DESTRUCTION OF THE SOUL: #3 “The Invitations”

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1977 Motel on the Mountain

In the corporate offices

in White Plains, NY

(The CEO addresses his

administrative assistant, Bill)

 

Hi Bill!

We will be holding a Christmas party.

It will be at Motel on the Mountain.

We have asked the owner of

LaFrance Inc. to join us.

And would you like me to

handle the invitations?

Yes, and the arrangements with the

hotel and the caterer.

I want Dick there and Jeff and Joe.

Go tell them.

Then go fetch the queen from

the Park Avenue loft.

If he refuses?

 

Eli? He wouldn’t miss this for the world.

 

 (Two executives are jousting

with words and logic.

One of them fails the next move.)

 

Dick!

Jeff!

The CEO want’s you in his office.

 

(In the loft on Park Avenue)

Hello Eli.

 

Hello Bill.

 

He wants to have a Christmas party.

 

Where?

 

Motel on the Mountain.

Marvelous!

 

 Tomorrow Next Post: At The Party

 

author1

DESTRUCTION OF THE SOUL: #2 “Come to me.”

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The Board Room Table

The CEO (named Peter)

and his lover, Pretty Boy,

(who remains nameless)

just finished watching

a power point presentation

by a young executive named Joe

 

You are getting the hang of it Joe!

Am I, sir, do you see me improving?

Of course, now go finish that report.

He will make a good CEO – – – some day.

Go ahead Joe, finish it up.

YES SIR!

Do you agree with the new corporate strategy?

Will you be able to retire and see who is at the helm?

I must know before I set up the succession plan.

Think about the corporation called Standard Oil.

John Rockefeller and I have much in common.

You and I share this company.

And we both have our lives in it.

We are getting along in years – –

and must set up that succession plan.

Standard was broken up into many parts.

I can’t allow that to happen.

I have built this corporation

and you will share in it – -

but I must know it will continue on.

All telecommunications – -

and half of the digital world!

I am the most powerful CEO in history.

And after me comes Joe!

I am losing you, Peter, am I not?

In all of my life I have known

bi-sexuals, trannies, bath-visitors,

CEOs, politicians and little boys.

But for all of that

I have only loved you.

And how are your old loves – -

Roger?

Rose Baby?

Roger is dead to me – -

as is the pretty queen.

And the old queen you keep

in the Park Avenue loft?

Decaying I suppose?

Don’t be jealous – -

he is a gargoyle now.

He was nothing that

I ever loved.

How many CEOs

keep past loves

in a fancy loft?

I have not kept that

old bitch locked up

out of desire.

Do tell.

 Tomorrow Next Post: The Invitations

 

author1

DESTRUCTION OF THE SOUL: #1 Introduction

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I have a tendency to lie quite a bit.

In fact I lied about something in the following introduction. So allow me to expose myself and tell you what the lie is before we even get started.

I say, below, that I will be posting daily. THAT WILL PROBABLY BE A BIG FAT LIE!

I will post when I can – – – and I won’t post when I can’t – – – or when I have more pressing issues – – – or if I just don’t feel like it.

With that out of the way, please allow me to post the following introduction.

An introduction to: DESTRUCTION OF THE SOUL

In the beginning mankind destroyed the body of others. He accomplished this with rocks and stones. Sometimes with fire, as we have recently seen our more modern savages do.

But man is a progressive animal. He moved on to hand made tools. Lithic knives, stone clubs, and chipped arrows that could fly to the enemy. All of these could destroy a human body.

Bronze! Ah yes; what would we do without the Bronze Age? Bronze swords and amalgams of bronze and tin; these alloys made copper knives and axes, all to attack, dismember and kill each other.

Not yet satisfied with his progress man forged iron with carbon and beat it into weapons. He hardened these by heating them red hot and then plunging them into a slave as an immediate quench. Then he polished the blade with sand, put it back into the fire, and when it was tan colored, another slave was wasted to give temper to the blade. Two human lives were gone even before the weapon could be put to use.

Let us not overlook the dock strikes of the early 20th Century. Belaying pins of wood and steel changed many minds about whether the dock workers union was a good or bad thing.

Then man added other metals to form alloys never dreamed of before. These weapons became mechanized and could take the lives of many in a single day.

Modern man, in this progressiveness, no longer kills human bodies; he kills souls. The body is left behind and others must care for it.

So the following series is of that type; the destruction of the soul.

It didn’t happen on a battlefield, or a back-alley knife fight, or even a drive-by shooting. It happened in the mortared halls of business.

It is an adaptation of James Goldman’s “The Lion In Winter”

Visit the daily posts. I promise you revulsion, sorrow, bewilderment and political incorrectness.

 

 Tomorrow Next Post: “COME TO ME”

 

author1

A TRIPTYCH OF WORDS

Originally posted on The Short Stories of Waldo:

I had heard the story once or twice before. I believe the first time was on a park bench beside the Red Robin Diner in Johnson City, New York.

Red Robin

 

The second time surprised me because of my location. I was sitting next to an elderly gentleman on a Greyhound bus ride between Malone and Binghamton; both in New York.

It was surely a tale to be heard and then dismissed.

But now I am now compelled to tell you this story because of something that I recently read in an old yellowing newspaper. To be exact it wasn’t called a newspaper when it was printed; sometime around 1865. It was called a periodical; you know, one of those monthly ink menstruations. To my best recollection it was the Atlantic Monthly – – – but please don’t hold me to that.

Ragged Lake

 

I cannot vouch for the veracity of the…

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The Town Tweeker

Waldo "Wally" Tomosky:

This was written almost six years ago – – – and already it has become ture. Ask yourself; “Do I feel comfortable with all this government meddling?”

Originally posted on This, that, - - - and the other thing:

July 24, 2009                               THE TOWN TWEAKER

By Waldo J. Tomosky

The following experience occurred in the middle of a thunderstorm. Unfortunately I was sitting on an old log in the North Woods of New York State. My previously lit cigarette was soaked and useless. I am not normally concerned about lightening and thunder; however, the storm was extremely active that day. I was out in the open with my fishing rod acting as a lightning rod. I decided to lay it flat on the ground.

This is a story about a man of tomorrow. A man whose job it is to keep a town operating; and not simply operating but at its most efficient.  Long ago, when this piece was originally written, he would have been a political hack. But in today’s world he is a technician with no political ambitions (and probably no ambitions in any field of endeavor)…

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THE COUNTENANCE OF CLEAVUS MCGEE

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With my deepest apologies to Percy French

The men at the bar, are brave men we’re told

And quite unaccustomed to fear,

But the bravest by far, on the stools of the bar,

Was Cleavus; his countenance quite queer.

 

If you wanted a man with a rusty old van,

Bumper stickers all over its rear,

Not registered no doubt, you had only to shout

For Cleavus whose features were queer.

 

Now the drunks were plenty and well known to fame

Behind the bar, car keys held, not near,

And the foulest of these was a man by the name

Of ‘Cleavus’ with facial scars quite clear.

 

One day a young deputy, un-holstered his gun

And donned a south Texas sneer,

To the bar he did go, where he trod on the toe

Of Cleavus; wife nibbling on his right ear.

 

Young man, said the deputy, “Is life grown so dull?

That you wish to end your career?”

“Oh poor deputy, you have trod on the boot

Of Cleavus!” said McGee’s wife; without an iota of fear.

 

“So take your last look at your donnybrook,

And send your regrets to your spouse”

By this she implied, the deputy should drive,

With great speed, back to the police station house.

 

With that said he knew, Cleavus drew his .22,

Shouting, “Hot doggity”, and “Hot diggity!”

And with murderous intent he ferociously sent

A few shots toward the ignorant deputy.

 

They rolled as they shot, poor marksmen ‘twer not,

Their blood they spilled in a large spot;

The yarn-spinning folks, who seldom crack jokes,

Say that tales would be made ‘bout their lot.

 

With bullets of both spent; at ‘tuther’s necks they went;

The din, it was heard from afar,

And huge multitudes came, so great was the fame,

Of the fight at the ‘Old Cactus Bar.’

 

As Cleavus’ switchblade Knife threatened the life,

Of the deputy shouting of McGee’s disgrace,

“My God old cow-hand, what happened; get panned? -

With cast iron to your ugly face.”

 

The Sheriff rode that night, in his black and white,

Expecting the deputy to cheer,

But as he drew nigh he heard the last sigh,

Of the deputy laying quite near.

 

There’s a tomb rises up near the Pecos River flow,

And carved in marble, characters clear,

Is, “Stranger, when passing, oh pray for the soul

Of the deputy who McGee had no fear.”

 

A flash of short light, on that dark moonless night

Caused gasping to spread wide and far,

From forehead through eye, and passing right by,

‘Twas McGee’s quite horrible scar.

 

An ear was displaced, then Cleavus’ wife faced

A probiscus hanging by a thread,

It was made by the knife, of deputy losing life,

However, now he had nothing to dread.

 

A splash in Rio Grande, body of old cow-hand,

Caused ripples to reflect his wife’s image,

A night that ‘twas black, the Sheriff’s image in back,

Reflecting a love affair – – – with some vintage.

A Mexican maiden her lone vigil keeps,

‘Neath the flag of that lone Texas star,

And the name that she murmurs in vain as she weeps,

Is that of Deputy Cleavus McGee-LaBarr.

Now, for those of you who have a sudden urge to sing please read the above poem to the following tune.

Thank you very much.

BOTH Cleavuses have left the building.

Ace of Spades

Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78

The Battle of Shipka Pass

The Battle of Shipka Pass

Another blogger and myself wandered the halls of my memory

https://whoopiebrain.wordpress.com/2014/11/01/in-memory-of-uncle-wally-gunther/

and

her capturing the beauty of Polynesia

http://cindyknoke.com/2015/01/24/bulbuls-fairies-noddies-of-polynesia/

This led me to wander through the halls of Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland and the writings of Percy French; particularly “Ivan Skavinsky Skavar and Abdul the Bulbul Emir.”

Through these meanderings I somehow ended up in the title of this post:

“Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78″

However, when you finish reading and viewing, you should visit the two links above in order to see how I ended up writing this post. And now for more about the war of 1877 – 1888; with a lot of help from Wikipedia.

Russia declared war on the Ottomans on 24 April 1877 and its troops entered Romania through the newly built Eiffel Bridge near Ungheni, on the Prut river.

Eiffel Bridge on the Prut, Ungheni

Eiffel Bridge on the Prut, Ungheni

Dragoons of Nizhny Novgorod pursuing the Turks

Dragoons of Nizhny Novgorod pursuing the Turks

After the attack. Dressing station near Plevna - Vasily Vereshchagin

After the attack. Dressing station near Plevna by Vasily Vereshchagin

Road of the War Prisoners - Vasily Vereshchagin

Road of the War Prisoners by  Vasily Vereshchagin

A SHORT BUT TERRIBLE WAR

However; now, we must return to Percy French at Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland.

(William) Percy French (1 May 1854 – 24 January 1920) was one of Ireland’s foremost songwriters and entertainers in his day. In more recent times, he has become recognized for his watercolor paintings as well.

French was born at Cloonyquin House, near Tulsk, County Roscommon, the son of an Anglo-Irish landlord. He was educated at Foyle College, Derry, and wrote his first successful song while studying at Trinity College Dublin (TCD) in 1877 for a “smoking concert”. The song Abdul Abulbul Amir was sold for £5 to an unscrupulous publisher. The song later became hugely popular and was falsely claimed by other authors.

French’s original poem

The sons of the Prophet are brave men and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear,
But the bravest by far in the ranks of the Shah,
Was Abdul Abulbul Amir.
If you wanted a man to encourage the van,
Or harass the foe from the rear,
Storm fort or redoubt, you had only to shout
For Abdul Abulbul Amir.
Now the heroes were plenty and well known to fame
In the troops that were led by the Czar,
And the bravest of these was a man by the name
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.
One day this bold Russian, he shouldered his gun
And donned his most truculent sneer,
Downtown he did go where he trod on the toe
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.
Young man, quoth Abdul, has life grown so dull
That you wish to end your career?
Vile infidel, know, you have trod on the toe
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.
So take your last look at the sunshine and brook
And send your regrets to the Czar
For by this I imply, you are going to die,
Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.
Then this bold Mameluke drew his trusty skibouk,
Singing, “Allah! Il Allah! Al-lah!”
And with murderous intent he ferociously went
For Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.
They parried and thrust, they side-stepped and cussed,
Of blood they spilled a great part;
The philologist blokes, who seldom crack jokes,
Say that hash was first made on the spot.
They fought all that night neath the pale yellow moon;
The din, it was heard from afar,
And huge multitudes came, so great was the fame,
Of Abdul and Ivan Skavar.
As Abdul’s long knife was extracting the life,
In fact he was shouting, “Huzzah!”
He felt himself struck by that wily Calmuck,
Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.
The Sultan drove by in his red-breasted fly,
Expecting the victor to cheer,
But he only drew nigh to hear the last sigh,
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.
There’s a tomb rises up where the Blue Danube rolls,
And graved there in characters clear,
Is, “Stranger, when passing, oh pray for the soul
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.”
A splash in the Black Sea one dark moonless night
Caused ripples to spread wide and far,
It was made by a sack fitting close to the back,
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.
A Muscovite maiden her lone vigil keeps,
‘Neath the light of the cold northern star,
And the name that she murmurs in vain as she weeps,
Is Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.

THE DICHOTOMIST: The Accidental Visitor (Chapter 8, the final chapter)

Originally posted on The Short Stories of Waldo:

THE ACCIDENTAL VISITOR

It was Spring in the Dolomites of Italy. I was able to supplement my meager meals of hare and pine nuts with some fresh trout from a nearby stream. It was a delicious change.

During one of those meals I heard the crack of twigs somewhere near me. It was the unmistakable sound of footsteps. How could anyone have traced me to this specific location? My train trips, bus routes and hiking should have confused anyone looking for me; even the international police.

It was too late to run. I sat there finishing a mouthful of pine nuts when he appeared. He was a small man with a backpack and a few days of growth on his face. He seemed startled to see me. He spoke first.

“Hello” he said with a clear Bostonian accent.

I became very agitated inside when I realized he was an American…

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THE DICHOTOMIST: Lecture 8 “Conclusion” (part 2)

Originally posted on The Short Stories of Waldo:

Conclusion of Lectures  (Part2)

It was not long before my father, the psychoanalyst, would take me into the garage simply to throw a bolt at me. He would keep, nearby, a lined notebook. In this book he would make notes on my reaction to getting hit by the bolt. This occurred more frequently as the days and months went by.

One day my mother found the notebook and read it.

When my father got home from the university she confronted him about it. I should be quick to say that it was really not a confrontation but more of a confab. Mother and Father discussed the notebook in hushed tones. She had folded the corners of some pages and turned to those as they spoke.

It must have been an emotionally exhausting effort because they claimed that they were tired and were going upstairs to take a nap.

Dad’s mother fixed me a…

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THE DICHOTOMIST: My Son, the Dichotomy (Chapter 7)

Originally posted on The Short Stories of Waldo:

MY SON, THE DICHOTOMY 

The three of us, mother, my wife and myself, doted on our son. We knew he had been born into a place of privilege.

After all, he was born into a family of substantial means and education. He would be exposed to the best of people, the best of ideals and the best of schools. He was bright eyed and a quick learner.

We ensured that he could read before entering kindergarten. Mother had him identifying the classical musicians by the time he was four. We would joke that he could say Bache before he said Daddy.

It was only after he entered public school that a potential problem arose. We always knew he saw things differently. Through the constant attention from the three of us we inadvertently minimized the problem.

We knew that he could learn anything he was exposed to. He could verbally feed…

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