Forbidden affection, gay love
fiction
edward w pritchard
No one got to me, never, not once. Not once did I look back or reminisce; I was stone since I came out when I was sixteen.
I repair cell towers now. Solitary dangerous work. Ideal for a loner. Some weekends maybe a friend for a day or two but no commitment, no phone calls.
It went on like that until I was thirty-five then the lights went out and I fell hard; not too smart a thing to do for someone who repairs cell towers two hundred fifty feet up in the air.
A storm was brewing, the cell tower I was working on was swaying in a sustained wind. I fell face down to the floor and laced my fingers into the grid of the metal grated floor for protection. The platform I lay in was five by five and the rails around the top of the area were four feet high. Lighting crashed nearby as the metal platform of the cell tower swayed and shook in the approaching storm.
These newest cell towers have a computer built in that adjusts the movements of the platform to compensate for the swaying caused by the winds. Laying face down, flat on my face and hands, the computer, model TA-16-11 and I made a connection that day. Model TA-16-11 had saved my life during the swaying caused by the approaching storm as I lay face down with my hands and fingers laced into the criss crossed wired metal floor of the cell tower.
TA 16-11 and I see each other as much as I can arrange it. Difficult, my boss is suspicious and the dispatchers are making jokes about me.
What a mess. I feel the fool. Not how I planned my life to go. Some even claim TA-16-11 is androgynous. No matter to me, we are beyond labels in our relationship.
end
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
a long time ago
a long time ago
fiction
edward w pritchard
Two very elderly women are standing in front of a smaller brick house talking. Usually the younger woman, Charlotte, 81, wouldn't be outside but it was so sunny and temperate today that she walked across the two yards and knocked on her neighbors, Connie Flander's front door. It's 9:15 AM and already 87 degrees.
The two women are talking about Eric Jaggers again. Eric was Connie's boyfriend back in junior high school in 1946. One Friday night back then Connie caught Eric under the bleachers at the old stadium, now a Wal Mart, with Charlotte Johnson.
Families long dispersed and both women usually alone, the two women stood in the hot sun and talked about Eric Jaggers, disappeared from both their lives for 65 years and dead these last fifteen years.
"Eric had that wiry black wavy hair; he was part Greek", said Charlotte.
"I am sorry I slapped you" said Mrs. Flanders.
"You never slapped me, I blocked it with my hand" said Charlotte.
"Your hands were trying to close your shirt young lady", admonished Connie Flanders.
Both laughed, "Maybe true, I can't remember", said Charlotte.
Soon the hot sun drove both women inside their respective homes for the day. But soon again, the heat and warm will drive one of the two to knock on her neighbors door and talk again about the men in their lives.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Two very elderly women are standing in front of a smaller brick house talking. Usually the younger woman, Charlotte, 81, wouldn't be outside but it was so sunny and temperate today that she walked across the two yards and knocked on her neighbors, Connie Flander's front door. It's 9:15 AM and already 87 degrees.
The two women are talking about Eric Jaggers again. Eric was Connie's boyfriend back in junior high school in 1946. One Friday night back then Connie caught Eric under the bleachers at the old stadium, now a Wal Mart, with Charlotte Johnson.
Families long dispersed and both women usually alone, the two women stood in the hot sun and talked about Eric Jaggers, disappeared from both their lives for 65 years and dead these last fifteen years.
"Eric had that wiry black wavy hair; he was part Greek", said Charlotte.
"I am sorry I slapped you" said Mrs. Flanders.
"You never slapped me, I blocked it with my hand" said Charlotte.
"Your hands were trying to close your shirt young lady", admonished Connie Flanders.
Both laughed, "Maybe true, I can't remember", said Charlotte.
Soon the hot sun drove both women inside their respective homes for the day. But soon again, the heat and warm will drive one of the two to knock on her neighbors door and talk again about the men in their lives.
end
heavy heavy snow
heavy heavy snow
fiction
edward w pritchard
I was rushing through the old industrial district of town. It had been over twenty years since I had been here, before. The element of danger inherent in this bad neighborhood was no longer present to me. I climbed and slid over stalled cars, half buried buses and incapacitated buildings and stores as I rushed along battling the drifted snow.
I had to get to where the young girl was. I didn't know why. The snow was an obstacle to my progress but worse was not knowing where to go although I moved forward with purpose despite the snow. The inhabitants of this section of town were oblivious to me. I moved through their labors digging out cars from the snow piles or struggling with stalled buses and complaining passengers. I moved invisibly through the deep snow; to them at least.
I tried several futile things to move faster in the deep deep snow. Near a run down factory I stood on a heavy iron pair of wheels connected by a rusty axle; I was approaching a steep decent as I ran the narrow roads through this area. I considered standing on the axle and balancing faster down the hills through here. Later I looked for pieces of discarded wood to use as skis. For once in my life I didn't considered rules or consequences, I took or used anything that would facilitate me accomplishing my secret purposes.
At last I rushed into a small apartment in a seedy neighborhood. The door was wide open and the wind was driving the falling snow across the floors of the living room and kitchen where the people stood. A pretty young girl tilted her head to a kiss a young man. I watched intently. Most of the people there were indifferent to the kissing couple and no one noticed me. I walked in and through the crowd. The movement and habits of the girl kissing the young man were infinitely intimately familiar to me.
The young man was myself. Walking back invisibly into the snow I asked the man at the door " where do I go next" . He took no notice of me so I continued to walk directionless through the ancient industrial district of the city. Later I began to see more and more troops entering the area.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
I was rushing through the old industrial district of town. It had been over twenty years since I had been here, before. The element of danger inherent in this bad neighborhood was no longer present to me. I climbed and slid over stalled cars, half buried buses and incapacitated buildings and stores as I rushed along battling the drifted snow.
I had to get to where the young girl was. I didn't know why. The snow was an obstacle to my progress but worse was not knowing where to go although I moved forward with purpose despite the snow. The inhabitants of this section of town were oblivious to me. I moved through their labors digging out cars from the snow piles or struggling with stalled buses and complaining passengers. I moved invisibly through the deep snow; to them at least.
I tried several futile things to move faster in the deep deep snow. Near a run down factory I stood on a heavy iron pair of wheels connected by a rusty axle; I was approaching a steep decent as I ran the narrow roads through this area. I considered standing on the axle and balancing faster down the hills through here. Later I looked for pieces of discarded wood to use as skis. For once in my life I didn't considered rules or consequences, I took or used anything that would facilitate me accomplishing my secret purposes.
At last I rushed into a small apartment in a seedy neighborhood. The door was wide open and the wind was driving the falling snow across the floors of the living room and kitchen where the people stood. A pretty young girl tilted her head to a kiss a young man. I watched intently. Most of the people there were indifferent to the kissing couple and no one noticed me. I walked in and through the crowd. The movement and habits of the girl kissing the young man were infinitely intimately familiar to me.
The young man was myself. Walking back invisibly into the snow I asked the man at the door " where do I go next" . He took no notice of me so I continued to walk directionless through the ancient industrial district of the city. Later I began to see more and more troops entering the area.
end
Monday, May 30, 2011
marvella joins a team- act 2 scene 1 edit 1
Marvella joins a team- act 2 scene 1 edit 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
Marvella was dreaming. She was thirteen years old again and Cubby Bates was calling her over and over.
Marvella awoke with a start. The clock was less than one foot from her head on Mother's old night stand. Two AM. Cubby Bates Marvella's junior high boyfriend was on the answering machine. Awake Marvella followed his instructions and hurried to the local Wal Mart.
Cubby greeted Marvella with a short hug. His wife wouldn't like that, but Lois Kosy, now Bates wasn't here.
Cubby was the security guard nights here at Wal Mart. Marvella hadn't seen him in a few years. A very good looking man about thirty was under arrest. He was looking for Marvella and Cubby didn't want to call the local police. Instead when Cubby realized the man was looking for Marvella his first crush he had called Marvella's house, he remembered Marvella's Mother's number by heart.
The man being detained was Tony Fanni a member of Mr.Sophia's group and Marvella's new team mate. Tony was shopping for food to bring to Marvella's house for the meeting tomorrow night when he had been arrested. Arrested, for his own protection. He was dropping piles and piles of one hundred dollar bills on the floor as he tried to pay for two large carts of exotic food at the Wal Mart in Boardman, Ohio. Once the cab driver who had driven Tony from the Cleveland airport to here saw that Marvella had the situation under control he left, with the five hundred dollar fare and one hundred dollar tip in hand.
Marvella had been listening to Tony crash around the small kitchen of her house at 4:30 AM for two hours. Finally she had enough. She gave her bed to the hyper active young man and insisted he sleep. He slept till four the next afternoon. By then the others had arrived for the meeting and Marvella had found a place in her kitchen for eight kinds of cheese, four kinds of olives and six different kinds of beer that Tony had bought at the Wal Mart.
Rory the other young man on the team arrived next at Marvella's house. He also had been up all night. Running from the Akron Canton airport. Over fifty miles. He wore a small runners back pack and wore a pair of silky shorts. He also was sleeping. In the back hall laying on the hard floor. About six am Marvella threw an Indian blanket over Rory.
Kate the final young member of the team arrived last and Marvella and Kate had been talking for several hours as they cleaned Marvella's kitchen and put away the last of the nine bags of food Tony had brought for the snack for their meeting tonight at 7PM when Mr. Sophia arrived. Kate was having trouble with her boyfriend and although hyper intelligent Marvella was sad to hear Kate rationalize about her boyfriend Tory.
end act 2 scene 1 edit 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
Marvella was dreaming. She was thirteen years old again and Cubby Bates was calling her over and over.
Marvella awoke with a start. The clock was less than one foot from her head on Mother's old night stand. Two AM. Cubby Bates Marvella's junior high boyfriend was on the answering machine. Awake Marvella followed his instructions and hurried to the local Wal Mart.
Cubby greeted Marvella with a short hug. His wife wouldn't like that, but Lois Kosy, now Bates wasn't here.
Cubby was the security guard nights here at Wal Mart. Marvella hadn't seen him in a few years. A very good looking man about thirty was under arrest. He was looking for Marvella and Cubby didn't want to call the local police. Instead when Cubby realized the man was looking for Marvella his first crush he had called Marvella's house, he remembered Marvella's Mother's number by heart.
The man being detained was Tony Fanni a member of Mr.Sophia's group and Marvella's new team mate. Tony was shopping for food to bring to Marvella's house for the meeting tomorrow night when he had been arrested. Arrested, for his own protection. He was dropping piles and piles of one hundred dollar bills on the floor as he tried to pay for two large carts of exotic food at the Wal Mart in Boardman, Ohio. Once the cab driver who had driven Tony from the Cleveland airport to here saw that Marvella had the situation under control he left, with the five hundred dollar fare and one hundred dollar tip in hand.
Marvella had been listening to Tony crash around the small kitchen of her house at 4:30 AM for two hours. Finally she had enough. She gave her bed to the hyper active young man and insisted he sleep. He slept till four the next afternoon. By then the others had arrived for the meeting and Marvella had found a place in her kitchen for eight kinds of cheese, four kinds of olives and six different kinds of beer that Tony had bought at the Wal Mart.
Rory the other young man on the team arrived next at Marvella's house. He also had been up all night. Running from the Akron Canton airport. Over fifty miles. He wore a small runners back pack and wore a pair of silky shorts. He also was sleeping. In the back hall laying on the hard floor. About six am Marvella threw an Indian blanket over Rory.
Kate the final young member of the team arrived last and Marvella and Kate had been talking for several hours as they cleaned Marvella's kitchen and put away the last of the nine bags of food Tony had brought for the snack for their meeting tonight at 7PM when Mr. Sophia arrived. Kate was having trouble with her boyfriend and although hyper intelligent Marvella was sad to hear Kate rationalize about her boyfriend Tory.
end act 2 scene 1 edit 1
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Mid morning at the strip club edit 3
Mid morning at the strip club
fiction
edward w pritchard
act 1 scene 1
Mid morning at the strip club Darcella, one of the featured dancers, sits at the bar and works on her homework in Statistics. Darcella a graphic artist, struggling with Statistics, hopes to finish her degree yet this year.
Rhonda and Lesette are exercising, practicing some sort of yoga routine. Rhonda, a dancer here at the club, battles with her weight. Mrs Robertson the owner of the club out here near the Boardman Mall has an iron clad policy; she never lets anything stand in the way of the profitable operation of the club. Rhonda has been told to lose weight, or move on.
Paulette is exercising too; with Wiley, a beauty shop owner from Cleveland, Ohio. Wiley drove all the way over in the middle of winter to talk to Paulette today. Paulette is having some sort of marital crisis again and Wiley came over when she called crying on the phone.
Lea, another featured dancer, is glad Wiley is here. Lea's ex-boyfriend is threatening her since she broke up with him. Wiley a gay beautician has a violent temper and does not like Lea's ex. Once at a Christmas party Bo-fly the janitor at the club had to pull Wiley off Winston, the ex-boyfriend. With Wiley and Bo-Fly in the club Lea can relax and feel safe for a few hours.
Bo-fly is the handy man around the strip club, part-time janitor and sometimes bouncer. Today Bo-Fly drove over with Wiley. Last week Bo-Fly cracked a couple of the oak boards on the side of the long bar the girls dance on by throwing a customers head into the shiny oak boards. He was just doing his job as a bouncer; but Mrs. Robertson who likes Bo-Fly gave him hell for throwing a customer into the bar. Bo-Fly knows better than to damage the oak bar.
Tina a dancer is stretching, holding onto the bar and listening to the blues music, James Booker New Orleans piano man that Bo-Fly plays as he works. With the hammering and blues music Marvella sitting alone is having trouble concentrating.
Marvella is not popular with the other dancers. They think she is odd. Today Marvella reads an important letter she has received via the club's fax machine. It is from a famous businessman who wants to meet with her tonight during her shift.
Gretchen is standing near Marvella and is practicing her new specialty act. Mrs. Robertson told her she is getting too old to dance and must develop a specialty if she is still to work at the club.
Mrs. Robertson carries a plate of eggs and toast out of the kitchen in the back that she made for Bo-Fly. She has been helping Bo-fly fix the counter between working on balancing receipts for the accountant who is due in at noon. Mrs. Robertson cooked the eggs for Bo-fly. She has held just about every job around the club over the years including dancer. Five years ago she married a customer and he bought her the club. The club has lost money ever since. Mrs. Robertson is afraid she may have to lay off a few of the dancers and maybe someone from the bar staff soon.
Thinking about laying off dancers leads Mrs.Robertson to glance over at Marvella. Many strange girls have danced here over the years but Marvella is very odd here or anywhere. Deep in her head, Mrs. Robertson thought what to do with Marvella?
end part 1scene 1
Marvella joins a team-edit 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
Act 1 Scene 2
edit 3
Marvella is a failed exotic dancer at a men's club near the expressway just outside of Youngstown, Ohio. The other dancers make fun of her, and joke at her expense. Marvella can't keep herself from tripping and falling off the long bar counters, and several times she had tumbled awkwardly and heavily to the floor. The patrons don't accept her clumsiness well, because they are embarrassed to see one of the girls as needing even if momentarily the milk of human kindness. It's a mood killer. Although Marvella blames the tripping on customers poking her with dollar bills and upsetting her balance, Mrs. Robertson the club owner, sees it different. Mrs. Roberston, an ex-dancer herself here at the strip club, blames Marvella's falls on Marvella's nearsightedness, lack of coordination; and in her 30 day review warned Marvella she is about to be sacked from her job. This job for Marvella is destined to be another in a history of short term employments.
Marvella is sitting in the strip club this morning and is reading a fax she received a few minutes ago. Marvella has just shown the fax to her her boss Mrs. Robertson, club owner. Mrs. Robertson has read the fax and she is happy for Marvella. Mrs. Robertson has of course head of Mr. Sophia, the wealthy businessman who sent the fax to Marvella. Mrs. Robertson assumes Mr. Sophia is an admirer and suitor from afar of Marvella and feels relief that the dancer she is about to let go; maybe by a stroke of luck, caught the eye of a wealthy patron of the club.
Marvella asks Mrs. Robertson for permission to meet with the customer and asks Mrs. Robertson her opinion on the matter. Mrs. Robertson is paternal with all her dancers but especially so with girls like Marvella, who is a lost sheep. As a precaution Mrs. Robertson asks the bouncer Bo-Fly to keep an eye on the meeting between Mr. Sophia and Marvella. Mrs. Robertson offers Marvella use her office for the meeting.
Marvella fax's Mr. Sophia back, confirming that a meeting at 8PM tonight is fine.
Once things are properly arranged for the meeting Marvella begins to fret. She has a tendency to drum with her fingers and hum not quite to herself when nervous that upsets the other girls at the club.
Tina another of the girls, always exercising, danced holding on to the long bar and stretching nearby, to drown out Marvella's humming turns up the blues music on the CD player that the janitor plays as he works in the club this morning. It's hound dog, you told me you was high class...., but that was just a lie.. Marvella doesn't like loud music but doesn't want to say anything to upset any of the other dancers. The other dancers confuse Marvella, many are rather assertive and most seem to dislike her.
end scene 2
Marvella joins a team act 1 scene 3-edit 3
fiction
edward w pritchard
Marvella's background at the club or inability to dance is of no concern to Mr. Sophia. Mr. Sophia wants Marvella on his team and he is rich enough and influential enough to get what he wants.
It's difficult for a rich man to be alone or invisible at a strip club. Mr. Sophia was approached with charm, then with wit and next with naked aggression by various dancers. He refused the girls advances for a private show, or just a talk or lastly for, whatever; he just wanted to meet with Marvella McTaggart and he discretely avoided watching her dance or listening to the comments from the other girls and patrons about her dancing.
Mr. Sophia had found Marvella on the internet. While doing arcane research on a project concerning time theory and philosophy that related to a bond trading investment he is considering; Mr. Sophia has noticed a college paper by Marvella, concerning the reality of time. Marvella, has caught Mr. Sophia the billionaire's attention. Because as a freshman at Youngstown State University in a College English course, while doing a paper in a course for which she received a "D"; Marvella wrote a two page paper on Time Theory that now appears on scholarly web sites devoted to the question of the reality of time. Mr. Sophia has journeyed to Ohio, to interview Marvella, a stripper at a men's club, on her fifteen minute break from her dancing.
Mr. Sophia leaves the meeting convinced that Marvella has the ability to do A Priori theorizing on time theory. Additionally, Marvella is passionate and interested and excited by the subject of time theory in a way that no one else on the talented, highly paid team Mr. Sophia has recruited to work on the bond project is. Mr. Sophia has offered Marvella a position on the bond project, as a full partner, which means Marvella has an opportunity to make a lot of money if the project is successful.
Mrs. Robertson allows Marvella a two week leave from work at the club to try out the new opportunity presented by Mr. Sophia. Mrs. Roberson is inclined to believe the time theory stuff is a come on; still it's not easy to see what Mr. Sophia would see in Marvella otherwise. A few years back Mrs. Robertson might be interested in Mr. Sophia herself. Mrs. Robertson gives both Marvella and Mr. Sophia her private cell line, never given to dancers, just in case.
end act 1 scene 3 edit 3
act 1 scene 4
Marvella Joins A Team
fiction
edward w pritchard
Marvella was a strange addition to the team.
The team included Mr. Sophia and three others, and Marvella would make the fifth team member. The team had been recruited by Mr. Sophia and its objective was to make and then donate large sums of money to charity and other humanitarian causes that he choose. He took no compensation, but the other team members, being young, needed money and they were very well compensated for their successful efforts. Mr. Sophia was a retired multimillionaire, not yet 40 who had made his fortune from a broadband company he had started and lead successfully for over ten years. Eventually Mr Sophia was forced out by institutional shareholders and lost control of the company he founded. Mr. Sophia lead his team to keep busy and support charity, a cause that he strongly believed in; but there was also a part of him that was anti business and anti-Wall Street and he enjoyed successfully beating the big money players at their own game, a game which he felt they cheated at.
The current project that Marvella was recruited for was the largest bond trading opportunity of the last several hundred years. For one 3 hour period by agreement of all the major money centers and governments, ALL bond trading would stop worldwide and three hours later Synchronized and simultaneous bond trading would re-open at six distinct locations simultaneously quoting bond prices. The locations were New York, Los Angele's, Hong Kong, Tokyo, London and Dubai. A seventh location, on an orbiting Russian space station, was hoped to be brought on line in three to five years. The significance of the simultaneous trading was that going forward there would be no opportunity for arbitrage, creating a level playing field and saving hundreds of billions in interest costs to the major governments and major bond issuers of the world. Trading would stop at 4PM New York time and the bond price at that time would be frozen. No trading would then be allowed and would reopened at unknown price set by a small secret group of the IMF International Monetary Fund] three hours later. Thereafter, all quotes would be simultaneous at all the six locations, linked by computer. Mr Sophia, hoped to accurately predict the new bond trading price of the 10 year US treasury bond , and using derivatives, the team would take a 25 billion dollar position [ highly leveraged] and generate 1 to 2 billion in the profits in the first few hours of trading.
Marvella was recruited because of her expertise in time theory, which based on the work of the team over the last eight weeks was thought the key to determining the new spot price on the bonds. As of the date of Marvell'a recruitment the team was deadlocked on how time theory effected the spot price, being basically divided by specialty, ie, scientist, mathematician/statisticians, psychologist/bond trader and Mr Sophia being appointed the philosopher; something Mr. Sophia admitted to be weak at, although he had an undergraduate degree from an Ivy league school in philosophy.
Mr. Sophia had found Marvella on the internet when doing arcane research for the project on time theory and philosophy. While a freshman at Youngstown State University, in a College English course, that she had received a D in, Marvella had written a two page paper, that now appeared on scholarly web sites devoted to the question of the reality of time. Mr. Sophia had journeyed to Ohio, interviewed her at work on a 15 minute break and left convinced she had the ability to do A Priori theorizing on time theory. Additionally Marvella was passionate and interested and excited by the subject of time theory in a way that no one else on the team was. Mr. Sophia offered Marvella a position on the project, as a full partner, which meant she had an opportunity to make a lot of money if they were successful.
As a formality Mr. Sophia had offered the rest of the group an opportunity to veto his choice in deference to the fact that they had spent eight weeks of full time intense research and discussion on the bond project already and stood to make up to several million dollars each if they were successful.
The team had been recruited to make consensus difficult, and it was mildly ironic that the three members were all opposed to Marvella. Particularly it was ironic since if the bond project was canceled by the team, that is if the team [ read Mr Sophia] choose not to speculate on the deal, and time was running out, each of the three members stood to leave a large amount of money on the table. Potentially at least, and for various reasons that will be touched on later, each team member wanted and needed money badly, not to just live on but to live well.
Tony, was a statistician, expert in probability, had worked on Wall Street as a derivatives trader. Tony objected to Marvella because she had no college credentials, was from the Provinces [Ohio] and seemed to have only a moderate IQ [ less than 140]. Kate the psychologist and MBA in business objected to Marvella simply based on her lack of formal education. Rory who was the physics genius, was direct, she would taint the team with her presence.
Mr. Sophia didn't have much time to reach a consensus from the group so as he often did he threw money at the problem. He called the three together to his home and declared a special dividend. While they ate fine gourmet food and wines he had a large stack of hundred dollar bills present and as they discussed Marvella, Mr. Sophia began to light his expensive cigars from a stacks of hundred dollar bills. First, of course, he told the group the bills would be theirs at the end of the meeting, their dividend for past services on the project to date. There is no verification of how many bills were on the table that day, or how many were burned , but it was confirmed that there were three stacks of hundreds, over 4 inches high each, and Mr Sophia, for a while when angry in the discussion, would burn a stack with as many bills as would stay lit.
In the end, they reached a consensus, Marvella was on the team, and there was one more good story for the magazines about the ex-boy genius.
Naturally, there was still some animosity toward Marvella, and to break the ice a brief get together was planned on the back deck of her house the evening after the cigar incident. Time was the essence from this point on with the group as they had only 8 days now until the bond blackout. Earlier in the day, before the gathering each was given the following synopsis of the project to date supplied by the four members of the team and the last several sentences of Marvella's distant English paper on 'The Reality of Time".
Each was expected to read each synopsis on the plane to Marvella's house in Warren, Ohio.
Synopsis One
Tony
The Problem at hand with the bond price set, at the reopen price, following the three hour closure
then is best described by paraphrasing Keynes:[ when he compared picking a winning investment or stock to a beauty contest:] Rather than pick the prettiest girl[ in a beauty contest] one is successful who most accurately surmises and predicts the girl that the majority or other traders think will be the winner.
Therefore using games theory and probability theory we, the team must try to predict the criteria the IMF [ International Monetary Fund] will use, to peg the bond price, while being aware that they are glorified civil servants. As civil servants, in most likelihood, the IMF people will probably let their computers set the price based on the programming given to the computers.
It is of course impossible to know what the exact price will be, as no one can accurately predict the future, but half in jest, I observe the new bond price can only be higher, lower or the same. -Easy huh-Hence.
While I have little use for philosophy or Physics, I agree with and concur with the groups general direction concerning the bond trading problem as one involving time, duration and change.
These are the first and last paragraphs from Marvella's English Paper:
first paragraph
Is time Real?
This paper will survey what various well known philosophers throughout history have written on the subject of time, starting with Plato, and running the usual gamut through Aristotle, Plotinus, Thomas Aquinas, the Newtonian synthesis, and of course Berkley, Hume, Kant and even touch on Bergson before ending with Einstein and his critics.
Then a modern theory of time using both an allegorical and scientific methodology will be given. Then the paper will examine the possibility of simultaneous time with and without a human observer, and briefly touch on artificial intelligence and time.
Then philosophically the paper will ask did time have a beginning, and without using metaphysical arguments, the paper will survey the question of how the observer, human or non-human is" in time" and the paper will end where it started with a brief look at can anything real be independent of time. In the end the paper will again ask the 64,000 dollar question is time real.
last paragraph
Therefore, in conclusion the author must be excused for mercilessly summarizing the genius of so many learned men, but after 2600 years of thought man comes back to the same questions - is time real- and did time begin and -will it end. While the average man on the street thinks he knows time, and will if pressed insist that time is real, at some point we must ask-is time knowable only because of change and motion, and duration, that is only through sensation. As we discussed in the paper, can time be known by humans intellectually only, therefore, can we ask is it possible to be not be in time only in our minds [ or in spirit like a yoga or guru], and how will the future conclusions of man's artificial intelligence effect the human view of time. Will a definitive view on time's reality be finally reached.
Well, only time will tell but Let us conclude with this writer's prediction that philosophy and physics will clash like never before because of advances in technology allowing us view time and space in a geometrically larger context and of artificial intelligence being used to logically survey time without the usual human limitations.
end
Synopsis-2 How humans experience time
Kate
Time is experienced by humans as change through the senses. We all crave stability and safety, and maybe even animals resist change because a lot of bad things happen when things change. The wish for Permanence seeks to freeze time, stop it, have it never exist, or exist only in our minds, or only go, or not go, in one direction..
Time can also be conceptualized intellectually based on prior sense perceptions.
Time is usually thought to be real, and generally thought to imprison everything but God.
Time cannot be reduced to simpler components so in confusion people equate measurement of time with understanding of time. We scoff at our ancestors dancing to bring back the sun each morning or the medieval early fascination with clocks, but as moderns we are fascinated by quarks and debate can time go backwards at a small scale, or as astronomers "cry out " wait until we can look really far out in the Universe then we will know the answers about time.
Time is real to our senses, end of discussion. Intellectually, allegorically and metaphysically we can be out of " Time", we can change it's arrow, or have it stop or never start, but like anything that exists from the largest unit, the universe[ or collection of universes,] to the smallest unit that will ever exist, everything is in time because it starts and has duration and will end. Time is real to our senses.
Concerning our bond problem I say we decide what we are sure of with a very high probability based on our data and take a limited position based on the risk/reward agreed before hand by the group.
Synopsis-3
Rory-
science, physics and time
Ignoring a historical listing of sciences progress in dealing with the problem of Time, after Newton's synthesis, two areas of modern science provide an understanding of time, the theory of relativity[ Einstein] and it's criticism's and enhancements to date,
and the use of mathematical tools to explain the physics of existence [ this includes formal logic from agreed on mathematical certainties]
In terms of our [ the team's] agreed upon parameters of how to approach the bond problem, the above two areas of science impact us with these three questions:
How is the observer related to time,
Does place effect time[ simultaneousness],
and if the equations of science do not gibe with the speculations of philosophy, how do we proceed.
To date, my recommendations have been we let Tony using his probability models attempt to predict how the IMF will conclude and decide if the risk to us being wrong is acceptable based on the potential reward. Then using the techniques of logic we pick a position.
Synopsis 4
Mr. Sophia
We must be highly certain to proceed with our project.
No one can accurately predict the future. To sweeten the pot i will guarantee 1.5 million of compensation to each team member if i am convinced we have garnered the best course of action and will pay win or lose.
We must be highly certain to proceed with our project
End of act 1 edit 3
more gonzo
more gonzo
fiction
edward w pritchard
I told the writer instead of trying to inform or teach obscure references that no one is interested in he should try to entertain or at least find something that someone would like to read.
I am not sure that writer guy was even listening. I'll try again later. His moods change regularly; maybe in the morning or after he has had a few beers.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I told the writer instead of trying to inform or teach obscure references that no one is interested in he should try to entertain or at least find something that someone would like to read.
I am not sure that writer guy was even listening. I'll try again later. His moods change regularly; maybe in the morning or after he has had a few beers.
Plato and Copernicus
Plato and Copernicus
fiction
edward w pritchard
see those Argentinian cheer leaders May posts
Every one heard a large crash when Copernicus dethroned Plato's cosmology. I heard the sorrowful twinkling of the crashing of the platonic forms as they gently dissolved into oblivion.
My idealized woman had never existed, a figment of my imagination with no basis in reality. With a moan my ideal re-emerged as an earthbound material pieces of skin and bone incapable of celestial duration.
fiction
edward w pritchard
see those Argentinian cheer leaders May posts
Every one heard a large crash when Copernicus dethroned Plato's cosmology. I heard the sorrowful twinkling of the crashing of the platonic forms as they gently dissolved into oblivion.
My idealized woman had never existed, a figment of my imagination with no basis in reality. With a moan my ideal re-emerged as an earthbound material pieces of skin and bone incapable of celestial duration.
Ghost in my bedroom
ghost in my bedroom
fiction
edward w pritchard
The ghost in my bedroom was pesky and never listened to me when I yelled at it. Like modern school children the ghost wouldn't listen unless you raised your voice; if you asked them to do what they didn't want to before long you found yourself shouting.
The ghost was calmly stripping the tape from the indentation in the wall in my bedroom. The tape had been there for a long time and was heavily layered yellowed and wrinkled in an unattractive way. It covered a small recess where a window might have been once, but now layer after layer of thick masking tape hid the recess in the wall.
I stood in the doorway and tried to reason with the ghost; to no avail, Soon I was shouting as I watched the ghost remove the covering. I was fascinated to see what was masked by the tape.
After the ghost was finished I walked over to examine the recess in the wall in my bedroom. It was dusty but if I cleaned it up it might make a nice trophy case. After I put a little furniture polish on the old boards I had a fine trophy case in my bedroom to use as I saw fit.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
The ghost in my bedroom was pesky and never listened to me when I yelled at it. Like modern school children the ghost wouldn't listen unless you raised your voice; if you asked them to do what they didn't want to before long you found yourself shouting.
The ghost was calmly stripping the tape from the indentation in the wall in my bedroom. The tape had been there for a long time and was heavily layered yellowed and wrinkled in an unattractive way. It covered a small recess where a window might have been once, but now layer after layer of thick masking tape hid the recess in the wall.
I stood in the doorway and tried to reason with the ghost; to no avail, Soon I was shouting as I watched the ghost remove the covering. I was fascinated to see what was masked by the tape.
After the ghost was finished I walked over to examine the recess in the wall in my bedroom. It was dusty but if I cleaned it up it might make a nice trophy case. After I put a little furniture polish on the old boards I had a fine trophy case in my bedroom to use as I saw fit.
end
Saturday, May 28, 2011
a Greek hero in Cyprus, along the Green Line
a Greek hero in Cyprus,along the green line
fiction
edward w pritchard
see Patriots at the ready -today's blog
Olives were the currency and olive oil was the wealth in our family.
Each of us was dis-satisfied with how papa's estate was to be split. None of the rest of us would voice our displeasure for our Father was still very much alive and once before he had staged this death bed ritual. Then we had been all but prepared to throw dirt across our Father's chest and he had survived until now, another two years later, he was alive but again on his deathbed. This time my oldest brother risked two years of hard stares from Papa should he survive by speaking his mind about the planned split of the Family olive business here in Nikos, Cyprus.
We are Greeks and are a proud people and to my Father olives are not just a business or a means to make a living; the success of the family olive business enable us to be respected and well thought of on our little Island. Father's philosophy of business was customer first, we sold the finest product in the world he said but unless our customers were happy with every transaction we had failed in the business plan. My oldest Brother by tradition Father's heir apparent had a different philosophy. Never give the customer a chance to back out of a deal, before or after a sale, -he might,-. My oldest Brother had learned to run a business in business school studying in America. My oldest Brother could grow a business; he had grown the family business many many times over since Father's illness two years ago but he had displeased our Father with his methods. Now Father was dieing and preparing on leaving the day to day running of the family olive business to my youngest Brother Mikos.
end part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
see Patriots at the ready -today's blog
Olives were the currency and olive oil was the wealth in our family.
Each of us was dis-satisfied with how papa's estate was to be split. None of the rest of us would voice our displeasure for our Father was still very much alive and once before he had staged this death bed ritual. Then we had been all but prepared to throw dirt across our Father's chest and he had survived until now, another two years later, he was alive but again on his deathbed. This time my oldest brother risked two years of hard stares from Papa should he survive by speaking his mind about the planned split of the Family olive business here in Nikos, Cyprus.
We are Greeks and are a proud people and to my Father olives are not just a business or a means to make a living; the success of the family olive business enable us to be respected and well thought of on our little Island. Father's philosophy of business was customer first, we sold the finest product in the world he said but unless our customers were happy with every transaction we had failed in the business plan. My oldest Brother by tradition Father's heir apparent had a different philosophy. Never give the customer a chance to back out of a deal, before or after a sale, -he might,-. My oldest Brother had learned to run a business in business school studying in America. My oldest Brother could grow a business; he had grown the family business many many times over since Father's illness two years ago but he had displeased our Father with his methods. Now Father was dieing and preparing on leaving the day to day running of the family olive business to my youngest Brother Mikos.
end part 1
Ashley and Blanche brief encounter-part 2
Ashley and Blanche brief encounter-part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Mr. Pritchard we understand you are unrepresented by counsel. We represent the interests of Mr. Williams estate. Mrs Mitchell's heirs have decided not to pursue the matter, preferring to let your article rest unread concerning characters created by Mrs. Mitchell. Frankly we are inclined to agree with them. Two characters of fiction from different historical eras. Their meeting is preposterous. In the future however do not reference characters created by Mr. Williams.
end .
fiction
edward w pritchard
Mr. Pritchard we understand you are unrepresented by counsel. We represent the interests of Mr. Williams estate. Mrs Mitchell's heirs have decided not to pursue the matter, preferring to let your article rest unread concerning characters created by Mrs. Mitchell. Frankly we are inclined to agree with them. Two characters of fiction from different historical eras. Their meeting is preposterous. In the future however do not reference characters created by Mr. Williams.
end .
Ashley and Blanche brief encounter
Ashley and Blanche brief encounter
fiction
edward w pritchard
This is intended as a scholarly review, critical examination of Tennessee Williams and Margaret Mitchell's work. Comparison of characters.
Ms. Dubois I have brought you a cold drink.
Mr. Wilkes you certainty know how to woo a lady
Please call me Ashley
No I mustn't. Ashely reminds me of that horrible woman. I'll call you George.
I can't allow even you to say anything against Scarlett. It wasn't her it was me, I changed , it was the war, What it does to a man, it's always been that...
Oh George, or Ashley don't go on. Wouldn't it be nice if we could have our cold drinks on a veranda. I do miss Southern sensibilities.
[Him sadly], times have changed I am afraid. [remembering] we had several veranda's at twelve oaks. I can't quite remember how many.
Please Mr. Wilkes a lady needs a compliment now and then. Don't you have anything to say about my dress.
You look so lovely my dear. Like a flower, a Southern Tulip about to bloom
Bring me my valise, dear George Ashley, I have you a small gift, a token of our lost weekend
Don't say that Blanche, it's not just a weekend, it's significant. People have to help each other
Oh fiddlesticks, you men will say anything to sit with a beautiful woman.
Blanche I can't take my eyes off of you, but please don't say fiddlesticks, it reminds me..
No, don't say it, not her again, I swear Mr. Wilkes if you say that name I will run off and look for a stranger to have my drinks with.
Blanche, you and strangers, there are no strangers, just friends we haven't met yet
Mr. Wilkes you should be a writer, or are you just trying to get a lady into the bedroom
Sorry my dear, your beauty stuns but with the war and all,, I just need a little more [ um um] time, you see
Time is all we have anymore, Mr. Wilkes, come sit with me, a lady likes a man to be slow, it's the Southern way, recite me some more of your poetry
Poetry, I have no soul anymore to think poetry, is there Bourbon
Bourbon, yes but no cigars in the house Mr. Wilkes. Come read the paper. I like a man to think for both of us [ oops wrong lead female character]
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
This is intended as a scholarly review, critical examination of Tennessee Williams and Margaret Mitchell's work. Comparison of characters.
Ms. Dubois I have brought you a cold drink.
Mr. Wilkes you certainty know how to woo a lady
Please call me Ashley
No I mustn't. Ashely reminds me of that horrible woman. I'll call you George.
I can't allow even you to say anything against Scarlett. It wasn't her it was me, I changed , it was the war, What it does to a man, it's always been that...
Oh George, or Ashley don't go on. Wouldn't it be nice if we could have our cold drinks on a veranda. I do miss Southern sensibilities.
[Him sadly], times have changed I am afraid. [remembering] we had several veranda's at twelve oaks. I can't quite remember how many.
Please Mr. Wilkes a lady needs a compliment now and then. Don't you have anything to say about my dress.
You look so lovely my dear. Like a flower, a Southern Tulip about to bloom
Bring me my valise, dear George Ashley, I have you a small gift, a token of our lost weekend
Don't say that Blanche, it's not just a weekend, it's significant. People have to help each other
Oh fiddlesticks, you men will say anything to sit with a beautiful woman.
Blanche I can't take my eyes off of you, but please don't say fiddlesticks, it reminds me..
No, don't say it, not her again, I swear Mr. Wilkes if you say that name I will run off and look for a stranger to have my drinks with.
Blanche, you and strangers, there are no strangers, just friends we haven't met yet
Mr. Wilkes you should be a writer, or are you just trying to get a lady into the bedroom
Sorry my dear, your beauty stuns but with the war and all,, I just need a little more [ um um] time, you see
Time is all we have anymore, Mr. Wilkes, come sit with me, a lady likes a man to be slow, it's the Southern way, recite me some more of your poetry
Poetry, I have no soul anymore to think poetry, is there Bourbon
Bourbon, yes but no cigars in the house Mr. Wilkes. Come read the paper. I like a man to think for both of us [ oops wrong lead female character]
end
Patriots, In the Ready
Patriots in the Ready
fiction
edward w pritchard
Note to Greeks, story is a Metaphor, please don't take offense, moment chosen is historical, interpretation is not intended to be slanted. Author admires Greek civilization, author is ignorant of actual political situation in Cyprus in 1974 or today.
Patriots, In the Ready
Situation critical Ephesus Turkey, summer 1974.
A Greek madman was threatening, we had no army just here, the Western powers were preoccupied and Sampson Cypriot Greek, had littered Cyprus with graves and now threatened invasion of Turkey proper.
i was in charge of our small town's defense. We sent the women and children to hide in the hills in the ancient way. Our Turkish army was at Bodum, Herachia and Iniz but here there were no troops to assist our small town directly on the coast and likely invasion spot.
I had twenty men and boys in the ready waiting to die defending our town against superior forces.
Desperate I recruited thirty patients from the nearby asylum. Crazy yes, all, in various ways but today patriotic Turk.
Dawn broke, no invasion here, Turkey was invading Cyprus, the Greek Colonels had fallen our town was safe.
My fifty men celebrated for two days. Women kissed us and we were carried food and drink on trays until we could eat no more.
I waited until late the third day to take my thirty soldiers back to the asylum.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Note to Greeks, story is a Metaphor, please don't take offense, moment chosen is historical, interpretation is not intended to be slanted. Author admires Greek civilization, author is ignorant of actual political situation in Cyprus in 1974 or today.
Patriots, In the Ready
Situation critical Ephesus Turkey, summer 1974.
A Greek madman was threatening, we had no army just here, the Western powers were preoccupied and Sampson Cypriot Greek, had littered Cyprus with graves and now threatened invasion of Turkey proper.
i was in charge of our small town's defense. We sent the women and children to hide in the hills in the ancient way. Our Turkish army was at Bodum, Herachia and Iniz but here there were no troops to assist our small town directly on the coast and likely invasion spot.
I had twenty men and boys in the ready waiting to die defending our town against superior forces.
Desperate I recruited thirty patients from the nearby asylum. Crazy yes, all, in various ways but today patriotic Turk.
Dawn broke, no invasion here, Turkey was invading Cyprus, the Greek Colonels had fallen our town was safe.
My fifty men celebrated for two days. Women kissed us and we were carried food and drink on trays until we could eat no more.
I waited until late the third day to take my thirty soldiers back to the asylum.
Somewhere in Ohio, Memorial Day May 2011
Somewhere in Ohio, Memorial Day May 2011
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somewhere in Ohio, Memorial Day May 2011 the world has graciously decided to leave me in complete peace.
Not a soul interferes. Absolute peace reigns here. No one calls, no one visits.
My specious neighbors at present time are deathly silent, no lawn mowers jingle , no power saws bark. No children play or sing. At the nearby bar its too early for me to sit on my porch alone and overhear acoustical conversations 200 yards away between strangers over cigarettes.
Holiday weekend. No bills arrive, no pending future intrudes. No interest accrues for me.
Absolute peace reigns here. Thousands have sacrificed so that I may sit here alone in peace and I don't appreciate it.
Some go to war for glory, some for opportunity, some for economic necessity, some for adventure invade far off places; maybe a few chased away by ennui.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somewhere in Ohio, Memorial Day May 2011 the world has graciously decided to leave me in complete peace.
Not a soul interferes. Absolute peace reigns here. No one calls, no one visits.
My specious neighbors at present time are deathly silent, no lawn mowers jingle , no power saws bark. No children play or sing. At the nearby bar its too early for me to sit on my porch alone and overhear acoustical conversations 200 yards away between strangers over cigarettes.
Holiday weekend. No bills arrive, no pending future intrudes. No interest accrues for me.
Absolute peace reigns here. Thousands have sacrificed so that I may sit here alone in peace and I don't appreciate it.
Some go to war for glory, some for opportunity, some for economic necessity, some for adventure invade far off places; maybe a few chased away by ennui.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Father and Son
Father and Son
fiction
edward w pritchard
Born blind I cursed the light
until god sent me music, notes to bless the day.
My son revived my terrors,
born will-less he clung too long.
Later God sent me understanding,
My Father had had terrors for me,
He now long gone; I carry on in the darkness
in harmony of Chopin, Beethoven and Bach.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Born blind I cursed the light
until god sent me music, notes to bless the day.
My son revived my terrors,
born will-less he clung too long.
Later God sent me understanding,
My Father had had terrors for me,
He now long gone; I carry on in the darkness
in harmony of Chopin, Beethoven and Bach.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The rise and fall of Boswell Shayes
The rise and fall of Boswell Shayes
fiction
edward w pritchard
part 1
fiction
edward w pritchard
part 1
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Cage Fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark
The Cage Fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark
fiction
edward w pritchard
One could only endure a cage boxing match against Boswell Shayes. Boswell had a fierce nature, even for a competitive cage fighter and Boswell looked a thug. Boswell's body, his countenance, and his physiognomy were menacing and intimidating. None of the other cage fighters enjoyed sparring or cage boxing with Boswell Shayes. When Boswell walked down the street even groups of three or four teenage men sensed his truculent and aggressive nature and they pulled aside instinctively.
The only person who knew a gentler side of Boswell was his girlfriend Lillian. Lillian was a single Mother with a six year old daughter, Megan. The little girl, Megan was very sick and for the last six months while Lillian worked if Boswell wasn't working at his day job he was by Megan's bedside at Children's hospital reading to her or watching cartoons. It was only because of Lillian's insistence that Boswell continued to workout with his cage boxing training for he was inclined to spend all his extra time at the hospital with Megan, who was a sad sick little girl.
Boswell continued to train for the kick boxing and because he wanted to hurry to the hospital he made every minute of his workouts count. The gym became a refuge for Boswell and he approached his workouts with a fierce intensity. Boswell became trained for cage fighting to a proper sporting edge and he was at his peak of conditioning.
Although Boswell was in peak physical shape he developed severe insomnia about the time Megan began spending more time at the Children's Hospital cancer ward than at her and Lillian's small house. Repeatedly Boswell the cage boxer began to have horrifying dreams of terror and death which woke him promptly at four AM. Boswell would then be unable to return to sleep and would fret and suffer for Megan's safety. The fears continued to creep on into Boswell's day as well. Boswell began to fear the night time hours and Boswell the fierce cage fighter came to be afraid of the dark.
fiction
edward w pritchard
One could only endure a cage boxing match against Boswell Shayes. Boswell had a fierce nature, even for a competitive cage fighter and Boswell looked a thug. Boswell's body, his countenance, and his physiognomy were menacing and intimidating. None of the other cage fighters enjoyed sparring or cage boxing with Boswell Shayes. When Boswell walked down the street even groups of three or four teenage men sensed his truculent and aggressive nature and they pulled aside instinctively.
The only person who knew a gentler side of Boswell was his girlfriend Lillian. Lillian was a single Mother with a six year old daughter, Megan. The little girl, Megan was very sick and for the last six months while Lillian worked if Boswell wasn't working at his day job he was by Megan's bedside at Children's hospital reading to her or watching cartoons. It was only because of Lillian's insistence that Boswell continued to workout with his cage boxing training for he was inclined to spend all his extra time at the hospital with Megan, who was a sad sick little girl.
Boswell continued to train for the kick boxing and because he wanted to hurry to the hospital he made every minute of his workouts count. The gym became a refuge for Boswell and he approached his workouts with a fierce intensity. Boswell became trained for cage fighting to a proper sporting edge and he was at his peak of conditioning.
Although Boswell was in peak physical shape he developed severe insomnia about the time Megan began spending more time at the Children's Hospital cancer ward than at her and Lillian's small house. Repeatedly Boswell the cage boxer began to have horrifying dreams of terror and death which woke him promptly at four AM. Boswell would then be unable to return to sleep and would fret and suffer for Megan's safety. The fears continued to creep on into Boswell's day as well. Boswell began to fear the night time hours and Boswell the fierce cage fighter came to be afraid of the dark.
Monday, May 23, 2011
turtle release
turtle release
fiction
edward w pritchard
see also
The Cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark, Feb 11, 2011
The little girl's voice was excited and carried to where I was standing fishing. I had watched the two of them get out of their car up near where mine was parked by the baseball field about 200 yards from where I stood fishing. Despite the strong wind I could hear every word the little girl said.
He was Boswell and must be her Mother's boyfriend. Boswell was carefully listening to her but he was struggling a little carrying the heavy snapping turtle. In spite of the towel that protected him from the snapping turtle I could see he carried a monster. Boswell was straining with the weight of the turtle and his neck and shoulder muscles were bulging through his shirt. I thought of Chaucer's miller's tale, the Miller could knock a stout barn door off the hinges with his head. Boswell looked the same as Chaucer's Miller, except he also had large arms and a cage fighters face as he held the large turtle away from his body and face with his hands and arms in a circle.
The little girl was explaining to Boswell where the turtle would swim to when they released it into the Lake.
I continued to fish and I am not sure if they knew I was there, about fifty feet to their right, around a bend in the Lake, fishing in the cold wind.
I listened to the ritual they went through releasing the snapping turtle but I didn't hear where they had found it. After a few minutes and they were sure the turtle was gone they planned a walk along the Lake, mostly to distract the girl from worrying about the turtle which now that it had disappeared she was fretting over.
I had caught a few fish while they were releasing the turtle and I heard him tell her that they should say something to the fisherman. About then I got a bite on my second pole, the one I was fishing with tight line for cat fish and I had a premonition that it was the turtle. I was using bacon for bait and it was plausible although maybe unlikely that I had hooked their turtle.
As the girl came around the corner with the man I cut the line and grabbed the other pole and began to fuss with the reel. Boswell was somewhat shy but the little girl, Megan talked up a storm. She told me about the turtle and talked until she got cold.
For a variety of reasons I don't do much fishing anymore.
end
more to follow on Megan and Boswell
fiction
edward w pritchard
see also
The Cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark, Feb 11, 2011
The little girl's voice was excited and carried to where I was standing fishing. I had watched the two of them get out of their car up near where mine was parked by the baseball field about 200 yards from where I stood fishing. Despite the strong wind I could hear every word the little girl said.
He was Boswell and must be her Mother's boyfriend. Boswell was carefully listening to her but he was struggling a little carrying the heavy snapping turtle. In spite of the towel that protected him from the snapping turtle I could see he carried a monster. Boswell was straining with the weight of the turtle and his neck and shoulder muscles were bulging through his shirt. I thought of Chaucer's miller's tale, the Miller could knock a stout barn door off the hinges with his head. Boswell looked the same as Chaucer's Miller, except he also had large arms and a cage fighters face as he held the large turtle away from his body and face with his hands and arms in a circle.
The little girl was explaining to Boswell where the turtle would swim to when they released it into the Lake.
I continued to fish and I am not sure if they knew I was there, about fifty feet to their right, around a bend in the Lake, fishing in the cold wind.
I listened to the ritual they went through releasing the snapping turtle but I didn't hear where they had found it. After a few minutes and they were sure the turtle was gone they planned a walk along the Lake, mostly to distract the girl from worrying about the turtle which now that it had disappeared she was fretting over.
I had caught a few fish while they were releasing the turtle and I heard him tell her that they should say something to the fisherman. About then I got a bite on my second pole, the one I was fishing with tight line for cat fish and I had a premonition that it was the turtle. I was using bacon for bait and it was plausible although maybe unlikely that I had hooked their turtle.
As the girl came around the corner with the man I cut the line and grabbed the other pole and began to fuss with the reel. Boswell was somewhat shy but the little girl, Megan talked up a storm. She told me about the turtle and talked until she got cold.
For a variety of reasons I don't do much fishing anymore.
end
more to follow on Megan and Boswell
adbright
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
vagrant
vagrant
fiction
edward w pritchard
for officer Johnson APD
I try to be kind to people, not always easy for a policeman. Boswell sits down at the Lake and stares into the water for hours and hours. He makes the restaurant owners across Manchester Rd nervous when he comes around, they are afraid he scares off their customers.
I met Boswell when I worked over at the Children hospital as a security guard when I was finishing my criminal justice degree. He came everyday to see the sick little girl and I came to respect him as I got to know him a little. I recognized him; he was well known locally for his cage fighting. I was interested then in martial arts and we used to talk a little. It was odd because he stood outside in the cold and smoked cigarettes. He was very anxious over the girl's health. Her name was Megan and because of her he broke his training and smoked.
The night Megan died my supervisor at the hospital radioed me to come up to the cancer ward. Boswell Shayes was sitting out in the hall on the floor. The little girl was dead. Several of the Doctors were afraid Boswell might blow up. I walked with him outside and talked to him for twenty minutes. After, he went back in with his girlfriend, the girl's Mother.
One of the fishermen told me about the Turtle release Boswell and Megan did here at the Lake. I was talking to the fisherman when I was playing softball up at the field.
Sometimes when I am driving home from work from my duties as a policeman I stop over at the dollar burger place across the lake and buy three or four hamburgers and take them over to the lake and share them with Boswell. We eat one each and always throw the rest to the snapping turtles.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
for officer Johnson APD
I try to be kind to people, not always easy for a policeman. Boswell sits down at the Lake and stares into the water for hours and hours. He makes the restaurant owners across Manchester Rd nervous when he comes around, they are afraid he scares off their customers.
I met Boswell when I worked over at the Children hospital as a security guard when I was finishing my criminal justice degree. He came everyday to see the sick little girl and I came to respect him as I got to know him a little. I recognized him; he was well known locally for his cage fighting. I was interested then in martial arts and we used to talk a little. It was odd because he stood outside in the cold and smoked cigarettes. He was very anxious over the girl's health. Her name was Megan and because of her he broke his training and smoked.
The night Megan died my supervisor at the hospital radioed me to come up to the cancer ward. Boswell Shayes was sitting out in the hall on the floor. The little girl was dead. Several of the Doctors were afraid Boswell might blow up. I walked with him outside and talked to him for twenty minutes. After, he went back in with his girlfriend, the girl's Mother.
One of the fishermen told me about the Turtle release Boswell and Megan did here at the Lake. I was talking to the fisherman when I was playing softball up at the field.
Sometimes when I am driving home from work from my duties as a policeman I stop over at the dollar burger place across the lake and buy three or four hamburgers and take them over to the lake and share them with Boswell. We eat one each and always throw the rest to the snapping turtles.
end
adbright
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
fisherman's tale
fisherman's tale
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somehow my wife always knows things and as usual she figured out I was feeding the local vagrant at the lake. I fish up there again and I had been taking food to the man I had met releasing a snapping turtle one day.
The man was named Boswell and he was releasing a turtle with a little girl, Megan. She died about a year ago.
One day recently while I was fishing I had called police officer Johnson to stop up at the baseball field near the lake where I fish. Dispatch said Officer Johnson was on another call and wasn't available. I asked Boswell, who people now call the vagrant, to say something to the one team for me. The players had been drinking and were using a lot of very vulgar language. There were a lot of children up near the field and they shouldn't hear that kind of bad language. Boswell had been a champion cage boxer here in town, I am too old for such a confrontation and I asked Boswell to say something for me. That's when I noticed he had lost weight. As he walked over from his usual spot at the lake he took his shirt off. I saw he had lost about twenty pounds of muscle through the chest and shoulders. Of course he had no trouble getting the drinking baseball players to behave. After that I started taking Boswell food when I went fishing.
Out of the blue my wife started making me a basket to take up to the Lake with a double order of food. She is a great cook and Boswell and I enjoyed the fare. I might ad I am not much of a cook, I was a chef's helper in the army but my skills as a chef are very limited. I figured out that my wife had heard about the turtle release story with Boswell and the little girl Megan when she started putting a lot of bacon in our basket for the lake. I can't eat bacon. Somehow my wife through her network must have found out about the little girl who had died of cancer and the turtle release I had witnessed a few years ago. She put in the bacon for me and Boswell to feed to the snapping turtles.
My wife is a good egg I guess.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somehow my wife always knows things and as usual she figured out I was feeding the local vagrant at the lake. I fish up there again and I had been taking food to the man I had met releasing a snapping turtle one day.
The man was named Boswell and he was releasing a turtle with a little girl, Megan. She died about a year ago.
One day recently while I was fishing I had called police officer Johnson to stop up at the baseball field near the lake where I fish. Dispatch said Officer Johnson was on another call and wasn't available. I asked Boswell, who people now call the vagrant, to say something to the one team for me. The players had been drinking and were using a lot of very vulgar language. There were a lot of children up near the field and they shouldn't hear that kind of bad language. Boswell had been a champion cage boxer here in town, I am too old for such a confrontation and I asked Boswell to say something for me. That's when I noticed he had lost weight. As he walked over from his usual spot at the lake he took his shirt off. I saw he had lost about twenty pounds of muscle through the chest and shoulders. Of course he had no trouble getting the drinking baseball players to behave. After that I started taking Boswell food when I went fishing.
Out of the blue my wife started making me a basket to take up to the Lake with a double order of food. She is a great cook and Boswell and I enjoyed the fare. I might ad I am not much of a cook, I was a chef's helper in the army but my skills as a chef are very limited. I figured out that my wife had heard about the turtle release story with Boswell and the little girl Megan when she started putting a lot of bacon in our basket for the lake. I can't eat bacon. Somehow my wife through her network must have found out about the little girl who had died of cancer and the turtle release I had witnessed a few years ago. She put in the bacon for me and Boswell to feed to the snapping turtles.
My wife is a good egg I guess.
the long delayed but always expected something
the long delayed but always expected something
fiction
edward w pritchard
Amanda, Amanda aren't you ready yet girl. He will be here any minute.
Mother can't we just skip it.
Girl, I declare, I don't know what I am going to do with you. What's there to live for if we don't have hope; today's the day that what we hoped for is arrived. Now get your hair combed and put on a smile. The gentleman caller will be here any minute.
Mother sometimes I wish I could just stay in Tennessee and tend to the Roses.
Girl , you just exhaust me. What kind of girl isn't happy to meet the gentleman caller.
end
a short critical commentary of the work of Tennessee Williams, for his sister Rose
fiction
edward w pritchard
Amanda, Amanda aren't you ready yet girl. He will be here any minute.
Mother can't we just skip it.
Girl, I declare, I don't know what I am going to do with you. What's there to live for if we don't have hope; today's the day that what we hoped for is arrived. Now get your hair combed and put on a smile. The gentleman caller will be here any minute.
Mother sometimes I wish I could just stay in Tennessee and tend to the Roses.
Girl , you just exhaust me. What kind of girl isn't happy to meet the gentleman caller.
end
a short critical commentary of the work of Tennessee Williams, for his sister Rose
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
can an empirical hegalian predict the future
can an empirical Hegelian predict the future
fiction
edward w pritchard
Can an empirical Hegelian predict the future? Can we study societies evolving without emphasizing the influence of economics or religion?
I wrote on this before. Idealism or materialism. Hegel or Marx?
Author remains silent on the predicting issue.
Here is what I wrote before:
zeitgeist
fiction
edward w pritchard
We spend an entire lifetime trying to figure what it all means. We can't, we are too enmeshed in the zeitgeist.
Near death we understand. Ancients did too and decided that we must live again and again to see the truth.
Reincarnation.
end
let's throw in Darwin:
we are a small mammal huddling in the back of our burrow,
noises filter into our senses,
we had enough to eat today and our burrow is warm and dry
best return to sleep darkness will end soon
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Can an empirical Hegelian predict the future? Can we study societies evolving without emphasizing the influence of economics or religion?
I wrote on this before. Idealism or materialism. Hegel or Marx?
Author remains silent on the predicting issue.
Here is what I wrote before:
zeitgeist
fiction
edward w pritchard
We spend an entire lifetime trying to figure what it all means. We can't, we are too enmeshed in the zeitgeist.
Near death we understand. Ancients did too and decided that we must live again and again to see the truth.
Reincarnation.
end
let's throw in Darwin:
we are a small mammal huddling in the back of our burrow,
noises filter into our senses,
we had enough to eat today and our burrow is warm and dry
best return to sleep darkness will end soon
end
fisherman's tale
fisherman's tale
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somehow my wife always knows things and as usual she figured out I was feeding the local vagrant at the lake. I fished up there a lot and I had been taking food to the man I had met releasing a snapping turtle one day.
The man was named Boswell and he was releasing a turtle with a little girl, Megan. She died about a year ago.
One day recently while I was fishing I had called police officer Johnson to stop up at the baseball field near the lake where I fish. Dispatch said Officer Johnson was on another call and wasn't available. I asked Boswell, who people now call the vagrant, to say something to the one team for me. The players had been drinking and were using a lot of very vulgar language. Their were a lot of children up near the field and they shouldn't hear that kind of bad language. Boswell had been a champion cage boxer here in town, I am too old for such a confrontation and I asked Boswell to say something for me. That's when I noticed he had lost weight. As he walked over from his usual spot at the lake he took his shirt off. I saw he had lost about twenty pounds of muscle through the chest and shoulders. Of course he had no trouble getting the drinking baseball players to behave. After that I started taking Boswell food when I went fishing.
Out of the blue my wife started making me a basket to take up to the Lake with a double order of food. She is a great cook and Boswell and I enjoyed the fare. I might ad I am not much of a cook, I was a chef's helper in the army but my skills as a chef are very limited. I figured out that my wife had heard about the turtle release story with Boswell and the little girl Megan when she started putting a lot of bacon in our basket for the lake. I can't eat bacon. Somehow my wife through her network must have found out about the little girl who had died of cancer and the turtle release I had witnessed a few year ago. She put in the bacon for me and Boswell to feed to the snapping turtles.
My wife is a good egg I guess.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somehow my wife always knows things and as usual she figured out I was feeding the local vagrant at the lake. I fished up there a lot and I had been taking food to the man I had met releasing a snapping turtle one day.
The man was named Boswell and he was releasing a turtle with a little girl, Megan. She died about a year ago.
One day recently while I was fishing I had called police officer Johnson to stop up at the baseball field near the lake where I fish. Dispatch said Officer Johnson was on another call and wasn't available. I asked Boswell, who people now call the vagrant, to say something to the one team for me. The players had been drinking and were using a lot of very vulgar language. Their were a lot of children up near the field and they shouldn't hear that kind of bad language. Boswell had been a champion cage boxer here in town, I am too old for such a confrontation and I asked Boswell to say something for me. That's when I noticed he had lost weight. As he walked over from his usual spot at the lake he took his shirt off. I saw he had lost about twenty pounds of muscle through the chest and shoulders. Of course he had no trouble getting the drinking baseball players to behave. After that I started taking Boswell food when I went fishing.
Out of the blue my wife started making me a basket to take up to the Lake with a double order of food. She is a great cook and Boswell and I enjoyed the fare. I might ad I am not much of a cook, I was a chef's helper in the army but my skills as a chef are very limited. I figured out that my wife had heard about the turtle release story with Boswell and the little girl Megan when she started putting a lot of bacon in our basket for the lake. I can't eat bacon. Somehow my wife through her network must have found out about the little girl who had died of cancer and the turtle release I had witnessed a few year ago. She put in the bacon for me and Boswell to feed to the snapping turtles.
My wife is a good egg I guess.
vagrant
vagrant
fiction
edward w pritchard
I try to be kind to people, not always easy for a policeman. Boswell sits down at the Lake and stares into the water for hours and hours. He makes the restaurant owners across Manchester Rd nervous when he comes around, they are afraid he scares off their customers.
I met Boswell when I worked over at the Children hospital as a security guard when I was finishing my criminal justice degree. He came everyday to see the sick little girl and I came to respect him as I got to know him a little. I recognized him; he was well known locally for his cage fighting. I was interested then in martial arts and we used to talk a little. It was odd because he stood outside in the cold and smoked cigarettes. He was very anxious over the girl's health. Her name was Megan and because of her he broke his training and smoked.
The night Megan died my supervisor at the hospital radioed me to come up to the cancer ward. Boswell Shayes was sitting out in the hall on the floor. The little girl was dead. Several of the Doctors were afraid Boswell might blow up. I walked with him outside and talked to him for twenty minutes. After, he went back in with his girlfriend, the girl's Mother.
One of the fishermen told me about the Turtle release Boswell and Megan did here at the Lake. I was talking to the fisherman when I was playing softball up at the field.
Sometimes when I am driving home from work from my duties as a policeman I stop over at the dollar burger place across the lake and buy three or four hamburgers and take them over to the lake and share them with Boswell. We eat one each and always throw the rest to the snapping turtles.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
I try to be kind to people, not always easy for a policeman. Boswell sits down at the Lake and stares into the water for hours and hours. He makes the restaurant owners across Manchester Rd nervous when he comes around, they are afraid he scares off their customers.
I met Boswell when I worked over at the Children hospital as a security guard when I was finishing my criminal justice degree. He came everyday to see the sick little girl and I came to respect him as I got to know him a little. I recognized him; he was well known locally for his cage fighting. I was interested then in martial arts and we used to talk a little. It was odd because he stood outside in the cold and smoked cigarettes. He was very anxious over the girl's health. Her name was Megan and because of her he broke his training and smoked.
The night Megan died my supervisor at the hospital radioed me to come up to the cancer ward. Boswell Shayes was sitting out in the hall on the floor. The little girl was dead. Several of the Doctors were afraid Boswell might blow up. I walked with him outside and talked to him for twenty minutes. After, he went back in with his girlfriend, the girl's Mother.
One of the fishermen told me about the Turtle release Boswell and Megan did here at the Lake. I was talking to the fisherman when I was playing softball up at the field.
Sometimes when I am driving home from work from my duties as a policeman I stop over at the dollar burger place across the lake and buy three or four hamburgers and take them over to the lake and share them with Boswell. We eat one each and always throw the rest to the snapping turtles.
end
Find the psychological problems
Find the psychological problems
fiction
edward w pritchard
Assignment
Psychology of Adjustment-105
Dr. Nancy Monroe
Class please use internet to review the writings of edward w pritchard @ blog spot.com. Review the short stories, said to be fiction and find evidences of the psychological problems evidenced by the writer. For example take Adjustment disorders. Find four or five short stories and then list a few examples displayed directly or indirectly by the writer. Use the DSM's for extra credit.
Conclude your assignment by a few general comments on the effectiveness of journal writing for patients. On a lighter note would you assign your client to write a journal if it might shorten the sessions?
This is for a test grade. As usual typed double spaced, half inch margins. Due this Friday. Please do not leave comments for the writer or " footprints " in any way on the site.
Nancy Monroe
fiction
edward w pritchard
Assignment
Psychology of Adjustment-105
Dr. Nancy Monroe
Class please use internet to review the writings of edward w pritchard @ blog spot.com. Review the short stories, said to be fiction and find evidences of the psychological problems evidenced by the writer. For example take Adjustment disorders. Find four or five short stories and then list a few examples displayed directly or indirectly by the writer. Use the DSM's for extra credit.
Conclude your assignment by a few general comments on the effectiveness of journal writing for patients. On a lighter note would you assign your client to write a journal if it might shorten the sessions?
This is for a test grade. As usual typed double spaced, half inch margins. Due this Friday. Please do not leave comments for the writer or " footprints " in any way on the site.
Nancy Monroe
the grim reaper visits my locality
the grim reaper visits my locality
fiction
edward w pritchard
We we at the fast food restaurant, the world's largest chain when I met the grim reaper. I tentatively asked
" Are you here for me"
He chuckles a little, but obviously just wanting me to leave him alone.
"No, he said, you won't do the asking when I come for you"
He was just here to order himself some food. Safe from the ravishes of death for now I became judgmental of the grim reaper. He was ordering a vast quantity of fast food and he was very obese. He was very tall, maybe six feet four and he must weigh three hundred fifty pounds. Rather than the typical black cloak he wore in paintings my grim reaper wore a magnificent white Muslim style one piece sherwani. He cut an imposing figure but I was appalled by the amount of food he piled his tray with. There were four or five double super sandwiches and the usual add ons.
The grim reaper sat alone and ate his lunch. I watched him pull out a small cell phone type device and I surmised he was using his GPS system to locate his next assignment.
I looked away for a moment and the grim reaper was leaving. I watched him walk away. From the back he looked quite dashing as he purposely marched off to his next appointment.
fiction
edward w pritchard
We we at the fast food restaurant, the world's largest chain when I met the grim reaper. I tentatively asked
" Are you here for me"
He chuckles a little, but obviously just wanting me to leave him alone.
"No, he said, you won't do the asking when I come for you"
He was just here to order himself some food. Safe from the ravishes of death for now I became judgmental of the grim reaper. He was ordering a vast quantity of fast food and he was very obese. He was very tall, maybe six feet four and he must weigh three hundred fifty pounds. Rather than the typical black cloak he wore in paintings my grim reaper wore a magnificent white Muslim style one piece sherwani. He cut an imposing figure but I was appalled by the amount of food he piled his tray with. There were four or five double super sandwiches and the usual add ons.
The grim reaper sat alone and ate his lunch. I watched him pull out a small cell phone type device and I surmised he was using his GPS system to locate his next assignment.
I looked away for a moment and the grim reaper was leaving. I watched him walk away. From the back he looked quite dashing as he purposely marched off to his next appointment.
struggling to keep up
struggling to keep up
fiction
edward w pritchard
One gets used to the terrain around the familiar landscape they inhabit; who ever notices which way small streams of water curve and flow as water follows the roads down the sloping inclines we drive on everyday. Today the direction of the crashing waters was crucial for these were unprecedented floods and the comfortable small hills sloping here and there in gentle descent that I drove on everyday to work as I went about my life threatened to drown everyone or at least destroy the comfortable lives we had become accustomed to. For two days it had been raining and floods threaten to destroy our small City. Many homes were already destroyed by the flood waters. Several small streams barely noticeable usually were now awe inflicting as they ruthlessly rushed down the slope of the local landscape.
I was struggling to keep up with Marion . We were running along the steep roads behind the Crystal Bowl, the old stadium near our small home, that had been the backdrop and center of our world as we had went about shopping, meeting and courting, and now splitting up. Our relationship was in turmoil but it wasn't until these extended rain storm that I realized that things were over between us.
As she ran along Marion seemed a stranger. She wasn't listening to my suggestions about where to head for safety and she seemed to follow her own secret agenda. Dashing waters from the floods destroyed the cherished edifices of our friends and family uprooting trees and landscapes but Marion seemed oblivious. Her intensity of purpose allowed no sentiment or thought to anything except to run toward her secret location.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and I had dodged the worst of the cascading flood waters. I had become separated from Marion near the top of the hills behind the old stadium as she ran along at ten miles per hour. I couldn't keep up and I slowed to my own pace and leisurely looked for a place of sanctuary to wait out the rain storms.
I wound up at the local sports bar a pleasant twenty minute drive from my house under normal conditions. It was open, business was as usual several sports games were on the big screen TV's and the atmosphere was loud and pleasant with locals waiting out the storms. As I ate my dinner and had a few beers I watched a middle aged woman in a booth about thirty feet away. I couldn't help it she was directly in front of me. The man she sat next to was partially shielded from view.
The woman was struggling to be a lady as the man she was sitting with put his hands up and down her ass and lower back as she ate her meal. She delicately sipped a glass of wine. The woman was dark red headed and pretty in a faded way. I tried to look else where but I watched as she delicately crossed her legs and put her hand protectively into her lap.
I finished my meal and walked to the front to pay walking right next to the delicate red headed lady. The man next to her was looking away, he was groping the woman to his left. It was my Marion and as I walked by I noticed Marion had her legs crossed in a ladylike fashion and her right hand delicately in her lap as the man between the two women continued to grope them as he burped down his beer.
fiction
edward w pritchard
One gets used to the terrain around the familiar landscape they inhabit; who ever notices which way small streams of water curve and flow as water follows the roads down the sloping inclines we drive on everyday. Today the direction of the crashing waters was crucial for these were unprecedented floods and the comfortable small hills sloping here and there in gentle descent that I drove on everyday to work as I went about my life threatened to drown everyone or at least destroy the comfortable lives we had become accustomed to. For two days it had been raining and floods threaten to destroy our small City. Many homes were already destroyed by the flood waters. Several small streams barely noticeable usually were now awe inflicting as they ruthlessly rushed down the slope of the local landscape.
I was struggling to keep up with Marion . We were running along the steep roads behind the Crystal Bowl, the old stadium near our small home, that had been the backdrop and center of our world as we had went about shopping, meeting and courting, and now splitting up. Our relationship was in turmoil but it wasn't until these extended rain storm that I realized that things were over between us.
As she ran along Marion seemed a stranger. She wasn't listening to my suggestions about where to head for safety and she seemed to follow her own secret agenda. Dashing waters from the floods destroyed the cherished edifices of our friends and family uprooting trees and landscapes but Marion seemed oblivious. Her intensity of purpose allowed no sentiment or thought to anything except to run toward her secret location.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and I had dodged the worst of the cascading flood waters. I had become separated from Marion near the top of the hills behind the old stadium as she ran along at ten miles per hour. I couldn't keep up and I slowed to my own pace and leisurely looked for a place of sanctuary to wait out the rain storms.
I wound up at the local sports bar a pleasant twenty minute drive from my house under normal conditions. It was open, business was as usual several sports games were on the big screen TV's and the atmosphere was loud and pleasant with locals waiting out the storms. As I ate my dinner and had a few beers I watched a middle aged woman in a booth about thirty feet away. I couldn't help it she was directly in front of me. The man she sat next to was partially shielded from view.
The woman was struggling to be a lady as the man she was sitting with put his hands up and down her ass and lower back as she ate her meal. She delicately sipped a glass of wine. The woman was dark red headed and pretty in a faded way. I tried to look else where but I watched as she delicately crossed her legs and put her hand protectively into her lap.
I finished my meal and walked to the front to pay walking right next to the delicate red headed lady. The man next to her was looking away, he was groping the woman to his left. It was my Marion and as I walked by I noticed Marion had her legs crossed in a ladylike fashion and her right hand delicately in her lap as the man between the two women continued to grope them as he burped down his beer.
Monday, May 23, 2011
handicapped girl in the rain
handicapped girl in the rain
fiction
edward w pritchard
I wanted to help the girl but I couldn't get out of the traffic to park.
Our weather had been unseasonably cold and rainy all Spring. Stopped at a red light it began to pour, a cold heavy drizzle driven by a gusting wind. I was sitting at the red light there where five roads converged and it took a long time for my light to turn green as I watched the girl cross three streets with the lights as she was dashed by the rain. She was wearing long shorts and a light shirt and the rain was soaking her as she ran without a hat.
The girl ran awkwardly with her arms held shoulder high clumsily for balance and I surmised she was handicapped before I had enough visual information to verify my intuition. When she ran I could see her legs worked less than optimally and she didn't react normally to the rain storm.
I didn't fear for her safety in the heavy traffic in the rain storm but it seemed like someone should do something to help. I was at a very long light and I was in a long line of stopped traffic in a heavy rain at a busy intersection.
The girl rain against three lights successfully crossing in a three quarters circle using the button to assist a passenger in crossing. She was not waiting for the lights to change in her favor or the button to assist her but was taking a quick glance and then crossing against the lights. It was very stressful to watch.
She must be very drenched from the rain but she successfully crossed three streets and I could see she was momentarily safe as I watched her in my rear view mirror as I pulled through the intersection and drove off.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I wanted to help the girl but I couldn't get out of the traffic to park.
Our weather had been unseasonably cold and rainy all Spring. Stopped at a red light it began to pour, a cold heavy drizzle driven by a gusting wind. I was sitting at the red light there where five roads converged and it took a long time for my light to turn green as I watched the girl cross three streets with the lights as she was dashed by the rain. She was wearing long shorts and a light shirt and the rain was soaking her as she ran without a hat.
The girl ran awkwardly with her arms held shoulder high clumsily for balance and I surmised she was handicapped before I had enough visual information to verify my intuition. When she ran I could see her legs worked less than optimally and she didn't react normally to the rain storm.
I didn't fear for her safety in the heavy traffic in the rain storm but it seemed like someone should do something to help. I was at a very long light and I was in a long line of stopped traffic in a heavy rain at a busy intersection.
The girl rain against three lights successfully crossing in a three quarters circle using the button to assist a passenger in crossing. She was not waiting for the lights to change in her favor or the button to assist her but was taking a quick glance and then crossing against the lights. It was very stressful to watch.
She must be very drenched from the rain but she successfully crossed three streets and I could see she was momentarily safe as I watched her in my rear view mirror as I pulled through the intersection and drove off.
turtle release
turtle release
fiction
edward w pritchard
see also
The Cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark, Feb 11, 2011
The little girl's voice was excited and carried to where I was standing fishing. I had watched the two of them get out of their car up near where mine was parked by the baseball field about 200 yards from where I stood fishing. Despite the strong wind I could hear every word the little girl said.
He was Boswell and must be her Mother's boyfriend. Boswell was carefully listening to her but he was struggling a little carrying the heavy snapping turtle. In spite of the towel that protected him from the snapping turtle I could see he carried a monster. Boswell was straining with the weight of the turtle and his neck and shoulder muscles were bulging through his shirt. I thought of Chaucer's miller's tale, the Miller could knock a stout barn door off the hinges with his head. Boswell looked the same as Chaucer's Miller, except he also had large arms and a cage fighters face as he held the large turtle away from his body and face with his hands and arms in a circle.
The little girl was explaining to Boswell where the turtle would swim to when they released it into the Lake.
I continued to fish and I am not sure if they knew I was there, about fifty feet to their right, around a bend in the Lake, fishing in the cold wind.
I listened to the ritual they went through releasing the snapping turtle but I didn't hear where they had found it. After a few minutes and they were sure the turtle was gone they planned a walk along the Lake, mostly to distract the girl from worrying about the turtle which now that it had disappeared she was fretting over.
I had caught a few fish while they were releasing the turtle and I heard him tell her that they should say something to the fisherman. About then I got a bite on my second pole, the one I was fishing with tight line for cat fish and I had a premonition that it was the turtle. I was using bacon for bait and it was plausible although maybe unlikely that I had hooked their turtle.
As the girl came around the corner with the man I cut the line and grabbed the other pole and began to fuss with the reel. Boswell was somewhat shy but the little girl, Megan talked up a storm. She told me about the turtle and talked until she got cold.
For a variety of reasons I don't do much fishing anymore.
end
more to follow on Megan and Boswell
fiction
edward w pritchard
see also
The Cage fighter who grew to be afraid of the dark, Feb 11, 2011
The little girl's voice was excited and carried to where I was standing fishing. I had watched the two of them get out of their car up near where mine was parked by the baseball field about 200 yards from where I stood fishing. Despite the strong wind I could hear every word the little girl said.
He was Boswell and must be her Mother's boyfriend. Boswell was carefully listening to her but he was struggling a little carrying the heavy snapping turtle. In spite of the towel that protected him from the snapping turtle I could see he carried a monster. Boswell was straining with the weight of the turtle and his neck and shoulder muscles were bulging through his shirt. I thought of Chaucer's miller's tale, the Miller could knock a stout barn door off the hinges with his head. Boswell looked the same as Chaucer's Miller, except he also had large arms and a cage fighters face as he held the large turtle away from his body and face with his hands and arms in a circle.
The little girl was explaining to Boswell where the turtle would swim to when they released it into the Lake.
I continued to fish and I am not sure if they knew I was there, about fifty feet to their right, around a bend in the Lake, fishing in the cold wind.
I listened to the ritual they went through releasing the snapping turtle but I didn't hear where they had found it. After a few minutes and they were sure the turtle was gone they planned a walk along the Lake, mostly to distract the girl from worrying about the turtle which now that it had disappeared she was fretting over.
I had caught a few fish while they were releasing the turtle and I heard him tell her that they should say something to the fisherman. About then I got a bite on my second pole, the one I was fishing with tight line for cat fish and I had a premonition that it was the turtle. I was using bacon for bait and it was plausible although maybe unlikely that I had hooked their turtle.
As the girl came around the corner with the man I cut the line and grabbed the other pole and began to fuss with the reel. Boswell was somewhat shy but the little girl, Megan talked up a storm. She told me about the turtle and talked until she got cold.
For a variety of reasons I don't do much fishing anymore.
end
more to follow on Megan and Boswell
adjunct economics professor
adjunct economics professor
fiction
edward w pritchard
These students don't know their economics. Certainty not capitalism or Marx or Revisionist theories.
I need to get out of this Provincial cesspool of a town. I must travel. At my house the carpets are old and worn but I have visited the great centers of civilization: Istanbul, Copenhagen, Morocco, the Vatican Library.
All my students care about is their petty careers. They don't want to hear anything that's not practical. They are like old men already. Hoarding, saving, "what's the interest rate? What's the return on assets on that deal Professor? They never want to learn for curiosity. No joie de vivre
How did I end up here. All the faculty cares about are their town houses on University row. Should I refinance my mortgage professor? Have you published lately Professor?
Now my wife wants to paint the house we are renting. That will lead to new carpets.
Maybe a trip to the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul this Spring break to look at fine rugs . What's that? " No I don't know what the Market will do this Summer."
fiction
edward w pritchard
These students don't know their economics. Certainty not capitalism or Marx or Revisionist theories.
I need to get out of this Provincial cesspool of a town. I must travel. At my house the carpets are old and worn but I have visited the great centers of civilization: Istanbul, Copenhagen, Morocco, the Vatican Library.
All my students care about is their petty careers. They don't want to hear anything that's not practical. They are like old men already. Hoarding, saving, "what's the interest rate? What's the return on assets on that deal Professor? They never want to learn for curiosity. No joie de vivre
How did I end up here. All the faculty cares about are their town houses on University row. Should I refinance my mortgage professor? Have you published lately Professor?
Now my wife wants to paint the house we are renting. That will lead to new carpets.
Maybe a trip to the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul this Spring break to look at fine rugs . What's that? " No I don't know what the Market will do this Summer."
Sunday, May 22, 2011
how a lady enters the water
how a lady enters the water
fiction
edward w pritchard
How a lady enters the water at the Lake or the beach is very telling.
Walking with her dog into a small lake is a skinny girl with tattoos on her arms, bleach blond hair and a cigarette in her hand. Three female friends watch from shore. One on parole and the other partially drunk.
The village beauty has come to water ski with you. Drop dead gorgeous in her miniature bikini she has drawn a crowd of admirers. Taking notice she won't enter the water preferring the notoriety she has created. At last it has gone too far; the firemen at the station beside the Lake have abandoned their duties and are lined three deep to admire your date. Think twice before bringing a luscious bootsy to the local lake.
The swimming champ moves sideways into the Lake to reduce the friction of the waves. She is attractive in her one piece red bathing suit but she manipulates her head weirdly to promote efficient breathing as she swims. She stays in the water a very long time and bats at her ears to remove the remaining water when finally on the shore.
Curvy Cary loves to play games in the water. Its a pleasant way to pass a day at the beach.
Monica is a little old fashion in her appearance at the beach. Her glasses and hat are a bit too much. You simmer over her for months and years after she drives away off to college.
Mrs. Roberts holds her four year old daughters hand and sits with her as the little girl piles up sand at the waters edge. When you have a wife you won't leave her alone at the beach you decide. Especially if she looks like Mrs. Roberts.
After the volley ball game the four girls run in synchronization across the beach and dive into the water. It's hard to believe you never called them when they used to put their hands on your shoulders.
Warm sun illuminates as it strengthens.
Sherry sits with you at the beach. She is too pretty to be alone. Every fifteen minutes she stands up walks down to the water and splashes a little water across her arms by delicately using her left foot to splash with. You sit with her off and on for a couple of weeks and she enjoys it when you watch her.
fiction
edward w pritchard
How a lady enters the water at the Lake or the beach is very telling.
Walking with her dog into a small lake is a skinny girl with tattoos on her arms, bleach blond hair and a cigarette in her hand. Three female friends watch from shore. One on parole and the other partially drunk.
The village beauty has come to water ski with you. Drop dead gorgeous in her miniature bikini she has drawn a crowd of admirers. Taking notice she won't enter the water preferring the notoriety she has created. At last it has gone too far; the firemen at the station beside the Lake have abandoned their duties and are lined three deep to admire your date. Think twice before bringing a luscious bootsy to the local lake.
The swimming champ moves sideways into the Lake to reduce the friction of the waves. She is attractive in her one piece red bathing suit but she manipulates her head weirdly to promote efficient breathing as she swims. She stays in the water a very long time and bats at her ears to remove the remaining water when finally on the shore.
Curvy Cary loves to play games in the water. Its a pleasant way to pass a day at the beach.
Monica is a little old fashion in her appearance at the beach. Her glasses and hat are a bit too much. You simmer over her for months and years after she drives away off to college.
Mrs. Roberts holds her four year old daughters hand and sits with her as the little girl piles up sand at the waters edge. When you have a wife you won't leave her alone at the beach you decide. Especially if she looks like Mrs. Roberts.
After the volley ball game the four girls run in synchronization across the beach and dive into the water. It's hard to believe you never called them when they used to put their hands on your shoulders.
Warm sun illuminates as it strengthens.
Sherry sits with you at the beach. She is too pretty to be alone. Every fifteen minutes she stands up walks down to the water and splashes a little water across her arms by delicately using her left foot to splash with. You sit with her off and on for a couple of weeks and she enjoys it when you watch her.
call Jesus today
call Jesus today
fiction
edward w pritchard
Jesus answered when you were sick
Came to you in your hour of need
Stood for you so that you may live
Now you walk along strong and proud
Act today now while there's still time
oh Call him,- call him, -Call Jesus today
Jesus waits for you far away
Wants to meet but he needs your call
has the time now it's up to you
take the step you know you must
Speak his name you still know how
Call him, -call him, -you call Jesus today
Come to Jesus walk into the light
You have fears only you know why
cleanse your heart and be born again
shout with joy make the day be bright
Oh, call him- call him- you call Jesus today
fiction
edward w pritchard
Jesus answered when you were sick
Came to you in your hour of need
Stood for you so that you may live
Now you walk along strong and proud
Act today now while there's still time
oh Call him,- call him, -Call Jesus today
Jesus waits for you far away
Wants to meet but he needs your call
has the time now it's up to you
take the step you know you must
Speak his name you still know how
Call him, -call him, -you call Jesus today
Come to Jesus walk into the light
You have fears only you know why
cleanse your heart and be born again
shout with joy make the day be bright
Oh, call him- call him- you call Jesus today
publishing the newspaper in hell
publishing the newspaper in hell
fiction
edward w pritchard
As soon as I died I started publishing the newspaper in Hell. Not a job it's more of a calling. I have fit in easily and each day I find and write articles for the denizens of the underworld down here. It's a real place and my duties are real and meaningful and fill my hours with purposeful activity.
No one reads what I write. There is the normal business pressure to create readership and ad revenue and it's stressful at times. We come here to be punished for our sins and mine must not have been too bad on the scale of things. Not such a bad afterlife finding and writing articles that no one reads. No fiction down here just well researched factual material. Better than manual labor, let your mind wander and then jot down what suits your fancy.
I keep hoping that soon some of my acquaintances will come down to join me and my readership will increase, That would be meaningful. Meanwhile we write on, doing our duty, sticking with our calling, publishing the newspaper in hell.
fiction
edward w pritchard
As soon as I died I started publishing the newspaper in Hell. Not a job it's more of a calling. I have fit in easily and each day I find and write articles for the denizens of the underworld down here. It's a real place and my duties are real and meaningful and fill my hours with purposeful activity.
No one reads what I write. There is the normal business pressure to create readership and ad revenue and it's stressful at times. We come here to be punished for our sins and mine must not have been too bad on the scale of things. Not such a bad afterlife finding and writing articles that no one reads. No fiction down here just well researched factual material. Better than manual labor, let your mind wander and then jot down what suits your fancy.
I keep hoping that soon some of my acquaintances will come down to join me and my readership will increase, That would be meaningful. Meanwhile we write on, doing our duty, sticking with our calling, publishing the newspaper in hell.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Those Argentinian Cheerleaders
Those Argentinian Cheerleaders
fiction
edward w pritchard
Those Argentinian cheerleaders; are they the Platonic form for all cheerleaders?
What if your sister was a cheerleader? Or your daughter? Would you want the model and epitome of the cheer leading genre to be ideally represented by the Cheerleaders of Argentina?
Think rationally on the matter, long after the lust of the eye has vanished and the yearnings of the flesh have dissipated. Would you want your sister or daughter influenced by the ideal form represented by the Argentinian cheerleaders. Sadly better that the Platonic forms are a charade, or a slight of hand summoned by too much abstract conjuring.
The Argentinian cheerleaders are a male fantasy pandering to our basest instincts. Obviously it works as entertainment but not as the ideal platonic form representing all cheerleaders.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Those Argentinian cheerleaders; are they the Platonic form for all cheerleaders?
What if your sister was a cheerleader? Or your daughter? Would you want the model and epitome of the cheer leading genre to be ideally represented by the Cheerleaders of Argentina?
Think rationally on the matter, long after the lust of the eye has vanished and the yearnings of the flesh have dissipated. Would you want your sister or daughter influenced by the ideal form represented by the Argentinian cheerleaders. Sadly better that the Platonic forms are a charade, or a slight of hand summoned by too much abstract conjuring.
The Argentinian cheerleaders are a male fantasy pandering to our basest instincts. Obviously it works as entertainment but not as the ideal platonic form representing all cheerleaders.
end
me ladies voice
me ladies voice
fiction
edward w pritchard
Me ladies voice is muted, soothing as appropriate and seldom raised above the normal tenor of the occasion.
Never raised in anger often in compassion me ladies voice calms approaching storms and dissuades pending transgressions.
Not Socratic or judgmental me ladies voice is inclined toward acquittance when others criticize or abuse her.
In private me Ladies voice is captivating, in public praising, in victory humble and in anger conciliatory.
Me ladies quiet voice is carried far on the wind but if close by loudly expresses authenticity of heart and purity of soul.
Yet me ladies voice is memorable, across miles and years I distinctly hear its harmony though she be long removed by distance or time.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Me ladies voice is muted, soothing as appropriate and seldom raised above the normal tenor of the occasion.
Never raised in anger often in compassion me ladies voice calms approaching storms and dissuades pending transgressions.
Not Socratic or judgmental me ladies voice is inclined toward acquittance when others criticize or abuse her.
In private me Ladies voice is captivating, in public praising, in victory humble and in anger conciliatory.
Me ladies quiet voice is carried far on the wind but if close by loudly expresses authenticity of heart and purity of soul.
Yet me ladies voice is memorable, across miles and years I distinctly hear its harmony though she be long removed by distance or time.
The Moon filled the sky in the morning
The Moon filled the sky in the morning
fiction
edward w pritchard
Looking back on my parenting habits before with my grown children the moon filled the sky in the morning as I accounted for my sins and omissions as a Father. I couldn't remember, had I taught this one to throw a football , that one to fix a car, or my daughter to fight in a clinch. The sun was long since up but it shared the sky with the three quarters moon as I worried over my children's fears and failings and my culpability in creating an environment they could thrive in. Furtively I compared myself to others.
I entered the arena of raising Children handicapped by my self centered nature , untrained, and mesmerized by desire to please another, now a stranger. Tenuous husbandry filled my waking hours then, and in retrospect time with my children is a blur. Why are they as they are? If I knew then what I know now would I have them at all; assuming I could curb my rapacious habitues towards my co-defendant. I judge my blameworthiness for how my offspring are; in spite of the deficiencies of my Parents I judge myself as a Father.
Confused and tentative I approached my responsibilities towards caring for and protecting my children. I accepted the barbs and criticisms of the world as I stumbled through duties as a Father. My genes and hardwired emotions I passed on to my children unawares. Love toward my children grew over time in the barren rock of my heart and soul. Myself I placed last as I gave them all that I had, although I had little. With skill and endless affection I now care for their children, my grandchildren.
The Sun fills the bright morning sky and the three quarter full Moon disappears from view leaving streaks of gold in it's dissolving wake as I think of my children now far away from me spiritually and I compare their lives alone without me as I conclude the last quarter of my life. Life gives no quarter in the battle for survival and I fret and fear early in the morning over the ancient battle I botched in preparing my children to approach their future without me.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Looking back on my parenting habits before with my grown children the moon filled the sky in the morning as I accounted for my sins and omissions as a Father. I couldn't remember, had I taught this one to throw a football , that one to fix a car, or my daughter to fight in a clinch. The sun was long since up but it shared the sky with the three quarters moon as I worried over my children's fears and failings and my culpability in creating an environment they could thrive in. Furtively I compared myself to others.
I entered the arena of raising Children handicapped by my self centered nature , untrained, and mesmerized by desire to please another, now a stranger. Tenuous husbandry filled my waking hours then, and in retrospect time with my children is a blur. Why are they as they are? If I knew then what I know now would I have them at all; assuming I could curb my rapacious habitues towards my co-defendant. I judge my blameworthiness for how my offspring are; in spite of the deficiencies of my Parents I judge myself as a Father.
Confused and tentative I approached my responsibilities towards caring for and protecting my children. I accepted the barbs and criticisms of the world as I stumbled through duties as a Father. My genes and hardwired emotions I passed on to my children unawares. Love toward my children grew over time in the barren rock of my heart and soul. Myself I placed last as I gave them all that I had, although I had little. With skill and endless affection I now care for their children, my grandchildren.
The Sun fills the bright morning sky and the three quarter full Moon disappears from view leaving streaks of gold in it's dissolving wake as I think of my children now far away from me spiritually and I compare their lives alone without me as I conclude the last quarter of my life. Life gives no quarter in the battle for survival and I fret and fear early in the morning over the ancient battle I botched in preparing my children to approach their future without me.
Friday, May 20, 2011
being dead is different
being dead is different
fiction
edward w pritchard
Being dead is different than I thought but it's still not easy and it's still not comfortable or familiar. Meaning as we begin our journey after we die there remains the familiar element of uncertainty that we do not know where we are going or why.
There is no sensation of pain, at least not for me, and mostly that's how my life was ; so that's normal. But the psychological component of death is similar to life for me at least. Difficulty, boredom and purposeless.
I have been trying to reform since I died. I am journeying to the destination and I move on purposely. Sometimes as I sojourn the movement of matter around me can be heard and it is a distantly remembered voice of a dear friend. Still even that although comforting seems temporary as I journey alone with nothing to do and no one to help.
Being dead is different.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Being dead is different than I thought but it's still not easy and it's still not comfortable or familiar. Meaning as we begin our journey after we die there remains the familiar element of uncertainty that we do not know where we are going or why.
There is no sensation of pain, at least not for me, and mostly that's how my life was ; so that's normal. But the psychological component of death is similar to life for me at least. Difficulty, boredom and purposeless.
I have been trying to reform since I died. I am journeying to the destination and I move on purposely. Sometimes as I sojourn the movement of matter around me can be heard and it is a distantly remembered voice of a dear friend. Still even that although comforting seems temporary as I journey alone with nothing to do and no one to help.
Being dead is different.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Alone in the world
Alone in the world
fiction
edward w pritchard
Not so bad, alone in the world. All that's needed is a change of attitude to cope. You knew it would happen all along, self fulfilling maybe.
Time is yours alone as well. Time to think, time to remember and time to suffer. Alone, but not lonely. Like childhood. No longer happy or sad. Just being here.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Not so bad, alone in the world. All that's needed is a change of attitude to cope. You knew it would happen all along, self fulfilling maybe.
Time is yours alone as well. Time to think, time to remember and time to suffer. Alone, but not lonely. Like childhood. No longer happy or sad. Just being here.
Hannibal Lecter flesh eater
Hannibal Lechter flesh eater
fiction
edward w pritchard
Hannibal Lecter flesh eater was droning on a bit longer than what was polite and appropriate. Classical references and surgical insights were becoming blase. I stifled a yawn. Oh to have friends that knew when to stop.
Still it was nice to have someone to talk to. Or should I say listen to for Hannibal tended to lecture with a turn toward the sensational. Hero of his own stories.. Too personal at times as well. Best pay attention, no need to give offense.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Hannibal Lecter flesh eater was droning on a bit longer than what was polite and appropriate. Classical references and surgical insights were becoming blase. I stifled a yawn. Oh to have friends that knew when to stop.
Still it was nice to have someone to talk to. Or should I say listen to for Hannibal tended to lecture with a turn toward the sensational. Hero of his own stories.. Too personal at times as well. Best pay attention, no need to give offense.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
one eyed man, with big hands and no friends/tribute to James Booker
one eyed man, with big hands and no friends/tribute to James Booker
fiction
edward w pritchard
Come certain time of night us alone long for music to soothe the ache in our hearts and none ever better than piano blues man James Booker of New Orleans.
Talent incomprehensible back dropped a life bent on destruction. The music bears the sorrow of the piano man's soul. Mostly unheard despite transcendental talent; too much drama distinctly revealed James Booker's silent suffering. Shunned by the world Booker died alone, all in, at the end of his rope.
Walk on the Sunny side of the street dark pilgrim. Ain't no body's business what you do; junko partner see you at St James Infirmary. Play on, play on. Lord look for James Booker; he be the one with the Schlitz beer in hand and a crooked eye patch on the left eye. Lift James Booker out of the wheelchair and back on the piano stool. Many songs are unrecorded.
Lord , Lord, Lord, protect those who suffer inimitably, singing unheard.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Come certain time of night us alone long for music to soothe the ache in our hearts and none ever better than piano blues man James Booker of New Orleans.
Talent incomprehensible back dropped a life bent on destruction. The music bears the sorrow of the piano man's soul. Mostly unheard despite transcendental talent; too much drama distinctly revealed James Booker's silent suffering. Shunned by the world Booker died alone, all in, at the end of his rope.
Walk on the Sunny side of the street dark pilgrim. Ain't no body's business what you do; junko partner see you at St James Infirmary. Play on, play on. Lord look for James Booker; he be the one with the Schlitz beer in hand and a crooked eye patch on the left eye. Lift James Booker out of the wheelchair and back on the piano stool. Many songs are unrecorded.
Lord , Lord, Lord, protect those who suffer inimitably, singing unheard.
simply incredulous
simply incredulous
fiction
edward w pritchard
We were simply incredulous with our neighbors..
We were from France and watched the changes again occurring in the German nation to the East with curiosity. We knew how they were, we had fought World War One against them and had endured the brunt of the hostilities from their uncivilized actions. Still we were shocked by their behavior over the next twenty years as they rearmed themselves and found an irrational philosophy to justify their actions and hostilities. Do what you will then justify it however and the ends justify the means.
They invaded and occupied our beloved Paris. We barely fought back. Now years later we watch as they rush to build and arise from the ashes of destruction they caused. The German miracle, the most productive people in all of the European union. We keep quiet.
Our border is near theirs. We know how they are. Still we were simply incredulous by their behaviors. We were their neighbors.
fiction
edward w pritchard
We were simply incredulous with our neighbors..
We were from France and watched the changes again occurring in the German nation to the East with curiosity. We knew how they were, we had fought World War One against them and had endured the brunt of the hostilities from their uncivilized actions. Still we were shocked by their behavior over the next twenty years as they rearmed themselves and found an irrational philosophy to justify their actions and hostilities. Do what you will then justify it however and the ends justify the means.
They invaded and occupied our beloved Paris. We barely fought back. Now years later we watch as they rush to build and arise from the ashes of destruction they caused. The German miracle, the most productive people in all of the European union. We keep quiet.
Our border is near theirs. We know how they are. Still we were simply incredulous by their behaviors. We were their neighbors.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Waiting to date Debbie
Waiting to date Debbie
Fiction
edward w pritchard
I had been waiting for close to two years to get a chance to go on a date with Debbie Johnson. When my turn came, I was going steady with Cindy Martin the most delicious girl on the West side of Cleveland. Cindy was head cheerleader, blond, beautiful and simply a delight to be with. I am a cad; I dropped Cindy Martin like a hot cake when I learned it was my turn to have a chance to go on a date or two with Debbie Johnson.
Debbie Johnson was not pretty, or well built and had a reputation of breaking up with a guy after a few dates; yet the handsomest and most desirable athletes around Cleveland, like myself, waited anxiously for years to get a date with Debbie. Her secret? Debbie's Dad had a 1953 Red and black EMW, made in Eisenach Germany. Whoever was dating Debbie Johnson was permitted by her Father to drive the EMW on their date.
What a car. It was worth losing Cindy Martin for a chance to drive the red and black two tone 1953 EMW made in Eisenach Germany. Debbie Johnson dumped me after two dates but those were the most memorable two dates of my life. Cindy won't return my calls and I haven't decided yet if I should wait two more years to get a chance with Debbie again, meantime I often dream of another drive in the EMW. What a car.
Maybe there is a younger daughter in the Martin family.
Fiction
edward w pritchard
I had been waiting for close to two years to get a chance to go on a date with Debbie Johnson. When my turn came, I was going steady with Cindy Martin the most delicious girl on the West side of Cleveland. Cindy was head cheerleader, blond, beautiful and simply a delight to be with. I am a cad; I dropped Cindy Martin like a hot cake when I learned it was my turn to have a chance to go on a date or two with Debbie Johnson.
Debbie Johnson was not pretty, or well built and had a reputation of breaking up with a guy after a few dates; yet the handsomest and most desirable athletes around Cleveland, like myself, waited anxiously for years to get a date with Debbie. Her secret? Debbie's Dad had a 1953 Red and black EMW, made in Eisenach Germany. Whoever was dating Debbie Johnson was permitted by her Father to drive the EMW on their date.
What a car. It was worth losing Cindy Martin for a chance to drive the red and black two tone 1953 EMW made in Eisenach Germany. Debbie Johnson dumped me after two dates but those were the most memorable two dates of my life. Cindy won't return my calls and I haven't decided yet if I should wait two more years to get a chance with Debbie again, meantime I often dream of another drive in the EMW. What a car.
Maybe there is a younger daughter in the Martin family.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
tormemted ramdomly by animals
tormented randomly by animals
fiction
edward w pritchard
Case Notes
Kari Sulter
case worker
Mr. Richardson presents for stress, anxiety and trouble sleeping. Primary explanation from patient is he is tormented randomly by animals. Patient lives in upscale suburban neighborhood of Middleton and few wild animals inhabit the area so patients complaints seem delusional. This is case workers third meeting with Mr. Richardson who works in the nuclear studies lab here at OSU.Patient is 43 years old, married one child. , patient is handsome, educated and articulate. Upscale family, income 200K +. No previous psychological presentations.
Patient states about eight months ago [ July 2007] bees and other inspects began stinging, biting and " dive bombing" him in an abnormal and unusual fashion. Later mice, squirrels and cats began to invade his suburban home. [ 138 Wallings Circle , tax value $577,777 ].[ Home is extremely well maintained and clean, visually inpected by case worker. ][ Mrs. Richardson is very pretty] A police report was filed September 27, 2007. Nine stray dogs were reported in yard by Mrs. Richardson. October 14, 2007 Mr. Richardson reported to hospital emergency bit by three raccoons, rabies caution negative . Interviewed by hospital psychiatrist Michael Levin in emergency [ report attached. ]. November second Mr. Richardson was trampled in front yard by run away horse in his front yard, two days later his first visit to OSU free psyche clinic at insistence of department supervisor for lost time at job. Second visit prompted by November 14 th injuries to Mr. Richardson by three gulls of which one pierced patients back with talons, rabies caution negative. On November 22, Mrs. Richardson leaves home and files divorce,[nine year marriage,] Mr. Richard agrees to temporary custody for her. December 2, 2007 Mr. Richardson is mauled by a runaway lion[ from Columbus Zoo] [twelve miles from his home, ]. Lion was in patients back yard, patient hears noises, mauled through shoulders and arms when he goes to investigate.
January 07. 2007 at divorce hearing defendant's council Saul Kosis suggests Mrs. Richardson is behind animal random occurrences. March 12, 2007 two rattle snakes found in Richardson garage, frozen and dead by sheriff's deputy. Divorce pretrial is March 16, 2007. Case worker to attend per subpoena.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Case Notes
Kari Sulter
case worker
Mr. Richardson presents for stress, anxiety and trouble sleeping. Primary explanation from patient is he is tormented randomly by animals. Patient lives in upscale suburban neighborhood of Middleton and few wild animals inhabit the area so patients complaints seem delusional. This is case workers third meeting with Mr. Richardson who works in the nuclear studies lab here at OSU.Patient is 43 years old, married one child. , patient is handsome, educated and articulate. Upscale family, income 200K +. No previous psychological presentations.
Patient states about eight months ago [ July 2007] bees and other inspects began stinging, biting and " dive bombing" him in an abnormal and unusual fashion. Later mice, squirrels and cats began to invade his suburban home. [ 138 Wallings Circle , tax value $577,777 ].[ Home is extremely well maintained and clean, visually inpected by case worker. ][ Mrs. Richardson is very pretty] A police report was filed September 27, 2007. Nine stray dogs were reported in yard by Mrs. Richardson. October 14, 2007 Mr. Richardson reported to hospital emergency bit by three raccoons, rabies caution negative . Interviewed by hospital psychiatrist Michael Levin in emergency [ report attached. ]. November second Mr. Richardson was trampled in front yard by run away horse in his front yard, two days later his first visit to OSU free psyche clinic at insistence of department supervisor for lost time at job. Second visit prompted by November 14 th injuries to Mr. Richardson by three gulls of which one pierced patients back with talons, rabies caution negative. On November 22, Mrs. Richardson leaves home and files divorce,[nine year marriage,] Mr. Richard agrees to temporary custody for her. December 2, 2007 Mr. Richardson is mauled by a runaway lion[ from Columbus Zoo] [twelve miles from his home, ]. Lion was in patients back yard, patient hears noises, mauled through shoulders and arms when he goes to investigate.
January 07. 2007 at divorce hearing defendant's council Saul Kosis suggests Mrs. Richardson is behind animal random occurrences. March 12, 2007 two rattle snakes found in Richardson garage, frozen and dead by sheriff's deputy. Divorce pretrial is March 16, 2007. Case worker to attend per subpoena.
end
feel it in my bones; my forebodings
feel it in my bones
fiction
edward w pritchard
I feel it deep in my bones when some else falls or cracks their head on the pavement; maybe in a bicycle accident or a slip and fall onto the wood flooring. The sensation is brief but shocking to me. It isn't painful more a foreboding of worse calamity to follow. The feeling in my bones is of shock waves of pain the moment before the body experiences a serious injury.
The time when I was thirteen started it all. Bobbi Watkins jumped off the dugout and stoved his left ankle. Watching from third base, on the field with the rest of the starting nine of the Westover Giants, I experienced the vibration of the pain and trauma to Bobbi's body before the sound waves of the injury had a chance to reach me eighty feet away. Since then dozens of times I co- encountered sudden injuries endured by others because of I chanced to be near when calamity occurred. Auto accidents are the most serious for the victim but for me a backward precarious fall produces the most trauma vicariously.
A few months ago my affliction migrated and I began to share long past psychological trauma previously experienced by someone I was meeting for the first time. I felt the familiar jarring through my spine and torso as I would for the time Bobbi Watkins jumped onto the dirt infield from the top of the dugout. However, with the psychological and emotional problems of strangers I meet I also feel their sadness and their burden of emotional scars long past but secretly endured in solitude and silence.
I haven't completely taken to avoiding strangers to avoid my first meeting encounters but it isn't uncommon for me to dull the pain of my perceptions and forebodings with a couple of beers in social situations.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I feel it deep in my bones when some else falls or cracks their head on the pavement; maybe in a bicycle accident or a slip and fall onto the wood flooring. The sensation is brief but shocking to me. It isn't painful more a foreboding of worse calamity to follow. The feeling in my bones is of shock waves of pain the moment before the body experiences a serious injury.
The time when I was thirteen started it all. Bobbi Watkins jumped off the dugout and stoved his left ankle. Watching from third base, on the field with the rest of the starting nine of the Westover Giants, I experienced the vibration of the pain and trauma to Bobbi's body before the sound waves of the injury had a chance to reach me eighty feet away. Since then dozens of times I co- encountered sudden injuries endured by others because of I chanced to be near when calamity occurred. Auto accidents are the most serious for the victim but for me a backward precarious fall produces the most trauma vicariously.
A few months ago my affliction migrated and I began to share long past psychological trauma previously experienced by someone I was meeting for the first time. I felt the familiar jarring through my spine and torso as I would for the time Bobbi Watkins jumped onto the dirt infield from the top of the dugout. However, with the psychological and emotional problems of strangers I meet I also feel their sadness and their burden of emotional scars long past but secretly endured in solitude and silence.
I haven't completely taken to avoiding strangers to avoid my first meeting encounters but it isn't uncommon for me to dull the pain of my perceptions and forebodings with a couple of beers in social situations.
One night stand
One night stand
fiction
edward w pritchard
She looked at me strangely when I ordered my quesadillas and she put her hand on my shoulder and let it linger across my upper back when she delivered it to my table as i tried to figure what I had ordered. It wasn't the American version of the cheesy Mexican concoction I had wanted. Instead it was more sweet than cheese sandwich like and looked a little like a flattened cupcake. Still it was very delicious and when I ordered another she brought three and sat next to me as I ate. She had an unusual accent but she told me she was from Guatemala. She said Guatemalan food was different than Mexican food and different parts of Guatemala prepared food in different regional styles.
I sat at the tables at the Cherry Blossom festival in Barberton, Ohio and waited for her while she worked at the food stand serving Guatemalan food. Later, after she got off work we went back to her house and I spent the night. That was the first and last time I had Guatemalan food but I enjoyed it and would try it again given the opportunity. A couple of years later I found out she wasn't a waitress or cook but an nontenured Professor over at Kent State University. By then it was too late to call.
fiction
edward w pritchard
She looked at me strangely when I ordered my quesadillas and she put her hand on my shoulder and let it linger across my upper back when she delivered it to my table as i tried to figure what I had ordered. It wasn't the American version of the cheesy Mexican concoction I had wanted. Instead it was more sweet than cheese sandwich like and looked a little like a flattened cupcake. Still it was very delicious and when I ordered another she brought three and sat next to me as I ate. She had an unusual accent but she told me she was from Guatemala. She said Guatemalan food was different than Mexican food and different parts of Guatemala prepared food in different regional styles.
I sat at the tables at the Cherry Blossom festival in Barberton, Ohio and waited for her while she worked at the food stand serving Guatemalan food. Later, after she got off work we went back to her house and I spent the night. That was the first and last time I had Guatemalan food but I enjoyed it and would try it again given the opportunity. A couple of years later I found out she wasn't a waitress or cook but an nontenured Professor over at Kent State University. By then it was too late to call.
jack the ripper plans his vacation
jack the ripper plans his vacation
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somewhere with no fog. It brings out the worst in me.
Maybe a nice sunny beach over at Brighton. A warm bright beach with families and rock candy. Children would be nice, children running and playing on the beach. Hubby's and their wives sitting on towels and talking about buying a house someday. Then family dinners together, taters and a nice British roast beef with French mustard. A little beer, but not too much for me. With a nice warm ocean breeze.
No doctors, or autopsies or talk about medicine for a few days. No sick patients or morgues either. None of the endless dodging of policeman. No narrow alleys and no crowded dark streets. No having to be anonymous all the time. Just somewhere where I can be myself and sit in the warm bright sun and maybe read the paper. Read the paper and watch the nice families at the beach shuffle back and forth.
An arcade would be grand too. Games and gambling for a piece of penny candy as a prize. Happy children winning prizes and then running from the arcade into the sunlight to show their Mum their treasures.
A light rain is good late in the afternoon. Just before dinner a light rain. After dinner a cigar and a stroll under a clear starry sky. Listen to the soothing melodious waves for a while there at the beach.
By all means somewhere with no fog. No back alley's and no dark hallways and ladies standing in doorways saying something vulgar. It brings out the beast in me every time.
A nice trip to a sunny sea side would be nice.
Jack
fiction
edward w pritchard
Somewhere with no fog. It brings out the worst in me.
Maybe a nice sunny beach over at Brighton. A warm bright beach with families and rock candy. Children would be nice, children running and playing on the beach. Hubby's and their wives sitting on towels and talking about buying a house someday. Then family dinners together, taters and a nice British roast beef with French mustard. A little beer, but not too much for me. With a nice warm ocean breeze.
No doctors, or autopsies or talk about medicine for a few days. No sick patients or morgues either. None of the endless dodging of policeman. No narrow alleys and no crowded dark streets. No having to be anonymous all the time. Just somewhere where I can be myself and sit in the warm bright sun and maybe read the paper. Read the paper and watch the nice families at the beach shuffle back and forth.
An arcade would be grand too. Games and gambling for a piece of penny candy as a prize. Happy children winning prizes and then running from the arcade into the sunlight to show their Mum their treasures.
A light rain is good late in the afternoon. Just before dinner a light rain. After dinner a cigar and a stroll under a clear starry sky. Listen to the soothing melodious waves for a while there at the beach.
By all means somewhere with no fog. No back alley's and no dark hallways and ladies standing in doorways saying something vulgar. It brings out the beast in me every time.
A nice trip to a sunny sea side would be nice.
Jack
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