Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Leap Second Day

Thirty days has September, April, June and November all the rest have thirty one except for February alone which has but twenty eight days clear and twenty nine in each leap year. In 1752 Britain finally agreed to give up on the Julian Calendar. Something a great deal of the Western World had agreed to do in 1582.

 And the thing about it was, in order to introduce the Gregorian Calendar to the British Public it was necessary to lose eleven days. Wednesday the 2nd of September 1752, it was decided, would be followed by Tuesday 14th of September 1752. A source of great distress for many Britons who rightly believed the government had stolen eleven days of their lives. Not to mention the number of birthdays that went missing.

Monday, June 29, 2015

The Windral and Erika

The Windral references to the song Erika are most confusing. Indeed it's almost like chapter seventeen all over again. A problem of definition and more likely your writer of pulp should think of the song Erika as a character.

Allow her an existence, instead of thinking of her as a smell that drifts in and out. Burnt Toast. And too there are people who might never have smelled burnt toast. Give her legs, high heels and a dress, and the song can waddle around like the rest of us.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Fragrant Gardener

Chard and Beans. Tomato will soon be upon us. Uncle Eggplant. The Red Norland is a most wonderful Potato. Wretched Winter Squash advances rapidly in his search for territory. And there's Big Time Stinkbug.

Of the three regular Stink Bugs, the Green is flying, the colorful is still small, it's the Brown that dominates the Vegetable Garden. The Brown Stinkbug is particularly pungent, it lingers on the fingers, so there has been a seasonal smell adjustment for your gardener.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

Narrative as Quality

The bean counter sees beans, and then counts them. Fifty unhappy beans are better than forty nine happy beans. Sixty truly miserable beans would be even better. One of the problems of definition is the word happiness. No one knows what it is, which is why language has produced the word quality.

Quality is as much about narrative as it is about anything else. Dollar bills are all the same, some older than others, and each has its own number. It's an error to believe that billions of dollar bills must define quality. Yet as result of a narrative, it increasingly does.

Friday, June 26, 2015

2030 Mars Landing

The Sufi Poets and Saints where kind of there before Islam and they're still there. Third, fourth, fifth century BC. Their songs are more inward, in my view, exploring the phenomena of their mind and seeing within its many corridors the idea of a root. A Bergson Creative, a kind of Creative Is, a flow that is and does not go away.  For many the root is made to face the world as a political tool. For the Sufi Poet the root is turned inward, so as to make the world as it is comprehensible.

No reason to suppose that the root, or the idea of it, hasn't been with our species for a very very long time. And for the truly eccentric, no reason to suppose that the root has an existence in everything that is, or everything that ever has been. When asked what he thought life was, Bertrand Russell suggested it was a "Special sort of matter." And for my part, like the Sufi Poets, the question for our species is not whether or not we'll land upon Mars, but if we'll ever know why we landed upon Mars.

Thursday, June 25, 2015


Abdul's Earthly Voyage was written in the Eighth Century of the Common Era. Looking at the notes for The Rabbit of Usk Earthly Voyage was actually written in the 1990's. However thanks to the degenerative process the 1990's might just as well be the Eighth Century.

The Vestry of Monnow, on the other hand, occurred around thirty years after the Norman Invasion of 1066. The Rabbit's Parting of the Fog occurred during the lifetime of the Witch of Ithaca, 689-738. But what I really need is to get all these dates together and hang them on the wall.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Book Six

Have to think Ache-ache is a difficult name to read. But by adding the accent to the e, the name Aché-aché touches the mind as something that might not be "ache" repeated twice. And there's a whole thing with Aché-aché as a title. Then there's the issue of the words Lettish and Letlander, they're so perfect for our hero but they're words for the language and country of Latvia. Yes indeed the complexities are endless.

More interesting is our hero's experience of the hotel and catering industry, or Chapter Seventeen or The Windral Part Two or Repressed Memory. Any one of which might be an excellent title. As well, a writer of pulp can't just pretend these things will sort themselves out, experience has shown that the longer a mind looks at something the more accustomed it becomes to discomfort. How about Aché-aché and as title The Letlander. Makes sense to me at the moment.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Sir Arthur and The Windral

The writer of pulp takes some comfort from Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle's off hand remark which went something like this. "Some of Watson's adventures with Holmes were terribly flawed, and made no sense whatsoever." The great man was far too reserved to put it quite like that but nonetheless that's what I'd like to think he meant. Our hero who's read The Long Stories and The Short Stories several times never saw a flaw in Holmes' reasoning, or doubted Holmes' genius in the area of detective work.

A person can think of it as a roundabout. The circle is entered, the vehicle travels happily around and around until it sees a likely exit, but sometimes instead of returning to the beginning in an attempt at explanation, an answer to the question where exactly are we going, the vehicle decides this is fun, and just keeps on going round and around. Which is kind of exhausting for a writer of pulp. The Windral has explored it's circle-ness several times and each time the entry point and exit point has been the same. On reflection, Sir Arthur, everything is flawed.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Stuff and Fluids

Komerad Dirge had it's moments. There was brick and mud, high heat, higher humidity and ladders. And had our hero been there he'd have smelled his water tank, he'd have heard the snores, and he'd have gone on about the luxury and the petty fog of your writer of pulp's experience of Komerad Dirge. "I'd have walked the fifty miles to work and no running water," I can hear him almost wistful.

Then what happens to both life and matter? It coalesces into smaller and smaller orbits, the universe itself gets bigger and bigger and the smaller and smaller orbits less and less relevant, less and less stable. "Ride the wave, enjoy the moment." Is one argument. The other is "Move on." Sometimes wish life and being was a rational exercise. But it's not, and despite the rumors never will be. 

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Fluids and Stuff

Your correspondent will be gone for a bit. Is he looking forward to it? An excellent question. More likely though it's the comradeship of shared effort, a goal, and an achievement at an end point. A straight line that's not infinite. Creative is. No circle. In another way we're not talking cocktail party or drinkies at the beach or other fluids of purposelessness, as the author of Earthly Voyage might have put it.

It's a chance to explore Komerad Dirge. To hell with the blessing, sorry Delores and everything's gone again. It's also possible and very much simpler to think of it in terms of gainful employment. The better question, however, is the relationship between Komerad Dirge and the dollar bill. So many of us have opted for the latter and to hell with the blessings, sorry Komerad Dirge. Obscure! Damn right, there'll be shovels.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

The Windral

The Windral will dive from the high board soon. A tale of aimless wandering. Fewer 'ands' I hope and no colons yet. The one argument is that we decide our future, the other argument is that we are stuck in a mathematics and no one actually decides anything, the wheel turns the external dictates. Your correspondent had this argument years ago. His protagonist well rounded and bound for some kind of a profession, hands on the reins of his monster, grit in his satisfied eye.

The Fates, blind angels snipping at the strings of puppets, still sums it up for our hero. It's more like the weather, a vastness that moves, a butterfly lands on the bloom of a Lotus and it rains in Kansas. The idea of individuals is as much a religious or political doctrine as it is anything set in concrete. The choice, you could call it, is an accident of birth as much as anything else. And that still means clans, rather than nations or passports. The protagonist disagreed.

Monday, June 15, 2015


I wanted to compare and contrast the poetry of the Jihadist and the mindset of girls and boys who have proudly entered the lower echelons of the Corporate World.

Fortunately I have Carrots, Angry Chipmunks, compost, heat and Bunny Rabbits to worry about. 

Sunday, June 14, 2015


The Windral is once again drawing to a conclusion. Not a satisfactory conclusion, but nonetheless a conclusion. The question is not answered. It has a hanging quality and at the same time the question is ill framed, which means frustration, which in turn means that wonderful excuse, or book six of The Rabbit of Usk. Guess the Sabean Genre is mysterious.

Outside in the world beyond it's basically all about hacking back, heat, compost piles and when to harvest carrots. Leave Carrots too long and they seem to fall to white pox and cracking. A sad fate for a Carrot. And maybe it's just a theory, but temperatures over ninety degrees are good only for Eggplant, Okra, Creeping Grass and maybe Peppers. Certainly not Gardeners.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Bring on the Borg

I think it was Heidegger who in his search for forgiveness set his mind to understanding poetry instead of mass hypnotism. The man needed a job, his contribution to thinking rewarded. A discourse on language and what language might be. For my part the gap between thinkers and the thought about has widened almost to that point where they exist upon two different planets. It's a personal view.

But one thing is constant. Men will suddenly believe in the possible and when they do so they are lost as thinkers and become instruments. With them, we are lost. And without them, we are lost. It's the nature of our being. It's the source of the Almighty Understanding, kind of depressing solution to survival. Our kingdom of tool makes is not peaceable.  Bring on the Borg. 

Friday, June 12, 2015

The Fatted Cow

Pretty much biting season. If he, she or it can bite or sting something, it will. And dutifully your correspondent went to the dentist at the prearranged time, sat in the waiting room, admired the wall paper, an hour and half later he emerged having had his lower front teeth ground down a little so that he too might be better able to bite things.

Have to think, can't help it, that those engaged in the medical and dental professions have a sort of mandate to find something wrong with you. If we were all perfectly healthy there'd be no work for them. And there's a whole thing happening with waiting rooms, and receptionists and appointments and very smart cars in the staff parking area. We are the fatted cow, I guess.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Heat Factor as Experience

100 degrees of Fahrenheit when humidity is 18% permits the body to sweat and cool itself. When humidity levels rise to 80% it's not so easy for a body to cool itself. A body temperature of 104 Fahrenheit brought on by physical work brings on sickness. The mind becomes agitated, its speech slurred, it starts to see things that can look wonderful, develops a foul mood and it can just decide to quit. And there's always a headache in the process of recovery which is sort of typical of the mind.

Our hero in the course of his days has struggled with the sickness of heat. The project was a concrete job down near the sea, no breeze, the glare of sand and rock, and it was something like August in the northern hemisphere. A point comes when a mind understands resignation, it just says OK, it calms down, it looks at itself and while it doesn't actually laugh it does say goodbye. And there's a kind of calm. It's an experience that can be reproduced, not by laboring in heat that would be too cruel, but with an LSD pill. And as I understand it, the professionals are toying with LSD as a gift of experience so that the terminally ill might better understand dying. The ancient warriors used to dance until they collapsed to better meet their foes. An out of body experience its been called.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Night Singing

Brown Thrashers have nested. Three little Thrashers in the Laurel. And not so far away a Yellow Chat sings at night. A general rule for night singing is to try not to listen, and when that fails a person has to think in terms of "He might find a mate soon." With night singing birds it's not so hard, but the night singing Tree Frog is a whole different game.

It was kind of nice at first. A chance to say "that's a lonely Tree Frog!" Then he found his way into the Vegetable Garden water barrel, and he thought it just fantastic. His song resonated around the barrel, and as the water level was reduced following due diligence of the Gardener, that song resonated louder and louder. Tree Frogs from Central Time heard it, and there's a whole night singing Tree Frog Jamboree type thing happening.

Monday, June 8, 2015

Komerad Dirge

Unit five is an apartment building in a line of apartment buildings, up there in the more western part of Paul's Doomed Yahweh. Unit five has three stories, six apartments. Each apartment has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and a living area. It's mostly older couples, settled to theirs lives, their children have children of their own. And it's a new town, bent to the prerogative of development, a hasty expansion, strategic as much as anything else.

Unit five soon after it was occupied had a water problem. The first attempt to fix the problem resulted in water to Unit one and Unit three being switched off until the problem was resolved. This led to some very unhappy home owners who in semi retirement had very little to do in the course of their day. Their contribution to Chapter Nineteen of The Windral hinges on your writer of pulps ability to describe a song. After long discussion with our hero the current opinion is to think of this song as a smell. So it's all very exciting again.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Call it a Day

With all do respect to the Public Broadcasting Service and their magical world your correspondent has chosen to begin his statement with the word So. In short, So what have we learned? And the answer is Well! we've learned a whole bunch of stuff! And very little of it's for these pages. There might however be a wider issue relating to the damage being done to the English Language by Social Media and children's entertainments, or the feed stock of our Corporate world where the mindless are encouraged in exchange for their two weeks in Cancun. Orwell will be smirking in his grave, pretty damned certain Shakespeare will be wearing a kilt and trying to learn Welsh or Arabic and Qi is the word which may well come into play as your correspondent recovers his wits, his senses, and his balance.

So! I'll never again be able to define the words, cute, precious, adorable without stumbling into the dark world of Bunny Bunny Foo Foo and his unfortunate yet very understandable habit of bopping fellow creatures on the head despite endless warnings from a Good Fairy whose concept of shock and awe is frankly pathetic. Safe to say your correspondent will call his new understanding of social media progress. So! before he does anything else, such as a list of new definitions for cute, precious or adorable, your correspondent must enquire after a poster of Caillou, or Pebble, so that he might be burned in effigy while Caillou's nagging narrator is subjected to mind altering substances before being fed to wolves. In a Village, turn about is fair play I believe.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Rabbit, Chipmunk and Chess

The tapestry of Little Rabbit and Chipmunk cries out for a predator. Little Rabbits are kind of adorable, they love the shoots of tender things. And there is no greater joy than watching Chipmunk gather produce for his winter hoard. He has several of them, a major hoard and number of minor hoards, and there's probably a whole row of beans in on or other of them. Just the sweetest little fellow and friendly as he waits for his peanut.

One alternative would be some sort of Wise Owl, I'd call him Harold, and then a person thinks about the question of how to get along with others. It would be a sad thing indeed if in the great design there is no actual plan to get along with others, no possibility of it, more like a series of chess moves. When the space is gone it's gone. Winner take all, which would be a great emptiness with nothing in it much more than a mirror so that the victor might see himself. Entropy he could call himself.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

A Golden City on the Hill

There's a trip to town day, and we all know what that means! Last time your correspondent went to town he returned with that intensity of ennui that can rarely be observed outside of a community of Shellfish. A deep sense of disappointment, and yet with the strong arm of a true hero he was determined to readjust his attitude. A Golden City on the Hill, he decided, and not just an opportunity for those sufficiently engaged by the minimum wage to utter the words "Have a Nice Day" and mean it while flogging cheap ass plastic hose fittings and other fairly pointless nick-nacks to the "Please Sir Can I have More Crowd."

Alternatively, today might not be the day to actually go to town, I have a sort of sense that your correspondent as a Golden City on the Hill Athlete might not be ready for his marathon, he's not been doing his exercises, his ability to enter the dream state lacks endurance, he too easily gets into arguments with fictional characters, there's been a lot of pacing about, some very long winded and probably totally unreasonable arguments, and he's still persuaded that the seven traffic lights between his domicile and the Post Office have been tampered with by the Baptists to always be red when he goes anywhere near them.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Social Media as Slime Mold

Some people can identify the smell of fear, some people can't. Yet whether or not a person can identify the smell of fear or not the scent produced by a frightened person excites areas of the brain that have to do with empathy. And too, some people are more empathetic than others. A legacy in our being from our more swamp like days. An OMG or an LOL perhaps. And if you don't believe me consider Puppies, Kittens, and Little Girls that exude Cute Factor and excite the Cute Factor area of the brain.

The more cynical person, the less empathetic perhaps, those who may not be blessed with Cute Factor Receptors, or in whom the Cute Factor Receptor may have atrophied, or been led astray by things like train sets and the autism of shovels, are less likely to participate in Social Media unless by doing so they are able to excite those areas of the brain that get all exited around what I'll call "Aren't I wonderful!" Or AIW. Which is the kind of Cute Factor that's gone all grown up and balding, just inches this side of what the professionals call IF or Ick Factor. In the end the question to ask is "What the hell is social media?" Beginning to think it's more like a Slime Mold. Oddly I've always had a certain empathy for Slime Molds.