The children just keep on coming onto the scene and it's always a challenge to care for and nurture them and no amount of IQ or creativity can substitute for the time and attention to detail necessary to do a competent job as a caregiver.
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to understand
Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to Understand
fiction
edward w pritchard
I have been reading Iris Murdoch's "Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals" and I must admit Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to understand. As part of my quest to understand why women artists and philosophers are usually under represented I got interested in Murdoch's philosophical views but I have never read one of her novels.
After several months of reading guide to morals I found out that Murdoch who is a brilliant thinker died of dementia. That's very sad. Her grasp of western philosophy is stunning but to repeat myself she is not easy to follow at times. Perhaps it's just the subject matter.
When I discovered that Iris had had dementia I went to the Lake at night by my house and had a fire
and lamented how the lights of civilization by my abode and my Country's advancing civilization had drowned out my ability to see the milky way as I sometimes did once see the Milky War near where I as a child lived not far from the Lake where I made the fire. [edit ] Sometimes we are hard to understand and sometimes it's more serious. Still it all passes quickly on a cosmic scale.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I have been reading Iris Murdoch's "Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals" and I must admit Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to understand. As part of my quest to understand why women artists and philosophers are usually under represented I got interested in Murdoch's philosophical views but I have never read one of her novels.
After several months of reading guide to morals I found out that Murdoch who is a brilliant thinker died of dementia. That's very sad. Her grasp of western philosophy is stunning but to repeat myself she is not easy to follow at times. Perhaps it's just the subject matter.
When I discovered that Iris had had dementia I went to the Lake at night by my house and had a fire
and lamented how the lights of civilization by my abode and my Country's advancing civilization had drowned out my ability to see the milky way as I sometimes did once see the Milky War near where I as a child lived not far from the Lake where I made the fire. [edit ] Sometimes we are hard to understand and sometimes it's more serious. Still it all passes quickly on a cosmic scale.
Saturday, December 28, 2019
a collection of processes
a collection of processes
fiction
edward w pritchard
I had a medical test using the latest technology to survey the source of the spark of life within my body. The objective was by examining one specific part of me to allow that which I call myself collectively to continue its existence.
In protest for the first time the collective entity that is my soul spoke to me about the invasion of it's temporary domain. I did not understand how the soul communicates with us but the message was stone cold crystal clear. This was not a metaphysical inference or message from the soul but more of a warning and obviously it produced a certain dread and alarm that instantly was understood at a mysterious level.
Over the years I have read a hundred fifty books and references in theology, philosophy and mystical writings of the experiences of the saints on the soul and self and the various inferences, guesses and interpretations of what is the self in us and what is the soul in us. Previously I would say my philosophy on the matter of the existence of soul and within us a self or non-self was not a speculative doctrine of psychology or philosophy but an obscure soteriological one. Now for the first time I see and understand as a dim distant light the question of non self and soul as something perceptible and comprehensibly interesting but at the same time as of possible importance at a level above mere curiosity.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I had a medical test using the latest technology to survey the source of the spark of life within my body. The objective was by examining one specific part of me to allow that which I call myself collectively to continue its existence.
In protest for the first time the collective entity that is my soul spoke to me about the invasion of it's temporary domain. I did not understand how the soul communicates with us but the message was stone cold crystal clear. This was not a metaphysical inference or message from the soul but more of a warning and obviously it produced a certain dread and alarm that instantly was understood at a mysterious level.
Over the years I have read a hundred fifty books and references in theology, philosophy and mystical writings of the experiences of the saints on the soul and self and the various inferences, guesses and interpretations of what is the self in us and what is the soul in us. Previously I would say my philosophy on the matter of the existence of soul and within us a self or non-self was not a speculative doctrine of psychology or philosophy but an obscure soteriological one. Now for the first time I see and understand as a dim distant light the question of non self and soul as something perceptible and comprehensibly interesting but at the same time as of possible importance at a level above mere curiosity.
Sunday, December 22, 2019
climbing mount Ventou with Petrarch
climbing Mount Ventou with Petrarch
fiction
edward w pritchard
One day in April long ago the Poet Petrarch decided to climb 6,700 foot Mount Ventou in southern France. On a whim, while reading the "History of Rome" by Livy Petrarch had an impulse to climb
the highest hill near to where he currently was staying. His essay describing the climb has been passed on to us and it makes for interesting reading.
Near the beginning of the essay Petrarch discusses how he picked a companion to accompany him on the arduous climb. Not surprisingly among his companions Petrarch can find none of his pals who is ideally suited to climb a mountain with. At last unable to find a friend to accompany him Petrarch chooses his younger brother to go with him and two servants and sets off battling and conquering wind and terrain to reach the top of mount Ventou.
Nowhere in the essay on climbing mount Ventrou does Petrarch mention considering his ideal woman Laura who he often thinks about and writes poetry to as a possible candidate to climb with him up the highest local mountain. Perhaps Petrarch was worried Laura wouldn't choose him as an ideal candidate to ascend the highest local mountain or perhaps Petrarch preferred to keep Laura compartmentalized as his Muse and let it go at that.
fiction
edward w pritchard
One day in April long ago the Poet Petrarch decided to climb 6,700 foot Mount Ventou in southern France. On a whim, while reading the "History of Rome" by Livy Petrarch had an impulse to climb
the highest hill near to where he currently was staying. His essay describing the climb has been passed on to us and it makes for interesting reading.
Near the beginning of the essay Petrarch discusses how he picked a companion to accompany him on the arduous climb. Not surprisingly among his companions Petrarch can find none of his pals who is ideally suited to climb a mountain with. At last unable to find a friend to accompany him Petrarch chooses his younger brother to go with him and two servants and sets off battling and conquering wind and terrain to reach the top of mount Ventou.
Nowhere in the essay on climbing mount Ventrou does Petrarch mention considering his ideal woman Laura who he often thinks about and writes poetry to as a possible candidate to climb with him up the highest local mountain. Perhaps Petrarch was worried Laura wouldn't choose him as an ideal candidate to ascend the highest local mountain or perhaps Petrarch preferred to keep Laura compartmentalized as his Muse and let it go at that.
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