a visit from the opera singer
fiction
edward w pritchard
As a carrier of the virus who couldn't die from the affliction I was often called by the elderly opera singer to formally introduce her to her latest group of victims living high in the luxury hotel where we all stayed. Despite mutual disdain of the elderly Diva I was forced over and over to knock on the
security doors of the wealthy residents and individually introduce each victim to the pancake makeup faced lady who would be their divine reaper of death. Entering a room the ancient opera singer of death stunk of musky spoiled perfumes and ages long past. As she entered a crowded room the opera singer instantly ruined the party. In time despite my neutral non complicity in the opera singers work and results the younger residents of our hotel began to call me a pimp and to shun me should we meet in the hallways or the lunch room.
Sometimes at night in my hotel room waking late in the middle of a dark night I would hear the creaky old voice of the opera singer practicing her scales and crescendos and grieve for those who passed before us.
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
Thursday, March 5, 2020
lost in the airport
lost in the airport
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's a few months into the future and everyone in America has suddenly become lost in the airports
of our Country during bouts of travel and because of mutations of the covid 19 virus no longer have the mental facilities, stamina and will or organizational skills to return to their own lives.
In desperation drunken fratboys, wicked sorority girls and children under five have been deputized by the authorities to help confused passengers match their tickets with the flashing tote boards in a wishful gamble to return to their native States.
It's pathetic really. Somehow I stand aside trying desperately not to Judge this latest tragedy. I sit on the floor of the tarmac and read the good book and watch confused desperate strangers methodically picking up canceled ticket stubs from the ground of earlier good times trying to find the way.
The blaring loudspeakers advise constantly for normalcy, order and optimism. There is no cause for panic. Those in charge nearly have concocted a potion that's a cure or at least will soon have a vaccine. It's only few months and things will be like they used to be. But as the children move about leading the fearful confused citizens I hear them mumbling over and over with a strange smile "things ain't what they used to be. "
Outside in the parking decks everyone's new automobile has electronically self started and is idling patiently waiting for the owners so they can zoom zoom about. Gas is chief and interest rates have been cut again. Return to your homes- it's a very good time to buy more things.
fiction
edward w pritchard
It's a few months into the future and everyone in America has suddenly become lost in the airports
of our Country during bouts of travel and because of mutations of the covid 19 virus no longer have the mental facilities, stamina and will or organizational skills to return to their own lives.
In desperation drunken fratboys, wicked sorority girls and children under five have been deputized by the authorities to help confused passengers match their tickets with the flashing tote boards in a wishful gamble to return to their native States.
It's pathetic really. Somehow I stand aside trying desperately not to Judge this latest tragedy. I sit on the floor of the tarmac and read the good book and watch confused desperate strangers methodically picking up canceled ticket stubs from the ground of earlier good times trying to find the way.
The blaring loudspeakers advise constantly for normalcy, order and optimism. There is no cause for panic. Those in charge nearly have concocted a potion that's a cure or at least will soon have a vaccine. It's only few months and things will be like they used to be. But as the children move about leading the fearful confused citizens I hear them mumbling over and over with a strange smile "things ain't what they used to be. "
Outside in the parking decks everyone's new automobile has electronically self started and is idling patiently waiting for the owners so they can zoom zoom about. Gas is chief and interest rates have been cut again. Return to your homes- it's a very good time to buy more things.
Monday, February 17, 2020
a soldier at night celebrates his 68th birthday
a soldier at night celebrates his 68th birthday
fiction
edward w pritchard
the night is clear but
the Moon is always at the quarter
a soldier lost in dark night celebrates his 68th birthday
his fingers aching from scratching at the hard frozen earth to bury himself
in for cover from angry low flying rifle bullets
randomly fired by unseen enemies
oh for a tattered flag or soft woman to
wrap himself in until next light
fiction
edward w pritchard
the night is clear but
the Moon is always at the quarter
a soldier lost in dark night celebrates his 68th birthday
his fingers aching from scratching at the hard frozen earth to bury himself
in for cover from angry low flying rifle bullets
randomly fired by unseen enemies
oh for a tattered flag or soft woman to
wrap himself in until next light
Friday, February 14, 2020
a walk in Istanbul
a walk in Istanbul
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sometimes in my imagination I'll take a walk in Istanbul and sometimes I'll just watch somebodies walking tour of modern Istanbul on the you tube. Either way along with my awe of seeing the blue Mosque I like to see the beautiful stately Muslim women who are intriguing in their scarves and veils.
Rather than Istanbul a poetic type is supposed to call it Byzantium which for some reason is supposed to be no county for old men. Whatever the ancient city is called I enjoy seeing representations arranged of the Iznic tiles at the Topkapi palace and blue Mosque.
At night waking from dreams sometimes I'll imagine seeing Coptic and Byzantine iconic paintings of
Jesus in the churches of pre-Muslim Istanbul. Other times I am a Muslim soldier with Sultan Mehmed in 1453 staring across the battlefield at the high fortified walls of Byzantium at night wishing I was elsewhere.
An old man at night staring across the milky way a bit reluctant to storm the walls and carry off a little treasure.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sometimes in my imagination I'll take a walk in Istanbul and sometimes I'll just watch somebodies walking tour of modern Istanbul on the you tube. Either way along with my awe of seeing the blue Mosque I like to see the beautiful stately Muslim women who are intriguing in their scarves and veils.
Rather than Istanbul a poetic type is supposed to call it Byzantium which for some reason is supposed to be no county for old men. Whatever the ancient city is called I enjoy seeing representations arranged of the Iznic tiles at the Topkapi palace and blue Mosque.
At night waking from dreams sometimes I'll imagine seeing Coptic and Byzantine iconic paintings of
Jesus in the churches of pre-Muslim Istanbul. Other times I am a Muslim soldier with Sultan Mehmed in 1453 staring across the battlefield at the high fortified walls of Byzantium at night wishing I was elsewhere.
An old man at night staring across the milky way a bit reluctant to storm the walls and carry off a little treasure.
Thursday, January 23, 2020
the shadow on the wall of the Holy Ghost
the shadow on the wall of the Holy Ghost
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most likely place to witness the Holy Ghost is stumbling to one's knees with thirst in the desert
being slowly and methodically pursued by a mirage of an imaginary wolf. Next most likely spot to experience the Holy Ghost is on the back wall of your cave flickering in the shadows of the fire as you sit with your back to the World.
The Holy ghost prefers small quiet rooms to castles or elaborate Gothic churches or cathedrals no matter how much gold or how many twisted marble statues of saints adorn the candled interior.
The Holy Ghost is no where and somewhere and cannot be experienced in real time or witnessed in
any organized grouping of persons. The Holy Ghost cannot be authentically read about or remembered.
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most likely place to witness the Holy Ghost is stumbling to one's knees with thirst in the desert
being slowly and methodically pursued by a mirage of an imaginary wolf. Next most likely spot to experience the Holy Ghost is on the back wall of your cave flickering in the shadows of the fire as you sit with your back to the World.
The Holy ghost prefers small quiet rooms to castles or elaborate Gothic churches or cathedrals no matter how much gold or how many twisted marble statues of saints adorn the candled interior.
The Holy Ghost is no where and somewhere and cannot be experienced in real time or witnessed in
any organized grouping of persons. The Holy Ghost cannot be authentically read about or remembered.
Friday, January 17, 2020
who's the waitress in the donut shop now
who's the waitress in the donut shop now
fiction
edward w pritchard
I been reading about which books make up the definitive Western Canon by Harold Bloom and others of late. You know so many thick old novels it's impossible to read or remember. Shakespeare, Plato, Homer and Aristotle are the foundation stones of western literature and thought and rightly so I suppose.
Still curious to understand why so few women authors are represented in the agreed upon Canonical books I went beyond Harold Bloom's Cannon and gnosis and read some feminist, persons of color, and trans gender ideas on great books throughout History. Desiring a brief synopsis of the subject I settled on Lillian S. Robinson's "Treason our Text" Feminist challenges to the Literary challenges.
Stealing an idea from Lillian Robinson I thought perhaps the Black blues singer "big" Mamma Thorton's masterpiece which influenced modern American rock and roll, the memorable "You a'int nothing but a Hound dog" might classify somehow as an underground part of some body's Cannon of great authorship. Alas not so. And, incidentally the song Houndog was written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.
Neither considered as worthy of being canonical the song "Sweetheart" better known as "waitress in a donut shop" which I came to find out was not written by Suzy Bogus or Maria Maldaur but a man Ken Burgan.
To my way of thinking "you ain't nothing but a hound dog" or "waitress in a donut shop" summarize a lot of wisdom in a few short words and I never forget or fail to understand such concepts once I hear them.
Why so few canonical women authors throughout history? In my opinion it has a lot to do with who takes care of the children and the low status of the job and the exhausting nature of the task. Besides it doesn't matter who is the waitress in the donut shop anymore when it comes to inter personal domestic matters, such as who cares for the children. The children just keep on coming onto the scene and it's always a challenge to care for and nurture them and no amount of IQ or creativity can substitute for the time and attention to detail necessary to do a competent job as a caregiver.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I been reading about which books make up the definitive Western Canon by Harold Bloom and others of late. You know so many thick old novels it's impossible to read or remember. Shakespeare, Plato, Homer and Aristotle are the foundation stones of western literature and thought and rightly so I suppose.
Still curious to understand why so few women authors are represented in the agreed upon Canonical books I went beyond Harold Bloom's Cannon and gnosis and read some feminist, persons of color, and trans gender ideas on great books throughout History. Desiring a brief synopsis of the subject I settled on Lillian S. Robinson's "Treason our Text" Feminist challenges to the Literary challenges.
Stealing an idea from Lillian Robinson I thought perhaps the Black blues singer "big" Mamma Thorton's masterpiece which influenced modern American rock and roll, the memorable "You a'int nothing but a Hound dog" might classify somehow as an underground part of some body's Cannon of great authorship. Alas not so. And, incidentally the song Houndog was written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.
Neither considered as worthy of being canonical the song "Sweetheart" better known as "waitress in a donut shop" which I came to find out was not written by Suzy Bogus or Maria Maldaur but a man Ken Burgan.
To my way of thinking "you ain't nothing but a hound dog" or "waitress in a donut shop" summarize a lot of wisdom in a few short words and I never forget or fail to understand such concepts once I hear them.
Why so few canonical women authors throughout history? In my opinion it has a lot to do with who takes care of the children and the low status of the job and the exhausting nature of the task. Besides it doesn't matter who is the waitress in the donut shop anymore when it comes to inter personal domestic matters, such as who cares for the children. The children just keep on coming onto the scene and it's always a challenge to care for and nurture them and no amount of IQ or creativity can substitute for the time and attention to detail necessary to do a competent job as a caregiver.
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to understand
Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to Understand
fiction
edward w pritchard
I have been reading Iris Murdoch's "Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals" and I must admit Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to understand. As part of my quest to understand why women artists and philosophers are usually under represented I got interested in Murdoch's philosophical views but I have never read one of her novels.
After several months of reading guide to morals I found out that Murdoch who is a brilliant thinker died of dementia. That's very sad. Her grasp of western philosophy is stunning but to repeat myself she is not easy to follow at times. Perhaps it's just the subject matter.
When I discovered that Iris had had dementia I went to the Lake at night by my house and had a fire
and lamented how the lights of civilization by my abode and my Country's advancing civilization had drowned out my ability to see the milky way as I sometimes did once see the Milky War near where I as a child lived not far from the Lake where I made the fire. [edit ] Sometimes we are hard to understand and sometimes it's more serious. Still it all passes quickly on a cosmic scale.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I have been reading Iris Murdoch's "Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals" and I must admit Iris Murdoch's a bit hard to understand. As part of my quest to understand why women artists and philosophers are usually under represented I got interested in Murdoch's philosophical views but I have never read one of her novels.
After several months of reading guide to morals I found out that Murdoch who is a brilliant thinker died of dementia. That's very sad. Her grasp of western philosophy is stunning but to repeat myself she is not easy to follow at times. Perhaps it's just the subject matter.
When I discovered that Iris had had dementia I went to the Lake at night by my house and had a fire
and lamented how the lights of civilization by my abode and my Country's advancing civilization had drowned out my ability to see the milky way as I sometimes did once see the Milky War near where I as a child lived not far from the Lake where I made the fire. [edit ] Sometimes we are hard to understand and sometimes it's more serious. Still it all passes quickly on a cosmic scale.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)