Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Last Day of Another Year

I did briefly labor with the idea that yesterday was the last day of the year, but thanks to toalla limpia lentes I was able to clean the eye glasses and a whole new world was revealed. I can now feel very confident that today is the last day of the year and will celebrate by waiting until at least eight thirty before retiring to my bed.

 The limpia lentes are an introduction to the community which The Friend Who Lives too Far Away is responsible for. You have to hold your breath, the limpia part has that waking quality in it's scent that might well substitute for a strong cup of tea or a good clip around the ear. So I'll be sure to have a lens cleaning wipe handy around eight o'clock tonight.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Travel Preparations.

Thirty days has September, April, June and November. This means tomorrow isn't 2015. It's little snippets of knowledge like this which a person needs to see them safely through the the day to day without having to look things up before they engage the gears, and go boldly into town to visit the Post Office.

 I will have to shave again. I shaved a couple of days ago in anticipation of a trip into town, but what with one thing and another that trip didn't completely happen. Wish it had, because too much shaving is not good for skin, and very cruel on the emotions. "Grow a beard!" I hear you say. Well, I find the panoply of beards very unnerving in others. Beards are either "I've totally given up."  Or they are some sort of domestic pet that feeds on scraps.

Monday, December 29, 2014

The Nightmare of Titles

The issue of Titles rears an ugly head. Our hero has achieved a level of hero-dom that is really very awesome and super-fantastic. Despite all my efforts, he is basically walking on water. Quite how it got to this I do not know. Fortunately I have horrible things in store for him, unless he again outwits me with some sort of Harry Potter magic wizardry. And should anyone be interested, if our hero takes a deep breath, he's almost four foot eleven inches at the moment.

One of my worries is and has been what I'll call 'A glorification of the English Boarding School System.' It does create a tribe that's separate and apart. You can get a sense of it from people who say things like 'I went to Harvard,' as they cheer the Harvard tidily-wink team. But worth remembering they didn't go to Harvard until they were at least shaving. It's nice to belong, but it's more a question of what you belong to. Ask those who remember wearing the uniform of the hitlerjugend. But that's all in our hero's future. 

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Cold Wet Rain

This is what you call, a Cold Wet Rain. The pedant might suggest in that truly aggravating way that wet might not be necessary. Rain, he might argue is wet by its nature. Well, I'm here to tell him that this is "A Cold Wet Rain." It's not a Welcome Rain, it's not a Nice Rain, and it's far too early for it to be a Potato Rain.

And if the pedant still doesn't like the word wet in his description of rain, I suggest he gets into his milk cart and delivers bottles of milk in a rain like this. He'll find his fingers getting cold, his clothes and his warm wooly socks will get wet. And if he doesn't understand a Cold Wet Rain when he gets back to his milk yard, then there's something very seriously wrong with him.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

A Moa is not a Giraffe

New Zealand has no native mammal. But I will take exception to the idea of the New Zealand Amber Snail, a large carnivorous worm hunting snail by the way, as playing the role of Wren. First of all Wren's are birds, and there are, or at least there were, plenty of native species of New Zealand birds. Indeed birds ruled New Zealand until the Maori appeared.

 Second, I don't think it useful to compare and contrast the roles of species. The Moa, for example, was never a Giraffe. So thinking of the Moa as New Zealand's Giraffe is kind of like thinking a Strawberry Mivvi is, or was, the USA's Blue Bunny Ice Cream on a Stick. Similar nutritional values, possibly. But the Moa and the Giraffe are very different creatures.

Friday, December 26, 2014

"I can fly you can't" irritating.

The Audubon Dogwoods have buds. But they are not as bud rich as they were three days ago. And this means Grosbeaks had their way with the Audubon Dogwoods when no one was looking. They come through on their path to the Paw-Paw trees and the Parrots, and they pillage. There was a time when they didn't seem to care whether a resident saw them engaged in vandalism. If they were yelled at they'd just stare back, or hop around a bit and give a person the Grosbeak stare. Which is a kind of supercilious stare that's sort of independent looking and free spirited. It's "I can fly you can't" irritating. Which as everyone knows is the worse than the "Attila The Hun" sort of irritating.

 Now I do understand that in the tapestry we people are doing our very best to civilize the planet, make it warmer, do away with wild places, make it so that you can drive from the North Pole to the South Pole without too many traffic lights and not have to confront something like foreign food, or some kind of incomprehensible dialect that makes communication difficult. But in some areas we people aren't doing a very good job. Grosbeaks have gone sneaky on us. They come in the night and they engage in acts of terrorism against a person's Audubon Dogwood buds. I think there should be a pogrom against this sort of behavior. Grosbeaks should be put on some kind of a watch list, they need serious re-education.  And on this I am a single issue voter.

Thursday, December 25, 2014


I remember Georgie Fame. And I remember Radio Caroline, which was a pirate radio station somewhere out there in the North Sea. In my mind it was a big glittering ship with lots of lights on it. But the photograph of Radio Caroline shows a small rusty looking boat that might have been a trawler, and which looked likely to sink at any moment.

 Georgie Fame was a white guy who could sing blues. At least I thought he could. He got himself all involved with finding his way in the big world of music promotion. They gave him outfits, told him how many guitars he could have, they got rid of his bongo player. who looked a little too ethnic for the dolly birds. Anyway, someone bought one of my books today. Best Christmas present ever. Don't know who.

Sunday, December 21, 2014


The joy of the shortest day is surviving it. One more year upon earth. And this is holy, the word for calm, for majesty and fat little princes. To celebrate, there'll be mash potato and gravy, and maybe something with sugar.

 And almost without saying, Albert Bandura's Bobo Doll Experiment comes to mind. Not at all pretty, by the way.  Whether it be good or bad, we copy each other all the time. Can't help ourselves, it seems. I'll call it prefect.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Well Rounded

Our hero and the Rabbit of Usk are currently in East Sussex. The month is May, and the year is 1964. Not many people will remember Gerhard Zucker, a civilian rocketeer who was firm in his convictions that mail could be delivered by rockets. His early attempts to impress the Royal Mail with a practical demonstration of mail delivery by rocket, was in the 1930's. The Royal Mail rewarded his efforts by suggesting he be deported back to Germany, where the German authorities arrested him on suspicion of being in the pay of the British intelligence services.

 During the war Gerhard was a pilot for the Luftwaffe. Following the war Gerhard resumed his interest in mail delivery by rocket, and on May 7th 1964 at a demonstration of his concept in North West Germany something went badly wrong and three people were killed. The incident didn't figure very large in the East Sussex press at the time, but on May 10th or 11th 1964 eyebrows were raised when our hero mentioned Gerhard Zucker during English Spelling Detention. And the point is, we writers of pulp like our characters to be well rounded.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Why Socrates Chose Hemlock

It's a sad fact that written words remain as they are on the paper or wherever it is the technical device keeps them. They do not move around, they do not rearrange themselves. They just sit where a person puts them. Yet over time their meaning changes. One day the sentence makes perfect sense, it strikes like a brilliant cobra and causes the heart to wonder at the magnificence of it's creator. The next day the same sentence was clearly the work of some kind of rubber room experience because it makes no sense at all, might just as well be gibberish. Leave it a month and you're basically looking at the work of a Hamster or a Wombat who has a keyboard in his dwelling place. And too, there's something very unpleasant about editing that makes me think the ancients did the right thing when they advised Socrates to either get out of town or drink Hemlock.

One of the tragedies in my time on earth has been my relationship with written words. They are without doubt the most unsatisfactory forms of self expression, and yet they are the most addictive. They can touch the nerve of life on earth with the promise of understanding that can be displayed and flaunted. It's tribe and clan, it's the big hat, and it's Cancun. And too as the world of people move into newer and newer places, odds are the written word will become pretty much extinct. The expression of their moment with living things replaced by vials of the reading experience encoded within a liquid DNA that includes advertizing and cures insomnia. There'll be the odd gallant mushroom in a basement, but to future generations the written word will be kind of like puka shell bracelets or winkle pickers. Sadly the bagpipe will probably outlast them.

Friday, December 12, 2014

A Manifestation of Wrong Words

There may have to be a pogrom, or a potlatch if you prefer. The trouble I suspect is not they who have offended the gods, it is I who have offended the gods. And as one who at root is deeply superstitious, or a sufferer from imagination if you prefer, I begin to realize the truth in the idea of the manifestation of spirits. I can say this because I obviously require the services of a priest or priestess who has dedicated his or her time on earth to exorcisms.

 There is however, the idea that the language I speak is not a shared one. So before I commit to an exorcism through pogrom of G Plus Circles, I am going to hunt down cloying and totally irrelevant phrases, pictures of cats, and I will search the thesaurus for the recipes of niceness, then plant them in the ether so I may watch them grow. Then if despite having done this I am still burdened by the spirits of red itchy blotches, I will reach for the delete button, or re-birth if you prefer. Odds are I'll return as an itch mite or scabies.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

A Derailment

A Derailment as a title hardly covers it. Then there's the question, "Is it actually a derailment?"  And here I can't say for certain without starting to itch. Maybe there's something on the keyboard, or even the keyboard itself, that causes this itching. Yet when I look beyond for others in my predicament there's an understanding that A Derailment might indeed be the title.

There's a sort of sweetness, a sort of earnest searching for the equation, and it's all properly wrapped looking to be cooed at. It's kind of like going to the fancy dress ball in shorts, then sleeping on the park bench and you're never quite certain when the night will end. And here I've never been to a fancy dress ball, but I have slept on park benches. 

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

The Non-Smoking Tapestry

A recent and ongoing allergic reaction can be easily explained as a justifiable response to some part of me withdrawing cigarettes from the bits and pieces that comprise the community that is me. It's a revolt, as insurgencies used to be called. Sadly the world just isn't ready for this sort of explanation, and insists upon hunting around for some kind of algebraic formula that describes the reaction as a relationship between my presence in the world and something else.

The possibility that I gave myself red blotchy itchiness as a result of a long string of internal disagreements that came to boil when the visual cortex registered a Smoke Free Zone sign apparently comes under the heading of mumbo-jumbo. Meanwhile the revolt of body parts continues, and currently some sense of agreement between parts is achieved by wandering though the pages of the Urban Dictionary. A wonderland of depravity, erudition and learning. And I have to say, never in my best dreams did I anticipate the complexity of the non-smoking tapestry.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Allergy to Smoke Free Zone

The problem is I need a pair of boots. The old faith-full ones have given up on me. They did sterling service and will be hung in a place of great honor. Maybe painted black and white, or used as hanging baskets if the Spring ever arrives. But to enter the kingdom of New-Boot-Dom, I had to go into town. Ten minutes later I was stricken by a palsy that's little understood by the medical profession. It's quite obvious to me however that for us apprentices to the ranks of the Non-Smoker there is what I will call the Allergic Reaction to members of the Radical Wing of the Non-Smoking Community. Naturally there have been a number of ridiculously far fetched theories tossed around regarding the cause of my Allergic Reaction. Laundry Detergent, Buckwheat Groats, Hibernating Lady Birds. But the more astute thinker knows better.

I started feeling shaky as soon as I saw the signature of the Radical Wing. It's their Smoke Free Zone sign. My reaction to it could be translated from the Sabean language as, these fine fellows have got a hot nerve. This must have produced some sort of psychotic reaction in me that some people call Hives, others call Bring on the End Times, but which is better understood as Entire Body Red Blotchy Itchiness. And yes there was some direct action which required a visit to the Tobacco Hut in order to hunt down a better cure than Benadryl. But to be on the safe side of course, I'll not be washing my clothes for a couple of months, I'll stop cooing at hibernating Lady Birds and I'm going to start calling Buck Wheat Groats, Highwayman Porridge. But one thing I know for certain I'm done with Smoke Free Zones until I have to renew my driving license. 

Monday, December 8, 2014

Discursive Prolix as Nictotine

 The Cover Crop does look a little like some kind of aggressive invasive new species from a corporate test tube. It looks very green and lush despite some deep frosts, and it's certainly done the work of covering. I must say I did think there'd be more pea in it, maybe a little clover, some kind of accent that could suggest variety. As well in the right light at certain times of day, it can be mistaken for a not so distant relative of Creeping Grass.

 I recall a man explaining to me exactly why it was he had The Canadian Thistle in his field. For those who might not know it Canada is not that much further than a day's travel on the big roads going North from here. However not until the emergency import of Canadian Hay to feed drought plagued USDA Beef in the 1980's sometime, did The Canadian Thistle think to cross the border. And there may indeed be other theories about why bad things happen to perfectly nice people, but I still don't trust this years Cover Crop.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Redefining Day One

This could be an excellent moment to re-open The Ramses Schism. A popular subject I know, and certain to bring on some interesting exchanges, followed by an hour or so debating the minutiae as each party attempts to out flank each other in order to achieve a sort of intellectual pecking order with feathered headdress in the winners circle. There are names for it, and The Glass Bead Game is as polite a name as any.

 On the other hand I could mention the two cigarettes I so thoroughly enjoyed smoking yesterday, which means this day of the year is another "Day One" in a series of repeating Day One's. It's a phenomenon I guess, and like all phenomena it needs a title. A good solid welcome to hell kind of word, and for some reason "Beatitude Day" begins to ring because "Magister Ludi Day" would be way too aggravating.

Saturday, December 6, 2014


 Not a big supporter of The Reformation. I like my religious nuts to go round selling indulgences and generally making hay out of the buying and selling public. Give me the Pillars of Pharaoh to hang my canvass coat upon as I sing a few songs to the great beyond.

 Nor will I be discussing the role of Tobacco in the furtherance of a more temperate society. Far be it for me to point out that politicians seemed more stable when they had ashtrays in the aisles of their gathering places, the festive season less frenetic and devoted to avarice......

Friday, December 5, 2014

Day Three

One of the other things we Non-Smokers have to get used to is a hen-like attitude to just about everything. It's a short attention span, pecking around, and then completely forgetting what we were doing. Very alarming, and I don't really know how we Non-Smokers get anything useful done, but maybe we're just very good at looking busy and waiting to go to heaven and stuff.

 And there's a rampage of villi in the part of us that does the actual breathing. They are little retired Roman Legionnaires who farm the mucus membrane and they are objecting to the disappearance of their tobacco allowance. Very understandable, I feel it too, but I don't go down there into their world and start waving banners and standing on their street corners. I wish I'd paid more attention in Latin. "Venii Vicii Go Awaii," is Dutch to them.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Day Two

This is bold new territory for me. And it seems wholly inappropriate and altogether totally inadequate to just call it "Day Two." And with such a pathetic, un-resounding sort of name it's no wonder I don't remember having actually survived a Day Two before, except perhaps in more imaginative moments while being interrogated by the Medical Profession.

Perhaps too, after one whole day, an entire thirty and a half hours, I might now be in a position to better understand the mood and world view of the Non-Smoker. A generous if rather unseemly percentage of our population, who are fitter, better educated and wealthier, I'm told. Either way, there's a Toad Stool in Junk Gully I've got to go shout at. It's the sort of thing we Non-Smokers do, apparently.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Day One

Day One, I could call it. But if I did it would be an unforgivable exaggeration. It's not Day One, it's more like day nine thousand, which is about the number of times I have tried to give up smoking. And incidentally this is the third Day One so far this week.

 It's all very well saying things like "only the weak minded smoke cigarettes, we strong minded people like dieting and drinking large quantities of low carb alcohol." Well I'll tell you this much, as far as I'm concerned tomorrow might be as good a Day One as any.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Apostrophes, An Exercise

A piano, a Hungarian pipe smoker, and a maker of death masks who ran off with The Rabbit of the Northern Clans' money. The year was 1823, Ash Wednesday, February the 20th, a day after one of The Rabbit's many birthdays.  When I think about it, The Rabbit has about forty or fifty birthdays a year, so it's tricky.

 It's a little detail from The Rabbit of Usk, and it's also an exercise in apostrophes. Not something your correspondent is good at. He apparently has no innate ability in the arena apostrophes, they do not flow from him like the Brown Water of the River Nile. Nor are Capital letters a strong point in me. But fortunately this isn't physics and nor is it Physics.

Monday, December 1, 2014

A Weaver of Declines

A Weaver of Declines cannot be a title. It just can't. Nor am I certain what picture to put on the front cover. But I do know one thing. When looking at the statistics, free things are considerably more cheerful and bouncy than un-free things which are all kind of guarded and tense and surrounded by barbed wire and protected by pompous ass guards with IPods and promises of two weeks in Cancun and elegant haircuts and some kind of concealed carry permit for a laser weapon.

 And when I think about the Buffalo, especially around the festive season, I begin to feel an intense sadness. Everyone from the totally pointless Brookstone catalogue to some mental patient with a buy me jack hammer beating on him as though he was endless and forever and you could do what ever you wanted to him because he's a half wit and maybe a little stupid. Run free Buffalo, get the hell out of town Jack, stop padding around in shops and peeing in the gutter. It's very unattractive and only encourages the bastards.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

General Theory

I'm a big fan of the tag General Theory. It pretty much sums everything up. It reaches deep into the land of the intense who might be thinking about physics or economics and tickles parts of their algorithm. So you can imagine my excitement when I searched General Theory and discovered a short, sharp and passionate discourse on Compost Piles.

 The world of course is going to hell when some random Gardener in some random part of the world can apply General Theory to the Naming of Compost Piles and get away with it. What next I wonder, and I really should be ashamed of myself, yet I also have high hopes for discursive, episodic, prolix.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Like This On Facebook

For those of us who sometimes decide that indeed there might well be hope for the maladjusted there's a test out there by which progress maybe judged. This year I'm sad to report I got yet another failing grade. I totally cracked in the early hours of day two. And it's likely I said something I probably shouldn't have done about perfectly innocent people sitting around a table and there were candle sticks and other decorative accents and a whole bunch of very idiotic lists of wholly transparent statements of the toe curling kind. All of it crying out for peer review.

 I still believe that with time, considerable effort and maybe a lobotomy I am capable of achieving correct mental attitude and developing the necessary inane chirpiness that doesn't include the expression "Bite Me" as a catch all phrase. So don't get me wrong, I'm just not going to personally visit Facebook until a couple of months after the festive season of 2020. Instead I'll be delegating that role in the grand scheme to my good friends Pinterest and Blogger, who are so engrossed in the mathematics of it all they're completely past caring and pretty much oblivious to earthly matters.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Title Angst

Some of us are again looking for a title. Scary Compost Pile II, might not do it. But it does have potential for what the professionals call "A Current Working Title" and I would have gone for Scary Compost Pile II as a current working title had it not been for the small problem that  Scary Compost Pile II is the eighth Compost Pile from the left, and I need an idea of the third Compost Pile from the left. And here, I'm afraid to say, The South Saxons as a title is beginning to sound a little like really badly made gravy.

 And it might be I need the assistance of a clinician, or a G-Plus Community but The Sabean Genre has a structured-structure-less-ness that obsessed a few brave French thinkers following the Second World War, and in general musing about The Rabbit of Usk, sometimes it's worth returning to the origin of an idea. And the thing about the second and third Compost Piles from the left is the intimacy of their connections. They are as brothers, if you will. So I was thinking A Weaver of Declines as a possible sibling to A Weaver of Inclines. At the same time, our hero's decline from peak hero-dom to the dark corridors of Pen-Y-Fal has a long way to go. Don't you just hate geometry.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

A Small Blessing for The Otherwise Preoccupied

Prelude to Winter Solstice is always a difficult time. It's more like a purgatory with decorative accents and unnecessary expenditures than it is like a hell, but all the same the secret is to keep 'otherwise preoccupied.' A mind wanders, starts concerning itself with the history of a completely fictional people, and there's always the happy possibility of a rubber room somewhere.

 And here with respect to giving thanks, I am indeed grateful that all those years ago I decided against actually inventing a completely fictional language for a completely fictional people. Don't get me wrong, I do have notes. Reams of them, entitled The Language of Sabeans. Then the technical device arrived, I pretty much forgot how to do handwriting and I'll tell you this much, a made up language really confuses the spell checker.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014


 I'd like to be able to say that we Sabeans don't enjoy our History, that way I could altogether avoid having to explore our History. But when a writer of pulp gathers his notes into one place, an exercise that took about three days, and he then makes the mistake of discovering that technical devices are capable of counting words, it can all get a little overwhelming. Eight hundred and fifty odd thousand words is not something a person can look at and say something like, "That makes sense."

 And too, given the total inadequacy of the steel trap some call memory, I had for example completely forgotten that while in Egypt Sabeans had a Sand Castle Building Festival. During the MCCXXXV Sand Fest Neferhotep III shuffled off the mortal coil after just one year as a Pharaoh. While this might figure in some sort of Sabean Trivial Pursuit, it is according to my notes of wider interest because Neferhotep III was very likely a Sabean. And here it gets interesting, Neferhotep III had a Greek Aunt.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

The Diaspora

Usually as a result of infighting amongst the powerful, stability is ephemeral for us people, which is about as close to physics as we Sabeans are able to get. Our concept of entropy is probably about thirty thousand years old, so what we call The Babylon Incursion had an inevitability to it, and was anticipated. For the nit-picking purist it wasn't actually Babylon that invaded Egypt it was Persia. And I could go on but the point is we Sabeans had had a settled existence for a good long time, we had things like hobbies, we had things like chess tournaments, we had our arts and crafts, we had our debating societies, we had something a little bit like Thanksgiving that included sand castle building. And The Babylon Incursion put an end to all that.

 It can be emotional so I'm not certain whether I've explained the Ramses Schism with any great success, but I think for us students of the Rabbit of Usk, the important thing for us to remember is that in the Diaspora, Pyramid Sabeans drew straight lines wandered down into the Arabian Peninsular, got all involved in accounting, in monument building, the Queen of Sheba, the spice trade, precious metals and all that kind of biblical stuff. Which was fine, a little disappointing perhaps, simplistic possibly, insipid maybe, but nothing basically wrong with it. The Sphinx Sabeans had a very different idea of geometry, we're not big fans of Euclid, The Einstein Incursion pretty much leaves us cold, so some Sphinx Sabeans wandered North and the more sensible ones wandered South.

Monday, November 24, 2014

The Green Sea

Yes indeed, Borg Biting is high on my list of pleasures. It releases tension, centers the passions and could well substitute for the relationship a writer of pulp has with his shovel. All the same, the History of the Sabeans, while it might not be for everyone is a necessary part of the Sabean Genre and as a result Sabean History, such as it is, has to be lodged in the shelves and if necessary forgotten about.

 I do understand that our experience in Egypt might not be for me to interpret, so a précis might be the better way to go. We were there for probably about a thousand years. Ramses II did us no favors. And there were other things. For example while in Egypt we adopted the phrase "Green Sea" as our name for The Mediterranean. Where the Nile enters The Mediterranean the water is often a greenish color but nowhere else is The Mediterranean even a little bit green. So you can imagine the confusion.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

It's Good to Bite the Borg

I might have rambled a little yesterday. Indeed I know I rambled more than somewhat yesterday. Entirely possible I made no sense at all. And the sad thing is I know why I rambled. The first reason is a Fly or a Lady Bird seems to have got itself trapped inside the technical device. It buzzes now and then. It's the kind of noise that suggests an imminent technical device collapse, followed by "Why didn't I back anything up?"

 The second reason has to do with joining The Borg. A poor solution to the problem of belonging. And it seems to me the joy of writing, the pleasure of it, the thrill of words, the exploration, the roller coaster is often shot to hell by The Borg. I'm older of course, a small Star Trek fan. And in my mind The Borg is grammar, semi-colons, genres and the sound of dreams being sucked into the vortex of commerce, book covers, platforms, reviews and the passion to be noticed. You can call it craft if you want to, but I wonder where such obedience ends.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

The Sphinx/Pyramid Schism

Around four or five thousand years ago in our Wandering Northward we Sabeans entered that confusing part of our history which we still think of as The Pillars of Pharaoh. And too, when Sabeans gather to discuss The Pillars of Pharaoh it can often lead to discord amongst us. The more astute tribesmen will recognize this discord as an expression of the uncomfortable relationship we had with Egypt, and try to pretend it never happened. Sadly that's not always possible. My own opinion, and it's one I can become really quite passionate about, is essentially that we are more of a Sphinx People than we are a Pyramid People. It's an argument that can while away many an evening and more often than not. it ends up in some kind of drunken brawl, after which everyone bursts into tears and we all ramble on a little about Ramses II.

 Ramses II inherited the personification of the Pillars of Pharaoh from his father a little over three thousand years ago and like all truly manipulative people he decided to give the Sabeans credit for defeating a challenge to his authority that came out of the Western Mediterranean. They were tower builders from Sardinia and they were pretty well organized. And here, the one thing all Sabeans can agree upon is that Ramses II was a truly dark moment in our history. Call him Ramses The Great at your peril around us. The point is, there's always been something unfair about any kind of a people who sail around in boats and then suddenly start marauding and pillaging. It's just wrong. Either way, it was this high praise from a Pharaoh that produced the Sphinx/Pyramid Schism in us Sabeans, which erupts now and then, especially around national holidays.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

A Collection of Habits

In their Wandering Northward the Sabeans picked up what we Sabeans call A Collection of Habits. And it's very possible this collection of habits, might have had something to do with inspiring a description of Sabeans found in the written work of Pamphile of Epidaurus. She wrote in the First Century AD. Her writing was more like a modern day blog than any kind of serious peer reviewed history. Yet amongst her notes, she does mention a short inscription written in Egyptian Late Period cuneiform on some kind of 'cellar wall' by some kind of 'anonymous hand' some sixteen hundred years before the First Century AD. And as we Sabeans understand Pamphile's interpretation, the inscription cruelly refers to the Sabeans has having emerged from the Crucible of Lucifer.

Now it might well be that it was only later the word "Lucifer," which is Latin for "The Southern Star," became associated with the leader of the Angels Revolt against the One God. But Pamphile's interpretation still hurts those few of us Sabeans that might be a little sensitive. And I guess too, it's also entirely possible that it was these sort of random acts of writing on cellar walls that might have contributed to Pamphile's insistence that Sabeans might have had something to do with the first attempt to destroy the Library of Alexandria. Not something that was successfully accomplished until the Rashidun Caliphate in something like 645 AD. By which time for your information, there wasn't a single Sabean left in Egypt. All the same, I think the point I'm trying to make is that in our Wandering Northward we Sabeans acquired what we prefer to call  A Collection of Habits. It's not like a list, it's not something you stick on the lawn of a court house, it's more like a round about flow.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

A Wandering North

In the oral history of the Sabeans there's not so much an act of creation as there is what we Sabeans call a wandering northward.  Naturally enough the anthropological have and will continue to read all sorts of things into the Sabean concept of a wandering northward. But let me just assure you the anthropologist's total failure to grasp a wandering north is a stain on their so called 'professional standards,' and a bit of sore point with those of us Sabeans who've had the misfortune to have been studied by them.

A wandering northward, to paraphrase Sam Gompers, is a wandering northward. There was no serious plan behind this wandering northward, indeed it had more to do with finding a comfortable place to sit down, a nice breeze and maybe a good view. There is however some debate about where we might have wandered northward from. There are some who will persist with the idea that we got pissed off with our neighbors, but the general more sensible opinion is that while out for a walk it got dark and there were clouds in the sky that made navigating difficult so we couldn't find our way home. And it's really as simple as that.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Exploring the Arc.

The Sabean Genre, as I'll call it, has a very, very small following. Safe to say it falls several dozen points below the Madrigal. Which should really tell me something, but for some reason it doesn't. So I'm going to spend the next few days explaining The Sabean Genre to myself. Not something a writer of pulp usual does, but I am of the opinion it might be quite useful. Professionals would call it 'exploring the arc' or something like that. And there's a whole verbiage with workshops and these kind of money making opportunities for pretty much all genre's that are not the Sabean Genre.

Of course everything has to have a beginning. Otherwise narrative becomes structurally unstable, or what the professionals loosely define as 'codswallop.' So in this self explanation, this 'exploration of the arc,' I'll begin with the historical Sabean. Granted some of my sources are suspect. indeed many have spent time in jail, some have been kicked out of their cathedrals of learning for what the professionals call 'making stuff up,' but I'm not one to pass judgment on a firmly held opinion unless it involves farm animals. Either way, the plan is to begin with the Babylonian Invasion of Egypt. So I'm going to sit back and for my homework, I'm going to imagine it's about 3000 years ago and I'm somebody's belt buckle, or perhaps his shirt, or maybe his wooden spoon, or perhaps his shovel.

Monday, November 17, 2014


Today is an anniversary. And one of the things about losing brain cells is the increased capacity of a mind to completely forget. Either way this time last week I moved upstairs, an anniversary which might have slipped by me had it not been for the creators foresight when he or perhaps she, came up with the idea of House Dust.

For some, House Dust might be an irritation, for others it's an aid to memory and much appreciated. As well it's an opportunity to take the odd physical note regarding the rate of accumulation of House Dust. And here the prize is the first sighting of a Dust Bunny, which for the punters amongst us I currently estimate should begin to occur sometime in early March. 

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Winter Blooms

The bloom of a Rhinovirus is very apparent in the room where I sleep. They're like big white snow flakes with the occasional blue cough drop wrapper artfully arranged amongst them. And I can remember the reusable handkerchief, which were indeed the ideal fermentation zone for the Rhinovirus. Tongs are useful, I've found.

Perhaps in three months time this will be a distant memory. The Sufi poets engraved "This Too Will Pass" upon a ring for their King. He'd wanted a gift from them that would make him happy whenever he felt sad. Which is a classic request from those up there. Then when the king was happy and he looked at the ring, he was sad.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

The Carnival of Winter

 Engaged as I have been for the past ten days to the "Power of Positive Thinking" a weaker mind might by now have called off the engagement. One result of this engagement has been a head cold with cough and green phlegm. The other result, a dramatic decline in outdoor temperatures which has led to a certain amount of mental instability in your correspondent. A third result has been what I will call a somnolent response to A Weaver of Inclines which sadly promoted in me an increasingly flawed approach to social media.

 Pewdesduckle was quite kind in her recent review, but I have heard that an E-book by a pulp writer might not be worth reading unless it has received at least thirty reviews. And here in terms of the raw numbers, I'll need somewhere between twenty to thirty thousand very good friends if I am ever to achieve thirty reviews. But thanks to the "Power of Positive Thinking" we who are reclusive and also high on cough drops are able to consider these sorts of challenges as little more than a minor hiccup.

Friday, November 14, 2014


When browsing the origin of this or that name, a mind can take on a fever at the quantity of sometimes suspicious information available. And the better question is why would an accident of birth matter? Unless of course there is deep in us an idea that the moment of emerging into the world is written by a past time. And here I'm proud to say the first people whose name I carry either made candles, or lit candles, or owed candle wax, maybe just collected candles or had some kind of embarrassing fetish about candles.

 Nor will I be apologizing to, or seeking forgiveness from my ancestors for not having shown more interest in candles through the course of my years upon earth. I can say this because the very earliest candles were probably made in China and last time I checked the mirror I got no sense of a Chinaman staring back at me. Strangely, and this is just my opinion, not everybody accords significance to their own name. Worth noting, and this I do find a little worrisome, Candelarius was the Latin, Chandelier was the French. Which means I could be Italian?

Thursday, November 13, 2014

A Bunny Vacuum

Levitt is an Anglo-Norman name, which means Wolf-like. I thought the name Bunny Levitt had two things going for it. First of all the combination of 'Bunny' and 'Wolf' fills me with a certain joy. And too people called 'Bunny' tend in my mind at least to be of a particular social stratification that lends itself to a happy existence in something like a vacuum occupied by names like 'Dobby' and 'Inky.'

 There is a part of me that would like to think the word 'dated' might be applied to something like an 'Inky.' Yet I'm not sure the 'Bunny' vacuum has gone. More likely it's still out there, and while there maybe no 'Inky' contained within it, there's a good chance of finding something like a 'Precious' or a 'Harmony.' And being perfect in every way, my own name surely doesn't count in these ruminations.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014


Big Moon last night. Cast a fine shadow, sometime around two. And it's these sort of welcome home sights that put the poetry back into the spine of a Pulp Writing Handyman and Gardener. Yes indeed I have multi-tasked  myself, but not certain I yet have the correct title. I thought maybe PWHAG, for short.  I could add Attic Dwelling, which would make it ADPWHAG.

 For those interested, Our hero is currently in East Sussex, which is about the latitude of Newfoundland. It's winter time where he is, it's a little chilly and he's wearing shorts because shorts are part of his uniform. His grandfather has insisted the Saxon tribes were a kilt-wearing people, so he's wearing a kilt fashioned after a print of the Jacobite Pretender Bonny Charlie, they'd spotted in the encyclopedia.

Monday, November 10, 2014

The Stairs

There will be a move upstairs. Check out the old place. Give it a good sniff. Say Hi to The Great Black Wasp and The Hornet, that sort of thing. And it's all kind of exciting. There might even be a Lady Bird gathering by way of a ceremonial Welcome Home. But first there will have to be a few minor alterations to the "Egress and Degress" which is what we handymen call staircases.

We haven't always called staircases "Egress and Degress." There was a time when we simply used to call them "Stairs," but over time a handyman may develop a more "Up and Down" relationship with his "Stairs."  A more passionate sense of them. This usually stems from something like falling down "Stairs" or staring at them for a period not exceeding three months.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Theater Theatre

During the Second World War intelligence services issued bulletins. Some Top Secret, some less so. Authorized officers and men, closer to the front lines would have access to this stream of information from intelligence services concerning the latest weapons and tactics of the enemy.

What's this got to do with the price of eggs? I hear you ask. Well the men and women charged with collating the information and presenting it in a digestible form then passing it along to the relevant theatre of operations had a rural headquarters which after the second world war became a boarding school for boys. I thought I'd call it Bulstrode after the barge in Thomas the Tank Engine

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Promotional Activity

Promotional activities will of course continue. There is no rest for the writer of pulp. He might wonder a moment, dream of the warmer weather, cast a sly glance in the direction of Compost Piles, wonder what might have happened to his shovel. Then back to Instagram, which I am told is a fast, beautiful way to share life's more fulfilling moments with others. And I too regard those sort of random, subjective appraisals with a deep, abiding suspicion.

 Pinterest campaigning has it's ups and downs. Perhaps if I was more interested in garden furniture, or Cactus I might find Pin Boards that rock the boat, send shivers through my being. And too, one quickly discovers the odd, unavoidable derogatory remark is not in the least conducive to any sort of fulfilling, wholesome relationships between Pin Boards. A bit of good advise to those in this same field, the tenth Plantagenet King's relationship with the Forget-Me-not is of no interest to anyone. So avoid it if you can. Pinterest

Friday, November 7, 2014

A Weaver of Inclines

It's done.A Weaver of Inclines. There's ennui, naturally enough. A deep sense of depression that not even a collection of Turkey, chattering away and apparently engaged in some political dispute, could absolve. However, rather than admitting to some personal flaw I'm going to blame the weather forecasters.

A cold is approaching us that is vaguely described as very 'unseasonal.' And anything even remotely 'unseasonal' causes intense excitement in the weather forecaster. It's a classic example of the role 'disrupt' plays in our world. There might well be 'disruption,' I can think of Ebola, for example.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Tags and Stuff

Tension mounting as the crayon set hunts down suitable tags. There's a team in lock down working on Episodic-Prolix-Discursive and they've been up all night. When I asked them to address the matter, there were indeed a couple of blank stares as I discoursed upon the the value of romantic sounding tags in the promotional activities around The Rabbit of Usk. "How about Stalky and Company?" One of my team suggested.

And I felt the blood flow out of my veins and puddle somewhere down there where my shoes used to be. Stalky and Company was Kipling's boarding school adventure. "Billy Bunter!" I shot back. "Harry Potter meets Tom Brown" somebody had the nerve to suggest. And I have to admit I became very despairing of my team's ability to reach the proper decision. "At least I've got a Rabbit," I huffed and left them to their gruesome work.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Tim Candler's Self Interviewer Speaks

The fifth of November is remembered as Guy Fawkes Day in some parts of the world. Here where I live this fifth of November will be devoted almost entirely to unabashed promotional activities. A Weaver of Inclines is almost ready to leave his fluffy little nest, and this means the diligent writer of pulp must take the deep breath, because out there somewhere the likes of Ampleforth and Pewdesduckle are thinking about what to have for their brunch and are quite unaware of the flattering e-mail they'll soon be receiving.

 As one who struggled with the ordeal of self interviewing Tim Candler, I was rather hoping to receive a free copy of his latest masterpiece, but I suspect the results of a recent election held within his county might have pissed him off a little, so who knows whether he'll go all Republican on me and force me to grasp the intricacies of logging in to the purveyors of E-Books and parting with two dollars and ninety-nine cents. Or a hundred and eighty rupees if you happen to bump into Incidentally, Candler assures me that the Indian Subcontinent does figure quite large in his latest ripping yarn.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014


It's the sudden gust of wind that can sometimes persuade the ladder a tornado could be imminent. And like all well prepared citizens the ladder knows that the safer place to be during tornado is in a ditch, or face down on the ground. Certainly not leaning against a wall granting a voter his opportunity to get off his roof.

 And it's all very well sporting the "I Voted" sticker, but I'll tell you this much when you're up there and the ladder decides to run away, an "I Voted" sticker does you very little good. As well, of the noises available to anyone stuck on a roof without a ladder, you'll find that the two fingered whistle is the one that might finally attract attention.

Monday, November 3, 2014

Bo-Peep Tunnel

The Ale-Conner in the Medieval period had the responsibility of ensuring that brewers of ale did right by buyers of ale. There was a whole thing, and any brewer of ale who didn't follow the somewhat loose leaf rules could be subject to ridicule by being made to 'go play Bo-Peep in the nut-cracker.'  The 'nut-cracker' was a pillory.

Bo-Peep, while familiar as a character in the nursery rhyme, was also a name used to describe excise men in the South East of England. As well there is a Bo-Peep junction on the southern railways in the United Kingdom. It wasn't named after a shepherdess, and there was a time when I thought it was.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

The Shivering Naraka

Well looks like we had it all. We had the frost, we had the moan, we had a few thoughts about Winter Solstice, we had a couple of Fall Iris popped into a jug of water. As well there was a brief contemplation of the "at-at-at sound." Which isn't a "chattering of teeth," I've discovered. A "chattering of teeth" is all part of the Chattering Teeth Naraka. And here it might be worth pointing out that not all thoughts of Hell are of fire and boiling cauldrons. There are in fact eight cold Hells, I am told. Each one more horrible than the one before, but although each Naraka does seem to last quite a long time, none of them are eternal Hells.

 The easiest of the cold Hells is the Blistering Naraka. You can't wear clothes and the cold is such that it raises blisters. But like most, my own interest has always been, how long I would have to endure such a place. The Blistering Naraka, lasts for as long as it would take to empty a barrel of Sesame Seeds if you were only permitted to take out one seed every hundred years. The Shivering Naraka, which is the third hell, would last sixty times longer than a Blistering Naraka. And it's The Shivering Naraka where a person has to deal with the kind of shivering that causes them to make an "at-at-at sound with their mouth." And even though I've got no idea what the "at-at-at sound" is I have to thank God I'm not in the Chatter Teeth Naraka because that Naraka lasts at least a hundred times longer than a Blistering Naraka.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

A Weaver of Inclines and Pinterest.

There may well be a delay in trotting out A Weaver of Inclines. The only available percussionists were a Steel Band, and there is something a little plinky-plonky about the Steel Band. Kind of flip-flops, and those of European origin attempting to score cheap pot, so they can wriggle around drunkenly for week prior to returning to the office cubicle so they might better concentrate upon their Pinterest addiction.

 I too am in the early stages of a Pinterest addiction. They are sort of Twitter, Facebook folk. My own contribution to the genre is equally self centered. And indeed I have pinterested a number relevant jpegs in my constant search for approval. It's called The Board, for those who might be unfamiliar. But much more terrifying, there appear to be at least eight others in the world who go by the name of Tim Candler.

Friday, October 31, 2014


Always a certain shyness around the end of the month because that's when numbers are produced. Looks like One Small Boy might have sold five copies, and these are the sort of numbers that can get the writer of pulp's adrenalin running. I guess too, a Thank You is in order.

I know Pewdesduckle purchased a copy and I have a suspicion The Editor might have purchased a copy. Nor is an editor someone who can be put under the hot lights and interrogated, because that sort of role reversal leads to the anarchy of far too many comma's and might even lead to the chaos of semi-colons, not to mention the apostrophe.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

A Weaver of Inclines

Fiction, Literature, Biographical - is a category. So is - Non-fiction, Social Science, Anthropology Cultural. Tags are a great deal more fun - Boarding School, Detention, Leopards, Steam Trains, Discursive, Episodic, Prolix. Of course to be taken seriously I should really be in the category of Chic-Lit, Sci-Fi, Mystery. With the tags Spaceships, Pretty Blond People, Serial Killer, Sentient Plants, Gorgeous Alien Beings. And I reckon Emma De Lissau by Amelia Bristow, comes under such a category. All though you could try:

 Not quite certain why I like the tags Discursive, Episodic, Prolix. I could argue that these three words best describe the world I share with The Rabbit of Usk. Increasingly however, I have come to understand that not everyone greets Discursive, Episodic, Prolix with the same enthusiasm as I do. The question I guess is, Do I Care? The correct answer to this question is, Yes you should! Anyway, on Saturday the month of November begins and I at least am keenly anticipating holiday shopping, heavy frost, possibly snow, maybe a blizzard or freezing rain, and the arrival of A Weaver of Inclines.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Night Light

Yep, it's got the chill out there in the outdoors. And there's the drip of sad leaves. A sort of dank that brings to mind toast and Marmite. And a host of ghostly apparitions on the struggling hills. And too, there are lights at night which really have no business being on.

 But I guess because it's the nature of many to believe they live in jungle the light grants redemption. Offers comfort. A kind of blindness you might think until you hear the cackle of Barred Owl and stub your toe on an ornamental rock.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

The Misses Reid

The vicissitudes of Emma continue. The Rabbi has killed himself, which is one way to get rid of an annoying character who appears to be all beard. And Emma has agreed to devote her waking hours to sitting with her insane mother, which is also a pretty good way to dispose of any need for interaction between more than one character. Emma's father or her uncle, and here I wish I had access to volume one of the account, has chosen some very special books for Emma to read. And the other thing about Emma is that she believes she might have caused a miracle, otherwise instead of being insane her mother would have descended to the tomb.

The more I think about Emma, the scarier she becomes. She is the sort of person who would have gone willingly to the Lions, and as she did so her chance at a final monologue would probably have turned the community of Roman Arena Lions vegetarian and put an end to the tradition of tossing Christians into Lion pits. However one of the subscribers to Amelia Bristow's story are call The Misses Reid.  Research suggests The Misses Reid are two sisters and their brother is The Honorable Neville Reid. As well The Misses Reid contributed mightily to the construction of Saint Joseph's Church near where The Rabbit of Usk now finds himself. Saint Joseph's follow the Discalced Carmelite tradition, in other words they are Barefoot Carmelites. So it was meant to be.

Monday, October 27, 2014


There might be an ice cream, some kind of curried meat product, a well rounded rice, raita, large quantities of garlic and I guess too there should be papadum, or are the called chapatti, I can never remember.

As well as something Apple and Orange, maybe a nut and quite frankly to hell with green stuff. And if you have to know, the complexity of this Dish for a Big Day will be better described in Book Nine.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Book Three

For Book Three of The Rabbit of Usk, which is as yet untitled, I'm reading Emma De Lissau by Amelia Bristow. I can't find the first volume which makes following the plot a little tricky. But chapter one of volume two seems to be chapter IX in Emma's narrative. So it's all rather confusing. Either way I have reached the part where Emma's grandfather - the guardian of her infant years - is approaching dissolution and there are no words to depict Emma's agonizing feelings. The poor girl has seen many a dear one descend into the tomb. And it is her hope that before he departs she might have a chance to speak to her grandfather about Jesus. Emma of course is a religious nut.

Now there might well be an inclination to ask "Why are you reading a book by Amelia Bristow?" And I agree it does sound a little weird, and it might well be a consequence of not having been much further than the front porch for what begins to feel like a couple of years. All the same, Amelia was born around 1783, her preoccupation was the distinction between Jews and Christians and her very proper character Emma has all the qualities of a lust interest for my own hero's grandfather. Which is also pretty weird because there is a part of our hero's grandfather who was thirty seven years old when King Offa came to the Mercian Throne in the year 757 of the Christian calendar. 

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Electronic Interaction

Pinterest is one of the less comprehensible of the many, many forms of modern interaction between the electronically connected. Not certain what to call the questioner? He, or she, or it is the one that asks the questions. And then asks more questions. It's not so much the nature of the questions, rather it's the thoroughly patronizing manner of the questions. I, sir, am not in kindergarten even if you might believe you are kindergarten's teacher.

I think it was Plato who had some good words to say about the beginning of things. The beginning of relationships as much as the beginning of States, whether they be nation states or mental states. And I'll tell you this much, Pinterest, you are worse than Google. A more flagrantly depressing experience to my knock on your door would be hard to repeat. And No! I'll not sign in using bloody Facebook, I'd rather go door to door selling second hand extension cords while reciting the Queen of England's first tweet.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Over Half a Million to Go

Great news, and for those in marketing everything is great news, One Small Boy is now ranked 538,221 on the Barnes and Noble. Not quite sure what that means but I have to think that in the beauty contest there are over half a million others ahead of him. One of his fifteen shorter siblings, the story about the bicycle, is ranked 247,948. Which is a little over half a million points ahead of One Small Boy.

I've noticed recently that the DNC and its affiliates have been dispatching emails at the rate of about fifteen a day. I have had letters from Nancy Pelosi, Bill Clinton, the President of the United States, Barbara Streisand and a couple of others whose names I don't recognize. From the tenor of their correspondence, they obviously have much the same problem that I do.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Weaver of Inclines

Have to think that a six word title for anything is too long. And here I'm pretty certain that Pewdesduckle and one or other of the several Anonymous might agree with me. Ampleforth, however, has yet to review One Small Boy on the Barnes and Noble, so I've sent him a generous gift token that will enable him to buy a Danish Pastry to go along with his Double Vanilla Latte from that pompous ass coffee outlet around the corner from him.  And I'd just like to point out to Ampleforth, that no one is remotely impressed with his new apple Mack Ping Pong.

It's called 'flutter' or something like that. The algorithm likes flutter, it likes to be tickled and made to giggle. And I don't think Ampleforth fully understands what a happy algorithm is. Nor is denigrating the class of reviewer something we writers of pulp should really indulge. But I would have you know Ampleforth, there is an Anonymous who has been very generous with a few remarks about One Small Boy. It's a five star review, sir. A five star review!   How about "Weaver of Inclines," to go along with this wonderful picture of a Tribal Class 31. A 2-8-4 no less, with smokestack belching.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

The Weaver of the Elgon Caldera

Episodic Prolix doesn't figure large in the categories. However, one of the observations I'd like to put on the table for any discussion of this sometimes exotic concept of structure is that once something like part one of a story has come into existence, a succeeding part of the story can't just throw up it's hands and say something like, "I want to be alone." A sins of the father kind of thing I guess. A good argument that's been completely spoiled by a domination of particularly absurd idea of forgiveness within the politics of the individual. Blessed are the meek, indeed. "My withered right foot!" which is something I can say.

 The alternative is to come up with equally wonderful absurdities, which in the context of a narrative make perfect sense. Our political class, the boys and girls up there in the higher percentile, do it all the time. "The narrative" they will say "Is the only important thing." Down here of course we have other names for it. How about "A Weaver of the Elgon Caldera" and a picture of Steam Engine 1042 pulling freight wagons. And here, the picture won't actually be The Empress 1042 herself you understand, she is or was too beautiful to have ever been photographed.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Blob-like and Sluggardly

Not tomorrow, but the next day, I will be without the wooden shoe. I will hang it somewhere as an ornament, and after that I'll have to learn how to walk again. My right foot has become lazy, and I have noticed also that two and a half minutes of any kind of physical activity leaves me in a state of shock.

In short, over the past couple of weeks I have become blob-like and a sluggardly, and unless I am proactive, a few more days of this and I will be feeding through a tube attached to the refrigerator. Sounds blissful I know, but such is theory.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Coyote As Neighbor

The Coyote are beginning to interfere with a person's lifestyle around here. If they could just have their disagreements, or whatever it is, at regular times such as seven thirty to eight thirty in the evening rather than two or three o'clock in the morning all might be better positioned for a harmony and oneness between our disparate communities.

A barking dog is bad enough at anytime of day, but what sounds like seven or eight hundred of them all yowling at each other just outside the bedroom window in the early hours of the morning demands some sort of major gesture. I'm thinking of putting up a placard. Something pithy, like "Go eat Beagles."

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Ampleforth's Review

Some tension this morning with Ogden Ampleforth III's name. For some inconsolable reason I erred in the spelling of his name yesterday, but fortunately all records have been altered to reflect the proud history of his family, and we writers of pulp do not like to piss off reviewers. They might feast upon our corpses yet we are as nothing without them.

 Ogden's review of Halibut's End Story on the Barnes and Noble was kinder than I'd anticipated from him. Indeed he might even have understood the under harmonies contained in that story. And too he might have come up with a few of his own, which would be magnificent, because it would mean I am a true blue bull-shitter.  I should send the brave man a gift card of $3.17.

Saturday, October 18, 2014


  Day Forty Two about now, I guess this would be. In "Feels Like" terms it seems much longer. But worth noting that in forty two days Spodoptera Exempta, when conditions are right can lay waste to vast tracks of land. 'Spodop' comes from Greek for ash and and maybe something about 'foot.' I think the 'tera' part has something to do with the earth, or that part of the planet that is dry land. 'Exempta' has all the makings of 'exempt.'  Early meanings of 'exempt' include the idea of 'taking out.' So with Spodoptera Exempta, you're kind of looking at a meaning that is thinking in terms of 'Scorched Earth.' And the African Armyworm, can do just that.

I mention this because currently in the world there is someone who is a little bogged down with his titles. Mind you he's not been off his compound for something like three weeks, so these things can be expected. And too, in the grand tapestry whether the title is 'Grand Pombo,' or 'Laughing Octopus Dancing Hippo,' or 'Queen of England' does not make a great deal of difference. But according to Mark Bittman, it's the little things that matter. Quite why he says this, I'm not absolutely certain other than to guess he's completely given up on anything much larger than Cucumber sandwich. How about Ogden Ampleforth, III. Ampleforth is a religious institution in Yorkshire.  The III part is all about provenance and verité.

Friday, October 17, 2014


'Elgon Caldera' is obviously not going to work as a title. And on this matter both Pewdesduckle and Ogden somebody, and a quite a few other correspondents agree. 'Untitled' is also out of the question, I'm afraid. I know this will come as a great disappointment to my anonymous friend from either Romania or Indonesia but let me assure you sir, that I am still very interested in the dietary supplement that will reduce 'swelling of ankle' and promote 'good tooth color.' I suffer from both these ailments, and I'm so glad there is a 'guaranteed cure' with 'lifetime warranty.'

Kind of an exciting day too. I was up early, 2.30 am for the Pewdesduckle review of One Small Boy. And frankly I think I might have to start calling Pewdesduckle by her Christian name. Which is the sort of thing a writer of pulp does when they get a four star review, with just one word out of place, on the Barnes and Noble. Rather dreading Ogden somebody's review. Hope he has a less than engaging surname, so no one will take too much notice of him. Such a pity one cannot reply to reviews. But perhaps there's a gossip column somewhere that I might introduce to a few false rumors about Ogden.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Pewdesduckle and Ogden Somebody

In the morning I go boldly to my various places, and as a rule I come away depressed. Completely understand that good news fails to impress the reading public, who I have to say have the admirable quality of being a very tight fisted bunch. So I've decided that along with 'self interviewing' I will conduct a 'self review' of those works of mine that sit on imaginary shelves waiting to be perused. I will have two characters. One who is in favor of my work. The other a bounder and a cad whose opinion, while probably accurate, is shall we say 'not in my corner.' All that remains are names for these characters.

I thought Claudette Pewdesduckle, had a nice ring to it. I think of her as someone who is very well educated in the European tradition of something like 1922. She understands Proust, she's dabbled with the occult. She's a tall, Germanic whist player who is prone to accusing her opponents of cheating. She is more Aunt than she is mother. Her one boy child is called Andy who is a flamboyant participant in Gay Pride Parades and a Dance Instructor. The love of her life is a very bad tempered Toy Poodle. Her current husband is a good looking accessory from Finland. And I think I'd like to have her in my corner. The other reviewer, is an angry drunk from Boston. What he looks like I'm not yet certain. His name is Ogden something. But more later...

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Cats and Dogs

I've no idea about the title "Elgon Caldera." But I did have an Anonymous correspondent who wrote this. "Thanks very much for finally writing about > Untitled < I liked it." And then there was something about whether I was interested in a dietary supplement that would improve my memory and do away with all need for exercise. Something I am actually very interested in. But of course one does now and then get the odd crank, the odd marble floating around out there, and I can tell you Romania and Indonesia have their fair share of them.

Not certain that this particular Anonymous correspondent, who is rather obsessed by dietary supplements and oddly enough 'photo enhancements,' has quite grasped the problem of Titles. Not every thing can be called "Untitled" because if they were, I have to think our world would be even more confusing. Hard enough already in the course of communication to remember the title of something like a tin-opener, but maybe that's just me. However he or she does have a point. Titles belong to categorization. And I've been told, when writing pulp the title is supposed to both entice and target. "Cats and Dogs on the Elgon Caldera." Not much to do with the story, but Rain Lovers and Pet People might like it.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Big Bit of Wood

The big bit of wood has fallen out the Maple, which is nice. It's been there for some years, and I've often wondered how strong a wind it would have to be to persuade that bit of wood to fall.
As well, there was always been a chance it would chosen to fall on a calm, rainless day with light breeze and temperatures in the mid seventies resulting in someone getting bumped on the head. So it's good news from these parts.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Telephone, Custom and Practice

There must be bold individuals who react positively to the telephone. Because if there weren't, then I'd argue it would be safe to assume there would be less random telephone calling of complete strangers by complete strangers. As you know the modern telephone is a miracle of technology and a person once he knows how to, can press a couple of buttons and go back into time, which I guess is a sort of cave, and there he will find a cache of the telephone calls he has received. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of complete strangers with what must have been very important messages which I at least have completely ignored.

If you go back to something like 1965, a telephone would ring in the domicile and all normal activity would come to a complete halt. There'd be yelling and rushing around because back then if a telephone wasn't answered before it rang three times the world would pretty much come to an end. Or at least had a potential to come to end because back then if ever a telephone stopped ringing before it was answered, it was necessary to stare at it for at least five minutes so that blame might be cast, in the event that the world had come to an end. A simpler more innocent time I suppose.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

"Twonk" in English Usage

How about "Wally Hammond" as a title. Mind you a person would have to be something like seventy five years old, still in possession of his or her faculties and an avid cricketer to know who Wally Hammond is or was. And the thing about Wally Hammond is that he was born in Kent, and when he was chosen to play Cricket for Gloucestershire, Lord Harris noted that Wally hadn't lived in Gloucestershire long enough to play cricket for the Gloucestershire County Cricket Team. And Wally had to play football for a while.

These days, Lord Harris would be what modern English Usage might call a "Twonk." In my view a beautiful word, that may one day indeed find its way across the Atlantic Ocean to meld into the imagination of other English Usage, American, Canadian and so on. For my part, I yearn to hear the word "Twonk" uttered by fellow citizens in the Grocery Store. Probably by a cashier or a cheerful bagger. And one day soon I plan to again visit a Grocery Store, but meanwhile I have a not so fond memory of having seen Wally Hammond's signed cricket bat on the wall of a headmaster's study.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Night Talk

Something of a discussion between Barred Owls down in Robina Wood yesterday evening. It seemed friendly. An apolitical discourse on the nature of being and the importance of at least appearing to be wise. A joke here, a joke there and probably they were sharing cocktail recipes because they paid no attention whatsoever to what some of us have identified as a creature undiscovered by the community of naturalists. I am beginning to believe this creature must be some kind of Griffin. It has feet, it can pad around, it can fly, it can call like one of the larger, more frustrated whales, and there are two of them. Neither sounds like a vegetarian.

Then in the four o'clock hour, which is that time of day we writers of pulp hop from out bed to commune with the perfect sentence, there were Coyote. Some huge disagreement in their clan down in Junk Gully. And my god what noisy and undignified neighbors they make. And you could kind of tell their quarrel was completely unnecessary, it was just their chance for everyone to say their bit, make their point, impress the girlfriend or the boyfriend, and at the same time remind the rest of the world that despite the bounty on their tails there are thousands of them out there just waiting to snap up the odd small pet or doddering old person collecting his mail.

Friday, October 10, 2014


Big time lightning. An inch and a half of rain. Must remember a Jam and Marmite sandwich keeps hail at bay and never put your glasses in the refrigerator. They are hell to find.

In other news our hero is preparing himself for a visit to a headmaster, and when I think back it's an absolute mystery why he's still hobbling around. How about "Leopards and Railway Lines."

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Rain Event

This kind up coming rain event plays havoc with local means of communication. And here I am primarily addressing the anonymous correspondent who so recently has dogged me.

 Nor is this anonymous correspondent remotely concerned with a diet plan that is dead simple and easy to do, or the qualification a carpenter might require if he or she is to be considered professional

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

"The ELgon Caldera"

I believe when I interviewed myself, I did ask myself a question about titles. Might even be worth my while going back to see what my answer was, because I am pretty certain the title "Elgon Caldera" has all the magic and excitement of a flat tire. Mind you I've completely gone off the title "One Small Boy." There's something really irritating about it, and yet it's kind of too late to do anything to change it, because the damn thing has ISBN numbers, and all that kind of corporate stuff.

I do like the three words "Formerly Known As." They kind of sum the whole pompous ass title business up. I mean why in the first place do there have to be titles. And I could go on, but the new leaf I have turned requires a certain acceptance from me, so I just have to 'Buck up, pull myself together and get with the program.' None of them easy things to do, especially around titles.  So despite the temptation to go for "Jung's Second Big Mistake" I think I might try adding a "The" to "Elgon Caldera" for a bit, see how that goes.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Code Red

There must be a rare breed of person who actually likes answering a telephone. And I have to think Cancun is awash with them. Here where I live there's mostly a strong desire to place the onus of answering the telephone upon someone else. And too there are acceptable and unacceptable times for the telephone to ring. My own preference is for it to ring when I'm nowhere near it, and quite why we have one I'm never certain. Then the telephone rings at the waking hour.

"It's code red." I was advised. Not particularly informative, because while there are parts of life that are a tad hazy, I don't believe The Artist was ever once in something like a Commando Unit, or an Urban Attack Squad. All the same her reaction to "Code Red" lacked any kind of panic or concern and she walked to take a good look out of the kitchen windows. For those who might be interested, "Code Red" is a more up to date iteration of that old faithful and infinitely more civilized "get under a sturdy work bench." The hail was about the size and shape of a Lima Bean, or a Broad Bean which cannot be good for Mockingbirds

Monday, October 6, 2014

Real Time

Real Time, means 'as it happens' and there's a good thing and a bad thing about Real Time. If you watch a movie, that's not Real Time. But if you have access to a Real Time Feed then you can pretty much tell what's happening Now. And there is something fascinating about watching a Real Time Feed from somewhere like the gas station that has a doughnut shop at the junction between something like Route 25 and Donkey Tail Road.

And it's always possible this is more like a mono-pedal activity than it is like something bipeds have the patience for. However, I have a Real Time Feed to the comings and goings of One Small Boy as he currently sits out there in the ether. I can see how many times he has been downloaded and I can see how many times the poor little guy has been sold. It's kind of like a cattle market, I suppose, and I'm there in the rafters like two beady eyes watching. Nor am I certain whether this is a healthy activity.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Moon Flower

The Moon Flower is very intolerant of chill. She stumbled in the brisk of yesterday's morning. Through the day she did her best to recover, and there was a sense of hope in her.

But last night and into this morning she cursed the chill and I have to think she's chosen to retreat into an oblivion. My own reaction has been very similar, but without the oblivion part. 

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Milder Weather

An inevitable cool is upon us, and here I don't mean swishing around in winkle-picker shoes, handing out Gauloises from a silver monographed cigarette case. I mean the kind of cool that's better reflected by hunting down cigarette butts and rolling paper.

The period of winter always seems hungry, its energies more desperate. And yet when you think of what a long summer of drought can do to land, a mind has to pause, consider the little things, permit our own place in the world to accept insignificance. Which isn't something we're very good at doing.

Friday, October 3, 2014

The Class Of

I have a series of stories called The Class Of.  The first in this series is The Class of Dog. It goes back at least ten years and has several incarnations most of which have ended in the death of 'Pebbles.'  Which is the name of the dog. One of the more current incarnations of The Class of Dog, has a slightly happier ending for 'Pebbles.'

As with so many things, a person is never certain the extent to which something might be finished and gone. And here I've mostly had an unhappy relationship with dogs and I am extraordinarily fond of the idea that 'Pebbles' should come to some grisly and horrible end. But the more I know of 'Pebbles' the fonder I seem to be of her. Which in my view is a perfect example of the nature of fiction.

Thursday, October 2, 2014


The Laurel is blooming. She usually blooms twice a year, at no particular set date or month. She just blooms whenever she feels able to, or perhaps when she's in a mood to bloom. And it's perfectly possible that one year she might decide not to bloom at all. This year she'll bloom only once. Odds are she'll soon realize the error. But I have to think the production of Little Laurels is not high on her list.

When she came she was just twelve small plants. And these plants grew together to make one large, long, wide plant that stretches a good sixty feet. And her contribution to the state of affairs here has been tremendous. Under her wide skirts there is shade and shelter. The Towhee is devoted to her, the Thrasher had a nest in her. In winter Field and Chipping Sparrow find winter shelter in her. And often there will be Little Rabbit hiding in her skirts where they plot against the Vegetable Garden.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Bow Ties and Ice Cream

Big Day Today. And when I say Big I mean huge. There will be ice cream and the bow tie, there might even be a visit to Scary Pile Two. But the point is a Discursive Episodic Prolixity has its first episode. One Small Boy, the Omnibus Edition, fifteen very short stories, has a thread which will amble on into the nether regions of the archives where it will blossom into the fullness of The Rabbit of Usk. And if you wish to look at One Small Boy, admire its cover, you might try this link: One Small Boy

More important is the celebration. I mentioned bow tie and ice cream, because it's well known that during a book signing the proud writer wears a bow tie and eats ice cream. And he or she does this because once the endeavor is through, a demon of doubt sets in, he or she succumbs to ennui - and if they don't there's something seriously wrong with them - so he or she wears his or her bow tie and eats his or her vanilla ice-cream so they might at least have some kind of a fond memory.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

A Synopsis

Hope to be re-locating shortly. The 'Foot-Up' pose will soon be distant memory, which I hope swiftly will be safely locked away in the virus chest. Re-location of course means The Rabbit of Usk, and this I look forward to, because he will not stop nibbling at my ear, and there will be peace on earth, the angles, or angels will sing and proverbs might begin to make sense.

I guess too in the great dialectic there's an ideal form toward which to strive. However in the matter of One Small Boy there is what the professionals will call a 'synopsis,' a 'category' and a something called a 'tag cloud.' And all these long years I thought spelling was difficult. But I do know the Rabbit of Usk is 'discursive-episodic-prolix.'  And maybe One Small Boy belongs to him. Sadly, Discursive Episodic Prolixity is not a recommended category. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

Proverbs Two

The trouble with proverbs is they don't just go away. "We are more like the weaver bird than we are like the white ant," might not fall under the category of proverb. However something like "The Elephant has a large foot," could well fall under the category of proverb.

"When the custard is yellow the Onion rots," sounds like a proverb but probably is not. As does "One foot on the ground is better than two in the grave." But who knows.  "Proverbs are more like snide little off hand and completely unnecessary remarks, than they are like algebra." 

Sunday, September 28, 2014

The Proverb

One of expressions goes something like this. "If you kill a frog in the well, you kill the clan." There's another one too. "Two is people, one is beast of the forest." I've been thinking about such proverbs from when I was young, and I've decided that in the matter of One Small Boy there will be no proverb from a language I barely remember.

And too, whenever I read a book that has anything like a proverb at its beginning my immediate reaction is "And Lo. For Esau was an hairy man, but I am an smooth man." And this follows me through the course of the story as a sort of guiding hand to the mind that wrote the story. So there'll be no proverb at the beginning of One Small Boy. Which is a kind of a relief.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Circles Suck

Well, I feel tired and emotional. Quite why I don't know. But because I often feel tired and emotional for no good reason, I have a great experience of it. And I found that the Christian solution, which is to thank one's blessings, is not much more than a passing palliative that offers little more than a moment or two of intense guilt. Which is why I make a practice of looking to other things upon which to place blame.

The obvious one is my current incapacity to do very much more than hobble around while trying not to cause further damage. But I have also found that when a person comes to an end point, the state of 'tired and emotional' can be anticipated. Which is, as I am sure you know, the genesis of my fundamental objection to the circle. This particular end point has to do with my recent conversations with One Small Boy. And I am certain there is a technical expression for it but through the next week or year, I have to shine and bath him so that he might be made more presentable. And yes, I regret to say, we're talking the semi colon and Cancun.

Friday, September 26, 2014


TGIF, that's all I can say. And to sum up the week I made one huge error on the actual date of a birthday, a couple of minor errors in an Amish Store - not a place I might have reasonably anticipated visiting - and perhaps I shouldn't have worn romper wear to The Dentist. Other wise it was an active, 'go get 'em' kind of week with much heartiness and leaping around on crutches.

 Then this morning I hopped out of bed in plenty of time to see the Milky Way with stars almost all the way to the South Western horizon. So there must have been a power cut somewhere in Central Time. What I like most about the Milky Way is, it's our home in The Universe and it's so vast there's no way with current understandings of physics that our species will ever transverse it. But sadly, like so many things with us, we're always reluctant to let facts get in the way.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Mangold Wurzel

The vegetative state can last only so long, and because I am currently playing the role of a vegetable I can say this with some confidence. And here I believe I have achieved woodiness, which in a vegetable means, if ever we are to be remotely digestible we have to be cooked for a very long time. Other wise we just sit there.

And too, I am one of those who have seen a Mangold Wurzel, and this vegetable should not be confused with the Delicate Chard. But if you've never seen a Mangold Wurzel then you could look at the root of a seasoned Chard and imagine something four or five times larger and more gnarled. Strangely, vanilla ice cream helps.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

One Small Boy and the Early Christian Church

The 'Small Boy' has his ups and downs, but he's coming along and by the time my foot is reintroduced to what I will call 'normal foot wear' I hope to have fifteen very short stories, all of them with excellent spelling, and all of them total, complete and utter fiction built around fading memories of my time on earth. And yes, we propagandists can get boring, self obsessed and very worked up because when all is said and done we are wide eyed, highly strung, prone to self canonization and sometimes might exaggerate a little as we go about the important work of messaging.

"And what other burdens might you have in store for others?" I hear you ask. The answer to that question is the Elgon Caldera where Our Hero joins an English Clan and does not manage it well. "Is One Small Boy, our hero?" I hear you ask. The answer to that question is "No. One Small  Boy is far too well balanced." Our Hero's name is Timotei, which let me assure you is purely coincidental. And incidentally, around the time of the Roman Emperor Nero when Saint Paul the Apostle was in Prison, with the help of Saint Timothy he wrote a letter to the Bishop of Gaza, a man named Philemon, who also became a saint. Saint Paul, was of course The Mouth of the early Christian Church.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Scary Two

The Artist is making a marmalade from Green Tomato. The less active one is whispering sweet nothings in the direction of his right foot, and occasionally moving his left knee. And if you wish to know why, it's because he can.

In another world these might be ordinary activities, but here where I live there is crisp morning air, a respectable blue to the sky, a refreshing breeze, and there seems to be an eighth Compost Pile called "Scary Two."

Monday, September 22, 2014

A Big Week

Tomorrow is quite a big day. Granted it may not end well. The day after that I have a birthday to remember. And the day after that I am to go to a dentist.

 So what with one thing an another, it's what the professionals call 'A Big Week.' Nor am I fond of 'Big Weeks' so by Friday, chances are I'll be tethered to a stake.

Sunday, September 21, 2014


I understand it is called virga. Rain falls from clouds but before it reaches the ground it evaporates. This means that for us indoors we can look at radar and feel confident.

Then when we've stared out the window long enough and we've actually gone outdoors it's dry as bone. And too, I haven't seen a Mockingbird for weeks.

Saturday, September 20, 2014


I need a name for my page on the great big website where I send emissaries into the world. Last time I tried to find names it became problematic and had it not been for an accident I might still be mulling with those names. Which is not good thing to do at this time of the year, what with winter coming and that kind of thing.

 The word 'Propaganda' does not fall nicely on the English speaking mind. Yet I think it an accurate description. What else does a person call, 'marketing' or 'promotion' or 'advertising' or any of those things. And I guess too it kind of all depends on where a person stands on buying stuff. Me, I think in the end I disapprove of it.

Friday, September 19, 2014

A Little Outing

I had an outing yesterday. It was a tractor emergency. Nor was it easy. My foot had to be wrapped in a plastic Thank You Bag and I clung to the tailgate of a pickup so that I might be driven at very high speed to the barn where The Artist had the internal workings of the tractor engine revealed, and there were bits here and there, and there were wrenches I'd long thought lost to the Fox Squirrel.

I cast an expert eye on the progress, asked what I believed were sensible questions, and soon realized I was so far out of the loop I might just as well have been a wall hanging. I was asked to hold a rubber thingy that was attached to a metal thingy while the Artist pulled on some kind of oily thingy, pronounced herself satisfied and on the way home I waved at the Compost Piles.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

A Referendum

Today is a big day for Scotland. Those of us who can reach into our past and find a confusion of European tribes, will invariably have a certain sympathy for the idea of Scotland's independence from the English.  Others will of course see an independent Scotland as the beginning of the end of the world.  And those who do, I think you'll find, have much to lose.

In the grand scheme of our sometimes very unattractive species, today's referendum, which ever way it goes is a grand departure from custom and practice. Instead of dressing up in funny hats, arming themselves to the teeth, the English Tribes and the Scottish Tribes have decided to settle this dispute through a ballot box. I find this moment glorious.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

A Division of Loyalties

The Rabbit is a little irritated with me. He's plodding about in the background, and I can hear his "What About Me." So I tell him it's been at least thirty years and probably more like fifty, so what difference will a little longer make. Then I try not to listen to his reply, because it's rather scathing and he can be kind of cruel with his Keynesian attitude. "In the long run you'll be dead."

I have considered the possibility of suggesting, "It's all about you my friend." But he's got his bit of straw in his mouth, and he's been practicing his swagger and he's been shopping for bonnets. So instead I ask him to remind me when our life together began. "February the 7th 722 in the Julian Calendar," he replies. So I guess he's kind of in a sulk and who knows how long it might last.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

One Small Boy

I'm kind of enjoying One Small Boy. I didn't think I would, because in those days there was an element of what I'll call condescension. Which I'd argue is given stature these days through the expression 'trickle down.' But it's better to go red, think of it as the 'machinations of the grubbing elites' and set it within the context of a power structure with a heartbeat in Cancun or the Wal-Mart.

Writing about it has always been difficult for me. On the one side I stand with a sword in my hand, an oath in my heart and call it bloody ignorance, while my toes will curl at the memory of it. On the other side I stand in the shoes of a watcher, as dull as an historian and impotent.  Nonetheless, I am kind of enjoying One Small Boy, and this is probably because I am old and accepting.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Radical Weather Forecasters

One of the problems of being possessed by lower body un-wellness at this time of the year is the ambient temperature of the outdoors.  It's that sort of temperature that permits long, happy hours of bonding with the earth without necessarily having to wear socks and without risking some sort of near death experience from heat.  And too with the overcast out there, these days are hatless days, which means a Gardener can feel kind of normal.

 By about the beginning of December it gets to be rougher and rougher. Extremities need protection, and it's all rather a nightmare until sometime in March. Then a person looks at the long range weather forecasts. None of them are encouraging. The Radical Weather Forecasters are all excited by the weak El Nino and they claim it's sure sign the polar regions will advance south down the Western Appalachians and poke at us all.

Sunday, September 14, 2014


I was once in the Capital City of the United States, and this was of course some years ago when I could leap around, climb trees and help little old men cross the road. So we're talking quite a few years ago.  It was a part of that capital city called Georgetown. Big trees, suspicious soil in which a gardener was never quite certain what he might dig up. A bunch of highflyers had gentrified the area and it was prime territory for the Jobbing Gardener with that line of bullshit that comes up with "Of course Helianthus prefers shade."

After a long July day, I was in the back alley loading up the truck. And in case you don't know the Capital of the United States is classified by the English Diplomatic Service under the title of 'Hardship Post For Climate.' So you might imagine how a red blotchy Jobbing Gardener with English origins was feeling, when an elderly gentleman hobbled down the alley and in a very thick accent said, "You got propaganda."  Never been certain whether he meant it as an insult because chain saws do make noise.  Either way if I met him today I could answer him "Yes! And and here it is."

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Halibut's End story

What I have done is download a free e-book reader from: I have windows, so boldly I downloaded the Macintosh version, and after about two hours dealing with that kind of fugue state a mind can enter into when discussing delicate matters with a technical device, I realized I should have downloaded the Windows version of the e-reader. Delighted to see it came with a detailed instruction manual which on the scale of comprehension was right up there near four out of ten.

I then Googled Halibut's End Story. One of the links took me to a  rather sinister picture of what was obviously the bloom of Amorphophallus. To read a sample of the book, I clicked on the yellow button that said "epub."  And I chose to save the file. Oddly enough when the file was downloaded, and I clicked on it to see what it contained the e-book reader came alive.  It's actually quite fun looking for spelling mistakes  and hunting down semi-colons. The Artist is certainly enjoying herself. And I'm told by Smashwords that I can make corrections. 

Friday, September 12, 2014

Clopping Around

Time passes, lower body un-wellness I have been assured by the professionals, is improved by a specialized repose that I am beginning to think only the Yogis from the Indian Subcontinent have mastered.  It requires the injured extremity to be higher above the ground than the heart. This might be something a Bat can manage for hours at a time, but I don't believe the Gardener is emotionally or physically capable of lounging around head down for more than about two and a half minutes at a time.

 And I'll tell you this much, it's a big interruption to routine. One can't just leap up visit a Compost Pile. Oh No. The simplest thing has to be plotted, well in advance. And then there's the clopping around in the prescription footwear. It's the kind of shoe one might expect to see on the foot of a beatnik in Cancun. However for the budding writer, who is determined to understand the semi-colon, and the various spellings of the word 'nature,' it might be a wonderful opportunity.