The real maker of poems will make a sonnet that obeys all the rules, that entices, enthralls, and overwhelms first by the sound of it, before anybody knows what it is “about.” Then, for those who search but don’t care, the meaning comes into focus: the first meaning, then the second, then another. And it will look like a sonnet. But it will take time to make this sonnet. Because it’s a real sonnet. The maker must be patient, searching for each word as a numismatist searches for that one coin to fill each slot until the collection is perfect. Each word will be chosen for its strength and speed, its ring and tenor, its size and shape, its cleanliness or patina, its endurance and its baggage, its sure-footedness and grace, its poise and athleticism, its clarity and obscurity. At last, the last word will be found, examined, fitted snugly in, and voilà, the sonnet.

 

 

 

We curse our pains and wish them gone, when in fact they are necessary to our development and our compliance to the laws and exigencies of our second estate. (I need to stop making little noises when I stand up, sit down, or whatever, and a little kick of pain grabs me. Just keep it to myself.) Pain can absorb and discharge the immoralities of our disobedience, sucking into itself our peccadilloes and ridding us of them, payment for our improprieties. Of course only sometimes, perhaps rarely, is that the reason or benefit of pain. Pain can simply force us into more humility, or drag us up before the tribunal of our own pride, to have us acknowledge our incapacity to do anything about it but to beg God to palliate it, or remove it. But why should He? Isn’t it one of His gifts, in mercy given, to help us on our way? His Son knew pain, more than we all could ever bear—and did He not learn to bear it from His Father—and ours? Come, pain; settle in; I will not resist more than just my normal grunts and groans.

 

 

 

What the devil?

blow it up and see for yourself...

What the devils? 

Yep, there he is, or there they is.

You knew there really was one. Now you know the secret—he has a double. Not exactly a double, but maybe a Doppleganger. Well, everybody knows there’s more than one. They’re all devils. And they come out on Hallowe’en.

I have the devil in me. I have a condition that if it worsens I will die. But if it doesn’t, I will die a little later. All bodily infirmities are caused by devils. So try as I may to get the devil out of me, there’s still one or two hanging on and causing myasthenia gravis. And one (don’t know their sex, or names, or anything about them) causing my neuropathy. Dang them. I got rid of the ones that were trying to get me to smoke. “Are you stupid?” I said to them. After a thousand times, they got the hint and left. But the ones that said to me, “Don’t get up this early, it’s just church, and it will be the same thing next Sunday,” them I had to chase away more than once. But by the time I got married, they had left me alone. The ones that cause me the most grief now are the ones that don’t say anything. They don’t try to get me to do anything. They just make me hurt and make me not see so good. The doctor said those black things that are in the corner of my eyes sometimes, that run away when I look that way, are just things in my eyes. But I know what they are. Really.

So someday I’ll be thinking, ‘I gotta get those devils outta here,” and I’ll slip up and say, ‘I gotta get the devil outta here.” And that will be the end. The End. 

  

Book burning in America

One of the most famous acts of barbarism by the Nazis (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, or National-socialist German Worker Party) was the famous book burning ceremony.

 

The epitome of fascist brutality against humanism. (This is a fasces, the symbol of the Fascist Party in Italy under Mussolini….) 

 

 

 Who are the fascists in Amerika today? Who are the atavistic new bookburners of today? Well, today it’s books, and it’s DVDs, and who won’t let certain items get out, because they are afraid of what the public might learn, feel, do, after being exposed to the ideas.

 

How about “The Path to 9/11”? Why is that not out there for the public discourse, free speech, and all that?

 

It’s ABC-Disney, who under pressure gave in to censorship to appease the Clintons, when threatened with a lawsuit that would pull the broadcast license from all ABC affiliate stations if certain things were not deleted. Amazing that the show aired at all. And now under even more pressure, ABC-Disney refuses to release the show on DVD, when it is a guaranteed money-maker. The show when it aired had the highest ratings. The DVD would really make them money. But they won’t release it. Why? Afraid of ideas? What about free speech?

 

  And who is trying to stop people from getting on the radio to speak their mind about politics, culture, and whatever?

DENVER -- Sen. Barack Obama's campaign organized its supporters Wednesday night to confront Tribune-owned WGN-AM in Chicago for having a critic of the Illinois Democrat on its air.(Listen to the interview.)

"WGN radio is giving right-wing hatchet man Stanley Kurtz a forum to air his baseless, fear-mongering terrorist smears," Obama's campaign wrote in an e-mail to supporters. "He's currently scheduled to spend a solid two-hour block from 9:00 to 11:00 p.m. pushing lies, distortions, and manipulations about Barack and University of Illinois professor William Ayers."

Kurtz, a conservative writer, recently wrote an article for the National Review that looked at Obama's ties to Ayers, a former 1960s radical who later emerged as a school reform advocate in Chicago.

The magazine had been blocked in its initial attempts to obtain records from the University of Illinois at Chicago regarding a school reform initiative called the Chicago Annenberg Challenge, which Obama chaired and Ayers co-founded.

Obama critics were quick to suggest that political clout could be involved in seeking to protect Obama from embarrassment. The school later reserved its position and made the records available Tuesday.

On Wednesday evening, Obama's campaign urged supporters to call the radio station to complain.

"Tell WGN that by providing Kurtz with airtime, they are legitimizing baseless attacks from a smear-merchant and lowering the standards of political discourse," the note said.

"It is absolutely unacceptable that WGN would give a slimy character assassin like Kurtz time for his divisive, destructive ranting on our public airwaves," the note continued. "At the very least, they should offer sane, honest rebuttal to every one of Kurtz's lies."

Zack Christenson, executive producer of "Extension 720 with Milt Rosenburg," said the response was strong.

"I would say this is the biggest response we've ever got from a campaign or a candidate," he said. "This is really unprecedented with the show, the way that people are flooding the calls and our email boxes."

Christenson said the Obama campaign was asked to have someone appear on the show and declined the request.

 

So bookburning, welcome back. And who’s doing it? The people who want to make the “Fairness Doctrine” federal law. That would be a law that makes anybody who speaks their mind have to pay for their opponent to say whatever he wants to say. Fair?

 

Socialism is creeping up, creeping, it’s up to our necks.

 

 

 

Families Are Forever

—   but not right now —

Click on the pictures. Then arrow back here. Don't X the picture because you exit the site.
The things around the pine cone are awesome viewed large.


Who are you?
"Hi. I'm Jim, and I used to kill people for a living." That's what Jim would say sometimes when I would introduce him to friends of mine.
That's how he defined himself at the moment. So he said it.
What about you?
Hi, I'm John, and I'm an optimist.
Hi, I'm Linda, and I'm depressed.
Hi, I'm Tom, and I am really self-confident.
Hi, I'm Martina, and I was abused as a child.
Hi, I'm Allie, and I'm really mixed up about morality.
Hi, I'm Scott, and I'm an addict.
--Hi Scott, hello Scott, hi Scott, as it goes around the circle. That last one really happens, just like Jim really happened.
But some people exude what they are, in their own self-perception, without saying it out loud. And it's just as obvious.
So what do you do? Work on what your definition is. Work on what your self-perception is. Work on what your dialogue is when you meet people.
You can be in charge of what you are. You make your etre-pour-soi as well as your etre-pour-autrui.

With whistle and steam the train came alive, lurched, and began moving away from Paris, from the Gare de l’Est, away from the crowds and noise and bustle and fear and rush and smoke and anomie of October 1918. Soon it would be trudging through fields and mists and rain and trees and farms and steeples of Aube, or Champagne, taking everybody home. All the strangers going home.

The train grew stronger, surging out of the city, and the speed increased the clicking of the wheels and swaying of the cars. Guy was not content with his bench or the compartment or the people in it, and got up slowly, painfully, and grabbed his sack from overhead, and slid the door open, as they all watched, and went out into the corridor. There was a window down, and the chill wind was flowing in, filled with the smell of the train smoke, but with a hint of hay now and then. Further ahead another window was open and a man was smoking, and blowing the smoke out the window into the mist and fumes rushing by. The tobacco smoke came in the window in front of Guy in tiny wafts. He stood there for a minute or two, and moved down the corridor, going towards the back of the train, looking into the compartments further along.

There was one, with only three people. He slid the door open, nodded his head, with “M’sieur, —dames.” An old couple nodded, and watched, as he put his sack up above his head and sat down on the bench where there was only one person, across from the bench where there were two. He looked at them. They looked at him. The two persons across from him were an withered like apples on the ground, dressed all in black. The old woman looked weary, and wore the wrinkles of sadness around her eyes. There was no more light in her eyes. She looked at him as though he were some old photograph, squinting at him, sighing. The old man looked back out the window, and shut his eyes. Between them was a sack of clothing, but well could have been the sack they carried potatoes in from the shed to the house.

The person on the bench with him, next to the window, who had not looked at him when he came in and put his sack up above his head, was a young woman dressed against the chill, with a large hat, black plumes, lace, and a shawl; and it was hard to see what she looked like. Guy sat, straight, then slumped and slid towards the edge of the seat, and put his legs out straight, careful not to be anywhere near the legs across from him. The old woman pulled her legs closer to the bench anyway.

The train made its clacking and creaking noises, and swayed just a little, and Guy dozed off. When he awoke, rain was streaking the window, and it seemed almost twilight because of the grey skies roiling so close to the trees and the rain dragging the light down into the ground with it. As he opened his eyes he realized his head had fallen to his right, and he was staring out the window; but in the corner of his eye he saw the young woman looking intently at him. As soon as he opened his eyes, though, she turned away. ‘She has been watching me as I slept,’ he thought, and wondered if he had done anything while asleep to worry about. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he said things.

In that brief glimpse, he saw her eyes. Now he closed his eyes again and tried to recapture her eyes in the moment before she turned away. They were beautiful. He tried to remember them. They were enchanting. He opened his eyes again, and she was looking at him again. Yes, her eyes were astoundingly beautiful. And now he could see her face, round, surrounded by plumes and shawl and hat and hair. She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman Guy had ever seen in all his twenty years. She offered a hint of a smile, as a sort of ‘hello,’ and then turned toward the window again.

Guy stared, and as he stared out the window into the grey rain and countryside, he could sometimes see her reflection, as something very dark would pass by outside making a mirror effect. He stared without worrying about anyone saying something about how rude it is to stare. He didn’t care. There were so many things now that he didn’t care about. And more people stared at him now than he had ever stared at in all his life. He stared at the young woman’s cloak, and shawl, and hat, and hat pin, and dress, and little purse, and gloved hands, petite.

His neck hurt, so he turned back straight and unbuttoned the top button of his uniform. He looked down at his puttees, with his legs stretched straight out again, and quickly put his left ankle over his right ankle, covering a stain that had not come out with washing. Washing and washing.

His head drooped, and before his chin touched his chest he was asleep again. So tired. So tired. He slept long and deep.

He dreamed. He dreamed of this and that, things that made sense and things that might have made sense. He dreamed of the pleasant feel of a woman’s skin, a woman’s hand touching his. It was such a warm dream.

He awoke, but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move. No one knew he was awake now. But he was awake, and yet he was still feeling that beautiful feeling of the warmth of a woman’s hand on his hand. On his right hand. Was he awake? Yes, he was awake. He felt the train. He heard the train. And he felt a hand on his right hand, and it moved ever so slightly, moving on his hand to cover his hand better. He did not move. He dared not move. He didn’t open his eyes. The young woman had her hand, without her glove, on his hand. She squeezed his hand so very gently. He did not move.

“Pauvre enfant,” he heard the old woman across from him say in a whisper, with some missing teeth.

The young woman’s hand was warm, and tighter now. He opened his eyes. He saw her hand. He felt her hand. He slowly turned to her, not moving anything but his head and his eyes. He looked into her eyes. She smiled, and squeezed his hand.

It had grown darker outside, and the rain was still streaking across the window of the train, jostling through the fields and forests, heading home.

Who was she? Why was she doing this? He dared not speak for fear of breaking the spell. She still clung to his hand, and smiled, a bit of a sad smile, really. He looked at her. She was so beautiful. He looked at the window behind her, and saw his reflection. ‘How could she be holding my hand?’ he thought. ‘Look at me. Inhuman. Ghastly. Half a face. A gruesome wreck of what used to be me. How can she look at me, and hold my hand?’

But she did. He felt the warmth of her soft hand. He felt her skin, her care, her kindness. It was such a comfort. He didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes again; but did not sleep.