Water and Music



It is five in the morning. I stand on a beach and gather light in my yes and my mind. It is not a normal beach but rather one with a bed of small round stones. They have no color yet, but promise to gather some as the sun rises.

There is a hint of pink on the horizon but no real light. The stars remain visible above the sea. Among them is the phenomenon of the Milky Way. It rises from the sea; upward and to the right, continuing towards the heavens until it disappears. There is not a clear demarcation of its trajectory. The lower parts of the Milky Way appear as stars – – although a bit muted. As my eyes follow its path the stars join together and lose their granularity; they become a giant cloud. This cloud has upper and lower limits which define it

There is a cliff to my left. It also, like the beach stones, has little color. A minute passes and some light tends to make the cliff a brownish hue. Yes, I can now clearly see its outline. It is not a normal flat cliff but rather one whose geological lineage have given it character. There are fault lines rising from left to right; almost following the path of the Milky Way. The fault lines are irregular, no two separated by the same distance although following the same path. There are a few outcroppings that cantilever out into the night sky.

Out, sitting in the ocean, with its toes on the beach and its heals buried in the water, is a tall rock island. Its birth mother appears to be the cliff. They have the same fault lines and color. Mother and child are separated by eroded rocks that appear to remain behind as the result of the natal event.

There are beach stones that lay beneath my feet, and extend to the area between the cliff and the island. These stones seem to also have been left behind as a result of the birth of the island. However, these have been smoothed by Father Ocean who has given them a personality due to a continuum of waves of advice.

In the distance and to my right a small island appears in the muted sun. The pink on the horizon has turned to white and a thin layer of blue exists between this and the dark sky. The stars within this blue band have disappeared; yet my heart can still feel the Milky Way and my mind contemplates it.

The sea becomes silver as the sun rises farther. The islands and cliff in front of me remain dark and foreboding. I wait for the remainder of the musical and am not disappointed. The small rounded stones appear to gain in color and harmony. I wonder and this wonderment leads me to the memory of a visit I once paid to a mountain stream.

I had a lot of leisure time then. My weekly income from industry gave me time to do the things I always wanted to. One of my desires was to own my own automobile so that I could visit the countryside.

And I did.

I drove for miles and enjoyed every month of it. Some of the roads were unique. One was along an old canal bed. Another went up and down like a roller-coaster (but, of course, not as steep). My favorite mountain road was helical shaped that went around and around as well as up. I enjoyed the feeling of “Déjà Vu” each time I made a left hand turn (which was continuously).

But none of my trips would be as memorable as the one I was on at that moment. It was a two lane macadam road that followed a beautiful mountain stream. I saw an interesting dirt road to my right. A rickety bridge allowed me to cross the stream. The steep mountains closed in on each side as I followed my hood ornament.

Suddenly the mountains parted and I found myself at the edge of a large flat area. It must have been five hundred acres in size and as flat as a postage stamp. The whole plain was covered in grass. It was not normal grass; it was blue. Not the blue of oceans, nor turquoise blue, or the blue color of melancholy. It was not the blue of azure, nor sapphire, nor peacock blue nor the blue of despair. It was the blue of amethyst.

It had the same quality of an amethyst gem; translucent. I departed my car and studied the grass. When I stood up it looked like a dark hue of blue. When I lay down and looked across the top of the grass it looked like the amethyst of an apothecary jar. In either case it was a mesmerizing experience.

I removed my shoes and socks to enjoy the softness of this blue grass. I walked around the amethyst plain for quite some time before I noticed a stream along one side. I ventured down the bank and into the water. The stones on the bottom were all the same size; about the size of an egg. Yet they were rather flat and pleasant to walk on. The stones appeared to have spent quite a bit of time in a giant lapidary tumbler; they were polished.

I reached down and picked one up. It was onyx black with ivory colored large spots here and there. The spots were not clearly demarcated as on a polka-dot dress. They were more like the penumbraic spots on a brook trout.

“PUT ME DOWN” cried a voice from seemingly nowhere.
I looked around but there was no one there.
“Put me down before I die” cried out the voice again.
I scanned the blue grass but saw no one.
“Please, I beg you, put me back in the water or I will expire” came the voice for the third time.

I perceived that the voice might be coming from the stone. I carefully lowered my hand until the stone was under water. Nothing happened. No voice, no movement, no sign of life. After a minute or so I decided that I must have had a day dream in this strange place of amethyst grass and shiny stones with soft ivory spots. I lifted my hand out of the water so that I could once more inspect this strange stone.

“Thanks for putting me back under water” said the stone.
Without thinking I responded “Why sure! Sorry about not listening the first time.”
“Put me back in so I can take a breath” pleaded the stone.
I did as I was asked and then lifted the stone up again. “Are you a real stone or a turtle or a fish?” I asked.
“A stone” said the stone. “Now put me back.”

And so it went for the remainder of the next hour. I dipped the stone in and out of the water while trying to complete a conversation with it.

Finally the stone told me “Walk downstream and you will find a waterfall.”
I followed the stone’s instructions while holding him under water. When I reached the waterfall I lifted the stone up again to ask for farther instructions. The stone said “Hold me under the waterfall. That way I can get enough water to breath and enough air to talk.”
I followed instructions and soon realized why I had heard gurgling sounds at all the waterfalls I had ever visited. It was the sound of stones talking to each other. I wished that I had paid more attention to stones long before this.

“I can now complete what I wished I could have told someone years ago” said the stone. “It is a long story so feel free to ask questions; if you must.
The stone continued “This is the story of a blue grass festival and us who were once called caterwaulers.

“Eons ago in this flat amethyst plain,
Music existed whether in sun or rain,
It echoed on the mountains ag’ane and ag’ane,
While the red summer hawk was carnivorously preyin’.

People came from a’near and afar,
Some by bus, but mostly by car,
Two people brought elixir in a stone jar,
A wanna-be king and a Tennesee tzar.

So the blue-grass music played day and night,
While the clouds rolled by, dark or bright,
Eventually the moon played fiddle (out of sight),
And the night owl prowled in quiet stealthy flight.

The stream rolled by, oblivious of the noise,
Created by those grown-up country girls and boys,
With their banjos, harmonicas, and musical toys,
The audience had elixir and hookahs (their make believe joys).

Summer hawk and night owl with eyes e’spyin’,
Swooping talons exposed, in unison flyin’,
Picked up the singers and musicians (all cryin’),
Each and every one thought they were dyin’,

The winged ones deposited them in mountain stream,
And the caterwauling ebbed to a gurgling scream,
I was involved in that nightmarish dream,
For I was a caterwauler, or so it would seem.

Over the eons minerals invaded our bones,
And turned us into penumbrious stones,
Our caterwaulings are now gurgling moans,
The screeching songs melted into melodious tones.”

The stone then became quiet except for intermittent sobbing. Although I had previously intended to ask questions I avoided hearing any more of the sad story. I carefully placed the stone on the bottom of the stream and fled.

I never heard the voice of the caterwauler again.

©  2017        Copyright Waldo J. Tomosky



For example; I have been trying to promote a book right here in the body of this post.

But no — all I can do is to post the link.

So now you have to click on the link below.


Then purchase it.

Read it.

And recommend it to others.

Better yet — recommend it to your book club so others will have to purchase it.

Thank you.


How lucky can a man get?

Here I sit, watching a cold western wind, clashing with an eastern heat wave. The weather people tell me to run and hide.

I choose to do no such thing.

Instead, I will torture you with another self-promotion.

They say you can lead something to somewhere to drink. I hope that is true, because all I can do is tempt you with the following information.

This link is for those who reside or purchase their books in the USA.

VERDANT PALACES: A Classical Love Story in the Adirondacks Based on William Henry Hudson’s 1904 Masterpiece: Tomosky, Waldo, Hudson, William Henry: 9798449729712: Amazon.com: Books

Now this link is a bit different. It is for those who purchase their books in Australia

VERDANT PALACES: A Classical Love Story in the Adirondacks Based on William Henry Hudson’s 1904 Masterpiece : Tomosky, Waldo, Hudson, William Henry: Amazon.com.au: Books

In either case; ENJOY!


This book is straight forward. It tells about life and death; pleasant and unpleasant.

There are bare-faced truths and hidden truths.

It is your responsibility to seek them out.

It speaks of all incidents of life – – and death and pain – – of both kinds.

You will not forget the word-pictures of life’s other side.




OK Folks – here it is. The big story of course. And what a story it is.

No more dog food on my dinner table. I will be LIVING BIG on the royalties that I earn on this one.

But, of course, I will need your help.

“How?” you ask.

Simply by reviewing the book mentioned above and, in the link below. You should have no trouble reading the first several pages by clicking on the ICON that says “LOOK INSIDE”. If you don’t like the book, then what more could I ask of you?

However, it you do like, purchase it. That will mean my diet of dog food will be replaced by the proverbial five fruits, five vegetables, and I hope, some protein (other than that shown on the label of the dog food can).

Thank you for your understanding.


Egalitarianism, Utopianism and Other Such Nonsense

This, that, - - - and the other thing


To profess an ideal of perfect equality or harmony is nonsensical.

Likewise so is professing an ideal of perfect free trade or pure capitalism.

Ideals are perfect goals. They will never be reached. They are simply an idea that must be perfected through trial and error. It is all in the ‘doing’ of the ideal, not in the ‘end result.’

Even scientists and mathematicians realize that by ‘approximating’ a formula and then ‘approximating’ it again and again will they ever approach the truth. That is the truth in science. That also is the truth of humanity. There is no end to discovery. It is all approximation. We believe that we can jump to the end but there is no end; we just discover another path ‘towards’ the end.

Those who preach that egalitarianism, utopianism, or pure free trade can be reached in one generation only fool themselves while they are trying…

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Adirondack Images and Tales Slideshow


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Here are the people you have met, the places you have been and the books you have read while visiting Thomas Tahauwus in his cabin. Thomas thanks all of you for keeping him company and hopes that you have enjoyed hearing about his experiences in the Adirondack Mountains


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The Land of Akbar; Post #1 (an introduction)


I must thank two uncertainties for the discovery of Akbar[1]; an echo and a philosophical dictionary.

The echo disturbs anyone who finds himself in a specific ancient dusty great-room which has the odor of yellowing print material. This great-room is located in the once grand summer lodge of Aiden Lair. Aiden Lair may be found with great difficulty (if at all) in the depths of the Adirondack Mountains. The    philosophical dictionary was possibly labeledThe Dictionnaire Philosophique, Voltaire, 1764. Itwas a literal but anachronistic reprint of the Philosophical Dictionary, Stanford, 1995. The event that I am about to describe to you took place a half century ago – therefore you must forgive my memory – for the ‘possibly labeled’ comment.

Ernest Hemingwayinvited me to an evening meal of trout and venison that he had prepared over a wood fire. He had gathered the wood from…

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Remember when we were looking at the Starucca Viaduct; that manmade wonder of the world?

The small town of Harmony is a short walk from the viaduct.

When discussing the viaduct I mentioned Joseph Smith, founder of the Mormon religion. There is a lot of common information about Joseph Smith in Palmyra, New York and Ohio and Missouri and his followers in Utah.


There is little common knowledge about his life in Harmony, Pennsylvania.

Oh – – – I don’t mean that the Mormons have little knowledge about their leader when he was in Harmony. What I mean is that most of us non-Mormons know little about this part of his life.

Like in Ohio and Missouri, Josesph Smith was under scrutiny and attack, jailed and not understood.

For example, here is some second hand and very aged information from a Christian minister.

The good reverend Peck…

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I was out for a nice stroll in the neighborhood. We have no sidewalks here. Everyone walks in the road. I have no idea why. The neighborhood is almost sixty years old and they never bothered putting in sidewalks. Now, as you can imagine, the town has rules. First of all they claim to own or control the first eight feet of everyone’s lot; both front and side. They also have a rule that there can be no fences on that eight foot section between what I own and the curb; the sidewalk-less section in case I had to remind you.

But all that information is for naught. It has nothing to do with what I am about to tell you.

As I was walking – – – it was in the evening – – – I heard someone talking to me. Or so I thought. But why was he…

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