the poetry of dissent part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Psychologist Doctor- surely Mr. Pritchard you can't blame yourself in any way for causing the Kent State shootings back in May 1970?
self- I drove to Richfield Ohio with a friend to pick up his Father during a teamster's trucking strike because the Ohio National guard had the roads of the trucking company blocked and secured the Friday night before the May 4th 1970 Kent State shootings and a armed soldier interrogated us at rifle point concerning our right to move freely about the roads of Ohio at night
Psychologist-I remember that too, the same national guard units that were at the trucking strike that Friday night three days later shoot and killed four students at Kent State University
self-yes, when I was interrogated by a soldier that Friday night I first suffered the cognitive discordance toward my country that plagues me to this day
psychologist-and
self-I felt inside all the ideals I had learn-ed as a boy about my country shatter, based on the soldiers truculent behavior towards two of our Countries citizens, me and my friend, who were on honest business, picking up his Father at work during a trucking strike and I had a sinister vague thought that the Ohio National guard was acting in a way not up to the American ideals
psychologist-what could you have done with your premonition about the Ohio soldiers that could have altered events at Kent State on a warm day in 1970 and kept two young women and two young men from being shot and killed? you were just a kid yourself
self-nothing, but I could have questioned earlier what I heard about Native Americans losing their land and right to exist, slavery in America, and bully bully thinking by the silent majority
psychologist-have you considered religion?
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
the poetry of dissent
the poetry of dissent
fiction
edward w pritchard
One must live modestly if one is to keep one's cover as an informant.
I collect a generous federal government pension here in the state of Ohio from my work in the sixties as an informant for the FBI and a NARC both of which I did strictly for money, never for patriotism or ideals. Point of fact I collect as much money in my federal government monthly pension as some former Senators or Congressmen.
I never draw attention to myself by my lifestyle or habits. I rise promptly at 6am winter or summer and am in bed by 9 pm for I detest the dark. I mow my own yard at my small house on my only indulgence, living on a beautiful Lake, and I shop only at dollar stores and I buy everything else I need used at the goodwill.
Studying poetry at Kent State University in May of 1970 I caused the deaths of four young students by my under cover activities for the FBI.
More later that's-enough confession for this morning. Except say, to Eight more days to my social security check, which comes at mid month.
One more thing: Here's the poem I wrote back in 1970 which caused the Kent State shootings.
Watch,
don't speak.
events are influenced by secret planning
don't tell anyone
your motives are yours alone
let the erasure of time conceal your existence.
fiction
edward w pritchard
One must live modestly if one is to keep one's cover as an informant.
I collect a generous federal government pension here in the state of Ohio from my work in the sixties as an informant for the FBI and a NARC both of which I did strictly for money, never for patriotism or ideals. Point of fact I collect as much money in my federal government monthly pension as some former Senators or Congressmen.
I never draw attention to myself by my lifestyle or habits. I rise promptly at 6am winter or summer and am in bed by 9 pm for I detest the dark. I mow my own yard at my small house on my only indulgence, living on a beautiful Lake, and I shop only at dollar stores and I buy everything else I need used at the goodwill.
Studying poetry at Kent State University in May of 1970 I caused the deaths of four young students by my under cover activities for the FBI.
More later that's-enough confession for this morning. Except say, to Eight more days to my social security check, which comes at mid month.
One more thing: Here's the poem I wrote back in 1970 which caused the Kent State shootings.
Watch,
don't speak.
events are influenced by secret planning
don't tell anyone
your motives are yours alone
let the erasure of time conceal your existence.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
a house divided
a house divided
fiction
edward wpritchard
By then, that is now, I wasn't like a typical veteran soldier who liked to reminisce with the unit by mail or newspaper over the battles we had been in or scars and wounds psychological we had suffered.
In my memories I recalled a literal interpretation of events, vivid memories of the battles and the wars. For that conflict had been fought house to house and room to room. Our country back then was a house divided.
Daily I strained not to remember
Holidays are worse In the middle of the night I awake. I am back, then, again on the steps headed for the second floor. Reluctantly I peer into to the darkness clutching the m-1 rifle.
Dog faced soldiers never understood what it was about or why we fight.
Battle fatigue, post stress syndrome.
Then its morning here and now. Another day of little busyness. Everything is totally still, everything is eternally calm. The country is at peace.
fiction
edward wpritchard
By then, that is now, I wasn't like a typical veteran soldier who liked to reminisce with the unit by mail or newspaper over the battles we had been in or scars and wounds psychological we had suffered.
In my memories I recalled a literal interpretation of events, vivid memories of the battles and the wars. For that conflict had been fought house to house and room to room. Our country back then was a house divided.
Daily I strained not to remember
Holidays are worse In the middle of the night I awake. I am back, then, again on the steps headed for the second floor. Reluctantly I peer into to the darkness clutching the m-1 rifle.
Dog faced soldiers never understood what it was about or why we fight.
Battle fatigue, post stress syndrome.
Then its morning here and now. Another day of little busyness. Everything is totally still, everything is eternally calm. The country is at peace.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
suffering through a bout of schadenfreude
suffering through a bout of schadenfreude
fiction
edward w pritchard
Once there was an imminent painter suffering through a bout of schadenfreude who was executed post mortem by holy inquisition for in each portrait painting he completed whatever the actual appearance of the sitting patron he made the ears unusually large sticking out grotesquely like a 1950's good white boy early rock star. Of course no one noticed the unusual ears at the time as it wasn't till later upon reflection that the matter was re examined and noted.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Once there was an imminent painter suffering through a bout of schadenfreude who was executed post mortem by holy inquisition for in each portrait painting he completed whatever the actual appearance of the sitting patron he made the ears unusually large sticking out grotesquely like a 1950's good white boy early rock star. Of course no one noticed the unusual ears at the time as it wasn't till later upon reflection that the matter was re examined and noted.
freedom from want
freedom from want
fiction
edward w pritchard
Once I walked a while with Jesus one day on a man made path called a canal tow path north to the end of the trail at an inland sea called Lake Erie. I remember the path was closed for construction
about a mile or two before it reached the Lake and some workers had made a turn around to send you back South from whence thou had started. The sign was missing that said trail closed ahead.
It's very important to me to try and remember what Jesus had said. The written verses others had compiled and wrote down of sayings of Jesus can be misleading. So I strain to remember. I seek the unedited version. authenticity is experience
Big girls don't cry sang Jesus. When once he put a hand on my shoulder he said thou seeker of truth stay focused "much learning is to no avail. Still children suffer, abominations are everywhere and the money changers always have their way. Fear the bureaucrats more than one thousand crack Roman legions for no friend or family finishes the path with one's self. there might of been more he said
I am a disciple with no name and no destination. Having achieved freedom from want sometimes when I sit on a night train in the dark in the middle of the gloom headed west to Chicago I scan the hands for the nails holes caused by the hammer driven nails that held Jesus to the cross on the youth riding the train and listening to their Walkman. My purse is empty but I clutch it tightly to my chest.
Early in the morning before other disciples awake and become industrious some times I pray for Virginia Wolf the writer. When she went to the river to be baptized she filled her pockets with rocks so she would sink. What must it have been like for Jesus when he was a boy working in his father's carpentry shop straightening twisted nails for further use to know the future of what would happen to Him at the hands of the Roman soldiers concerning stout nails? What must it have been like for Virginia Woolf walking about the riverside to search carefully for proper rock ballast to hold and support her soul as it carried her back to the lighthouse of her memories?
When I told Jesus about Virginia Woolf he took a small plastic packet from his pocket and handed it to me to keep. It was a tightly folded shroud of Turin with the imprint of his face on it. He said everyone mentioned in this story including Virginia Woolf, big girls who don't cry, children, bureaucrats, Roman legions, persons on trains, friends, family and me and you will need a shroud to wrap us in one day when we are cold, wet and still. Strange but I took no comfort in that though I knew he was speaking truth. I forgot to ask Jesus what happen to the rocks that were in Virginia Woolf's pockets and if money changers are entitled to be wrapped in Shroud's of Turin after their deaths.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Once I walked a while with Jesus one day on a man made path called a canal tow path north to the end of the trail at an inland sea called Lake Erie. I remember the path was closed for construction
about a mile or two before it reached the Lake and some workers had made a turn around to send you back South from whence thou had started. The sign was missing that said trail closed ahead.
It's very important to me to try and remember what Jesus had said. The written verses others had compiled and wrote down of sayings of Jesus can be misleading. So I strain to remember. I seek the unedited version. authenticity is experience
Big girls don't cry sang Jesus. When once he put a hand on my shoulder he said thou seeker of truth stay focused "much learning is to no avail. Still children suffer, abominations are everywhere and the money changers always have their way. Fear the bureaucrats more than one thousand crack Roman legions for no friend or family finishes the path with one's self. there might of been more he said
I am a disciple with no name and no destination. Having achieved freedom from want sometimes when I sit on a night train in the dark in the middle of the gloom headed west to Chicago I scan the hands for the nails holes caused by the hammer driven nails that held Jesus to the cross on the youth riding the train and listening to their Walkman. My purse is empty but I clutch it tightly to my chest.
Early in the morning before other disciples awake and become industrious some times I pray for Virginia Wolf the writer. When she went to the river to be baptized she filled her pockets with rocks so she would sink. What must it have been like for Jesus when he was a boy working in his father's carpentry shop straightening twisted nails for further use to know the future of what would happen to Him at the hands of the Roman soldiers concerning stout nails? What must it have been like for Virginia Woolf walking about the riverside to search carefully for proper rock ballast to hold and support her soul as it carried her back to the lighthouse of her memories?
When I told Jesus about Virginia Woolf he took a small plastic packet from his pocket and handed it to me to keep. It was a tightly folded shroud of Turin with the imprint of his face on it. He said everyone mentioned in this story including Virginia Woolf, big girls who don't cry, children, bureaucrats, Roman legions, persons on trains, friends, family and me and you will need a shroud to wrap us in one day when we are cold, wet and still. Strange but I took no comfort in that though I knew he was speaking truth. I forgot to ask Jesus what happen to the rocks that were in Virginia Woolf's pockets and if money changers are entitled to be wrapped in Shroud's of Turin after their deaths.
Friday, November 23, 2018
old age is a ghost
old age is a ghost
fiction
edward w pritchard
Old age is being a ghost while you are still alive; at least alive sort of. Everyone has heard of the old ghost in the machine but until you endure old age yourself you cannot imagine being nearly invisible most of the time to most of the people about you. One of the reasons the young don't like the old and merely see through them is the elderly don't follow the mandatory requirement of being absolutely irresistible looking in what ever scenario they find themselves occupying. Old people just be they don't worry about what they are becoming anymore.
Where goes thou? Old age is a ghost.
On a practical note when you are a ghost it's a good time to be a voyeur in the good sense of that term. You can watch and judge because no one notices a ghost and who cares what you think anyway.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Old age is being a ghost while you are still alive; at least alive sort of. Everyone has heard of the old ghost in the machine but until you endure old age yourself you cannot imagine being nearly invisible most of the time to most of the people about you. One of the reasons the young don't like the old and merely see through them is the elderly don't follow the mandatory requirement of being absolutely irresistible looking in what ever scenario they find themselves occupying. Old people just be they don't worry about what they are becoming anymore.
Where goes thou? Old age is a ghost.
On a practical note when you are a ghost it's a good time to be a voyeur in the good sense of that term. You can watch and judge because no one notices a ghost and who cares what you think anyway.
Sunday, November 4, 2018
first there is a mountain then no mountain then there is a mountain
first there is a mountain then no mountain then there is a mountain
fiction
edward w pritchard
First there is a mountain then no mountain then there is a mountain.[1]
When I first traveled to far away places I was amazed and delighted at the diversity of the world external to myself.
When I later traveled to marvel at places far away I was cynical and skeptical finding unusual philosophies to justify my need to stay put where I was born and need for solitude.
Now I am myself where ever I am and my philosophy is more interested in if or if not I myself have changed with new sensations and locales or if I do in fact, have a permanent self.
[1] attributed to the singer Donovan
fiction
edward w pritchard
First there is a mountain then no mountain then there is a mountain.[1]
When I first traveled to far away places I was amazed and delighted at the diversity of the world external to myself.
When I later traveled to marvel at places far away I was cynical and skeptical finding unusual philosophies to justify my need to stay put where I was born and need for solitude.
Now I am myself where ever I am and my philosophy is more interested in if or if not I myself have changed with new sensations and locales or if I do in fact, have a permanent self.
[1] attributed to the singer Donovan
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