THE BLUE LINE: “LAND TRUST?” or “Bull Manure!”

THE BLUE LINE WHICH IDENTIFIES THE PERIMETERS OF THE ADIRONDACK PARK HAS CODEFINING RULES AS TO WHAT MAY OR MAY NOT OCCUR THERE.

THESE RULES MAY HAVE LOOPHOLES. IS THIS ONE OF THEM? 

 

From: 

PO Box 130, 2861 NYS Route 73 Keene, NY 12942

The following is a quote directly from the Adirondack Land Trust;

“The Adirondack Land Trust and a private landowner have partnered to protect an intact forest and a unique strain of brook trout on 2,122 acres in the town of Long Lake.”

Note the euphemism we “have partnered” and not put another way “we have sold to a private entity.” The article goes on to say:

“The Little Charley Pond tract contains Snell, Bear and Little Charley ponds and five miles of undeveloped shoreline. A new owner, Charley Pond Preserve, has donated to the Adirondack Land Trust a perpetual conservation easement that keeps the forest whole and safeguards a rare fish community.”

Note that they have not stated how much the new private owner has paid the land trust but that he has “donated” a conservation easement which I assume that the land trust already owned before they sold it. So what has been gained here? NOTHING; other than the land trust now has a ton of money in their pocketbook that they did not have prior to the transaction and the new owner can now fish for that “unique strain of brook trout.”

This looks really good — the land trust sells its conservation easement to a private owner and then the private owner give the easement back to the land trust; “I’ll wash your hands and then you will wash mine.”

“Private owners play an important role in protecting the character and integrity of the Adirondack Park’s forests and waters,” said Adirondack Land Trust executive director Mike Carr. “The Little Charley tract is an example of how private initiative can provide conservation leadership.”

Must I make a comment on this quote for you to get the picture? I think not.

The article goes on to say;

“The conservation easement does not allow public access. The easement also restricts subdivision, allows one additional camp, and allows forest management under Forest Stewardship Council guidelines. ”

It did not share the purchase price or say who the private individual is that purchased it while hiding behind the newly formed “Little Charley Preserve” façade.

Gee Whiz, folks. I wonder who the new owner is and if he is going to build a “camp” on his newly purchased land that does not allow the hoi-polloi public access.

Does this smell like a “not for profit real estate business?”

MORE AND MORE TROUT FISHING LAND IS GOING INTO PRIVATE HANDS DUE TO THIS TYPE OF “WINKING” AND BY NY STATE GIVING CONTROL TO THOUSANDS OF ACRES TO ‘SPECIAL INTEREST’ GROUPS HIDING BENEATH THE HOODS OF THE UNIVERSITIES. THIS MUST STOP!

 

UPDATE

 

From:   

 

OCTOBER 23RD, 2018

“The big transaction was at the Little Charley Pond tract, west of Little Tupper Lake. The Adirondack Land Trust purchased the 2,122-acre tract with three ponds for $2 million in 2007, executive director Mike Carr said. Now a buyer wishing to remain anonymous has purchased the trust’s property for $1.9 million and granted a conservation easement ensuring that no more than one new camp will be built there.”

$1.9 Million, mmmm.   I wonder how much the executive director gets paid?

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SHAMELESS, JUST SHAMELESS I SAY

Yes, It is time for another shameless self promotion of one of my 18 books.

This one is the autobiography of a fictional character created by a dead author. If that is not enough I should be quick to add that he is also a plagiarist; not unlike the one who writes this.

The autobiography is guaranteed to contain nonsense; yet be, somewhat entertaining.

Thank you and may God have pity on your soul.

Go ahead, Click on the book cover for a sample reading.

 

THE ‘SHUNS’

Tags

and apricots, and oranges, but today - we have no tags., we have bananas, YES - we have no tags

 

The day started with my morning ablutions,

and then ‘moved’ to my regular constitutions,

which were followed by my daily resolutions,

to exercise and read more; such ingenuations!

 

I filled the coffee pot; to ensure percolations,

took all my vitamins and other medications,

selected an oatmeal; substance of variations,

“Raisin & Brown Sugar’; box top acclamations.

 

Donned my coat for my customary ambulations,

took an umbrella (due to weather considerations),

dodged a truck, a bike and other machinations,

saw a politician, a lawyer; are they variations?

 

Sat on a bench formed of wooden fragmentations,

watched the folks forming voluntary segregations,

here, the people in the midst of chess enthusiations,

there, folks enthralled with soap box exclamations.

 

Nearing noon, my stomach sounded such vibrations,

I knew it was time for lunch and potent potations,

a Manhattan I was craving (or any liquid libations),

and a friendly bar-keep offering jovial salutations.

 

The alcohol dulled my mind in major moderations,

‘Which way home?’; my immediate considerations,

‘No need to panic.’ said I between heart palpitations,

‘I’ll hail a taxi!’ were my thoughts and aspirations.

 

Arriving home I turned to TV with great expectations,

however, it was entirely political candidate falsifications,

no new ideas; my presentiments were all fulminations,

I knew we had no real choice; accept our destinations.

 

So I stayed home, not voting, nurturing my inclinations,

talking TV heads offering their brilliant miscalculations,

no a human could have foretold the resultant causations,

a winning write in vote; – – – “Eddie and the Temptations’

 

THE COUNTENANCE OF CLEAVUS MCGEE

Tags

Abdul the Bulbul Amir, Cleavus McGee, Ivan Skavinsky Skavar, Percy French

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.

Wally’s Little Compendium of “TO CAST”

Tags

define cast

Origin of CAST

Middle English, from Old Norse kasta; akin to Old Norse “kǫs” heap

First Known Use: 13th century

or late 20^th century, example;

 

Tonto asking the Lone Ranger why he is so happy.

 

“Holy Smoke-signal Kemosabe; why you make heap big smile all the time?”

 

 

 

NO – – – but seriously folks – – –

 

This is what “cast” means

 

To throw in a forceful way

 

a fishing line, hook, etc. into the water by using a fishing pole

(this is the absolutely best way to enjoy a cast)

or cast a net by hand

castanet (cast a chestnut) by fingers

                          

 

in the direction of someone or something

 

dice in the game of craps

to the opposite end

of the table

 

a glance at a beautiful female

her legs or buttocks

(sorry – – – my bad)

 

 

To put forth

 

a warm glow as a campfire

(especially if I have a

Southern Comfort Manhattan

in my hand)

 

 

light on the subject

as a book or essay

(You want light on a subject?

Read Frederik Nietzsche.

He lights up the grey matter.)

 

 

To place as if by throwing

 

doubt on their reliability

(I promise not to say anything

about the current administration.)

 

 

To deposit

 

a ballot in hopes of reform

(See above.

Ooops – – – I broke my promise already)

 

 

To accidentally throw off or away

 

a horse losing his shoe

(Or my sanity or morals)

 

 

To get rid of by nature

 

all restraint

(such as singles leaving a bar

You wouldn’t happen to have

the address for that bar

would you?)

 

 

 

To set apart

 

segregated seating for smokers

 

a system where heritage overrides merit

(Oh – – – wait a minute

I think that is spelled caste; eg

the system of dividing society

into hereditary classes)

 

 

 

To shed

 

a raincoat must shed water

 

human nature sometimes causes bloodshed

 

pouring forth in drops – – – tears

 

enlightenment – – – sheds some light on the subject

 

 

 

To give off, discharge, or expel from the body of a plant or animal

 

 

eject, slough off, or lose

as part of the

normal processes of life

 

a snake shedding its skin

(see downsizing)

 

a dog shedding hair

(see sneezing

or vacuuming)

 

 

a deciduous tree sheds its leaves

(see “Fall”

Friends; are you over 60?

People  over 60 fall all the time.

Order our “ICAN”TGETUP” system

for only $500 and monthly payments

of a mere $40 for the remainder of your life.)

 

To discharge

 

usually gradually

(so as to be unnoticeable

such as information

from our government)

 

especially as part of a

pathological process

(this is redundant;

our government

is pathological)

 

shed a virus

 

a pustule

(sorry about

that image)

 

 

To rid oneself of temporarily or permanently as superfluous or unwanted

 

the company laid off 100 employees

 

she shed her inhibitions

and then 

she dumped her childhood sweetheart

 

(and I have

never recovered

from the experience)

 

 

To pour out

 

She spilled the beans

 

AGAIN?

 

 

To become dispersed  

 

Scatter brained

 

(see above)

“She cast off all inhibitions”

 

Are you sure you don’t

have that address?

 

 

 

To cast off some natural covering as fur, skin or emotion

 

the dog is still shedding

(see above)

 

dispensing with all humanity

(see bloodshed above)

 

I dumped him; what a loser!

 

“Cast off Matey – – – yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum”

 

 

To molt

 

shed hair, feathers, shell, horns, or an outer layer periodically

 

 

As in any invertebrate of the phylum

Arthropoda,

having a segmented body,

jointed limbs,

and usually a chitinous shell

that undergoes moltings,

including the insects,

spiders and other arachnids,

crustaceans, and myriapods.

 

Snakes molt as they grow,

shedding the old skin and

growing a larger new skin;

sometimes turning into CEOs.

 

Crabs molt their shell

as they grows larger;

sometimes turning into

bitter spouses.

 

 

To bring forth

Especially new ideas

 

Allow me to cast

a pregnant thought

into the mix

 

or newsworthy information

 

bee-bee-beep-bee- beep

“Attention all listeners

and ships at sea;

an explosion has

created devastation,

the wind blew up

the river.

 

 

To give birth to

 

Prematurely or unnaturally

 

He cast his seed upon the ground

(Onan knew that the offspring would not be his;

so when he went in to his brother’s wife,

he wasted his seed on the ground

in order not to give offspring

to his brother.)

Holy Crap – – – that’s really weird.

 

To throw to the ground

 

suplex in wrestling

 

 

 

He cast his opponent upon the ground

(not to be confused with the seed)

 

To build by throwing up earth

 

They cast mud into the Tower of Babel

(NO! They did not build the tower

and then throw mud into it;

they cast mud into bricks

and then constructed

the tower with them)

 

SHEESH! WHAT GROUP OF READERS HAVE I CAST UNTO MYSELF?

 

 

To perform arithmetical operations

 

by means of astrology

 

Casting an astrological chart

 

An astrological chart or,

more specifically,

a natal chart,

is a symbolic representation

of the position of the planets,

the sun, and the moon

at the moment

of a person’s birth.

 

Each planet occupies

a particular zodiac sign

at a given moment.

It is the interpretation

of this placement

that provides

astrologers with insight

into a person’s

personality and behavior.

 

Because an astrological chart

is based on facts (?)

—-the actual positions in the sky

(relative to earth)

of heavenly bodies

at a certain time—-

it is more of an astronomical

than an astrological endeavor.

 

 

To decide

She decided to cast her lot with him

 

BIG MISTAKE!

 

To intend

I didn’t intend to cast

any dispersions

on this post

 

Oh yes you did.

 

 

To dispose or arrange into parts or into a suitable form or order

 

He separated them into different lots by date

 

FIFO

First In First Out

FILO

First In Last Out

LIFO

Last In First Out

LILO

Last In Last Out

FISH

First In Still Here

WGAC

Who Gives A Crap

(better known as)

RS

Random Selection

 

 

To assign the parts of a dramatic production to actors

                                                                                          

cast a movie

 

“Frankly my dear,

I don’t give a damn.”

 

To assign an actor to a role or part

 

He was cast in the leading role

 

(see Frankly my dear; above)

 

To give a shape to a substance by pouring

in liquid or plastic form

into a mold and letting it harden without pressure

 

cast steel

 

Sporks are not formed

by this process

 

Sporks are formed

when the cow

jumped over

the moon

and the fork

ran away

with the spoon

to make little

baby sporks.

 

turn

 

cast the scale slightly

to cause to move around

an axis or a center

 make rotate or revolve; 

turn a potter’s wheel.

 

He cast some pottery

 

 

To make a knot or stitch by looping or catching up

 

twist

unite by winding 

Robling cast strands of wire

together to form

the cables

for the

Brooklyn Bridge

 

she made a warp of yarn

 

To from a curve that has developed

in something originally flat or straight 

 

a warped door

This damn thing won’t shut right

 

a mental aberration

 

If you have read

this post this far

you must be

a bit warped

To bear fruit : 

 

give or render as fitting

rightfully owed

or required

as a pregnant idea

 

To give up possession of a claim or demand

 

He cast his last breath

– – – and so he died

 

The court has ruled;

YOU LOST!

 

To surrender or relinquish to

the physical control

of another

hand over possession of

 

I cast myself unto you,

my love

 

 

To give oneself up

 

to an inclination, temptation,

or habit

 

He cast himself

to the devil

whiskey

 

To relinquish one’s possession of

a position of advantage

or point of superiority

I yield the floor

to the prosecutor

 

 

To perform addition

 

Casting a Summation

 

Define the sum

between the upper

and lower limits

 

 

 

To range over land in search of a trail

 

hunting dogs or trackers

 

They cast for a scent

 

To make immobile or perpetual

a hard covering that is put on an

arm, leg, etc., so that

a broken bone can heal

 

Mommy,

mommy,

mommy,

mommy,

mommy;

when can I take

this damn thing off?

 

 

A plaster mask was cast

 

His image was held

for all to see;

in perpetuity

 

 

AND NOW ON A LIGHTER NOTE; The rhyme

 

Thomas Nast

had a blast

making politicians

all aghast.

 

The hot blast

wide and vast

of their rhetoric

extinguished at last.

 

Pictured their past

as big iconoclast

but boots of leather

had turned to bast.

 

Tied to their past

like pirates to the mast

Tom cartooned them

Forever cast.

 

AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR!

Do you have an itchy burning sensation between your toes?

Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?

Does your husband come home with scabies from a “business trip?”

Are the children getting tired from cracking ice for Grandpa’s piles?

(Oh, wait a minute. Piles is a synonumb for heap, and numb is the goal.)

WELL THEN – – – WHAT YOU NEED IS OUR “SELF HELP CD.”

A sample reading can be seen below.

 

 

 

 

If that sample interests you please send

one szlotney and

five box tops from

“Who Cares Gummy Bears?” (8 ounce size)

to ten good friends.

 

“WHO CARES GUMMY BEARS: THEY STICK IN YOUR TEETH

AND NOT TO YOUR FINGERS.”

 

 

 

THE PRISONER OF DIPSOMANIA

Tags

Lord Byron, The Prisoner of Chillon

 

 

With my deepest apologies to Lord Byron

 

LORD BYRON

I

 

My hair is grey, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men’s have grown from sudden fears:

My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,

For they have been a tavern’s spoil

And mine has been the fate of those

To whom the goodly earth and air

Are bann’d, and barr’d — forbidden fare;

But this repeats my father’s fate

He suffer’d those chains and courted death;

That father perish’d from the slake

For habits he would not forsake;

And for the same his lineal race

In darkness found a dwelling-place;

We were seven — who now are one,

Six, in youth, and one in age,

Finish’d as they had begun,

Proud of intoxication’s rage;

One in bed, and two in jail,

Their souls do not demand fair bail,

Dying as their father died,

For the God their minds denied;

Three in inebriate house were cast,

Of whom this wreck is left the last.

II

 

There are seven pillars of nihilistic mould,

In potation’s taverns odiferous and old,

There are seven pillars, false I pray,

Allowing for my imprison’d way,

I am a sunbeam which hath lost its ray

And through the crevice and the cleft

Of the thick wall is fallen and left;

Creeping o’er tavern floor so damp,

Like the local sheriff’s lamp:

And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain;

The lying mind is a troubling thing,

For in this mind its teeth remain,

With memories that will not wear away,

Till I have done with this new day,

Which now is painful to those eyes,

Which have not seen my sun so rise.

For years — I cannot count them o’er,

I lost their long and heavy score

When my last brother droop’d and died,

And I ignor’d him by bed side.

III

Potations chain’d us to a column stone,

And we were there — yet, each alone;

We could not move a single pace,

Nor look upon each other’s face,

But with’n that pale tavern light

That made us strangers in our sight;

And thus together — yet apart,

Fetter’d in mind, but joined in heart,

‘Twas some solace for Neanderthal

Of the pure elements of alcohol,

To hearken to slurring speech,

As brothers turned comforters to each

With some new lie, or legend old,

Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.

Our voices took a dreary tone,

An echo of the tavern groan,

A mumbl’d sound, not full and free,

As we of yore were wont to be;

It might be fancy, but to me

They never sounded like our own.

IV

 

I was the eldest of the three,

And then I partook to cheer the rest

I ought to do — and did my best —

And each did well in his degree.

The youngest, whom my father loved,

Because our mother’s iris was given

To him, with eyes as blue as heaven —

For him my soul was sorely moved:

And truly might it be distress’d

To see such bird in such a nest;

For he was beautiful as day —

(When day was beautiful to me

As to young eagles, being free) —

A bitter day, which will not see

A sunset till his potent tis gone,

His sleepless summer of long night,

The foam-clad off’ring of the sun:

However his eyes were red, yet bright,

And in his natural spirit gay,

With tears for naught but others’ ills,

And then they flowed like mountain rills,

Unless he could assuage the woe

Which he abhorr’d to view below.

V

The other sibling was as pure of mind,

But form’d to combat with his kind;

Strong in his frame, and of a mood

Which ‘gainst the sober world he stood.

And perish’d in the sheriff’s tank

With joy; — but not in chains to pine;

His spirit wither’d with door-lock clank,

I saw it silently decline —

And so perchance in like did mine:

But yet I forced it on to cheer

Those taverns like a home so dear.

He was an imbiber with the swills,

Had follow’d there the dim and lonely

To him this tavern was only,

A fraternity of the best of ills.

VI

 

Dipsomania Lake has a million walls:

A thousand feet in depth below

Its muddy waters meet and flow;

Thus much the fathom-line was sense

From million quite false battlements,

Which round about the wave enthrals;

A tavern wall were reality waivers

Alcohol has made — many living slavers.

Below the surface of the lake

The dark vault lies wherein we lay:

We had to tipple night and day;

In the dawn our heads it knock’d;

And I have felt the vomit’s spray

Wash through the air when winds were high

And wanton in the unhappy sky;

And when the very reality hath rock’d,

And I have felt earth shake, unshock’d,

Because I could have smiled to see

The death that would have set me free.

VII

 

My nearer brother no longer opined,

I said his lonely heart declined,

He loathed his self and drank his food;

It was not that ’twas coarse and rude,

For we were used to hunter’s fare,

And for the following had little care:

The milk drawn from the mountain goat

Made our whisky laden bellies bloat,

Our bread was such as captives’ tears

We stuffed, not to listen, in our ears,

Man first toasted his fellow men

Like brutes within an imbiber’s den;

But what were these to us or him?

These wasted not his heart or limb;

My brother’s soul was of that fool’s gold

Which all taverns had soon grown cold,

Had his free drinking been denied

The range of his death bed’s side;

But why delay the truth? — he died!

I saw, and could not hold his head,

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, —

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,

To rend my bonds of amber liquid grain.

He died, and this unlock’d his chain,

Poor house scoop’d for him a shallow grave

Even from the cold earth of his cave.

I begg’d them, as a boon, to lay

His corpse in tavern dust that day

However, mine — it was a foolish thought,

But then within my brain it wrought,

That even in death his freeborn breast

In such a tavern could not rest.

I might have spared my idle prayer —

They coldly laugh’d — and laid him there:

The flat and barren earth above

The being we so much did love;

His empty mind above it leant,

Such a drinker’s fitting monument!

VIII

Youngest brother, the favorite and the flower

Most cherish’d since his natal hour,

His mother’s image in fair face,

The infant love of all his race,

His imbibing father’s dearest thought,

My latest care, for whom I sought

To hoard my life, that his might be

Less wretched now, and one day free;

He, too, who yet had held untired

A spirit drink, natural or inspired —

He, too, was a sot, and day by day

Was wither’d on the walk away.

Oh, God !    it is a fearful thing

To see the human soul take wing

In any odoriferous tavern, in any mud:

I’ve seen it rushing forth in blood,

I’ve seen sailors on the breaking ocean

Strive with a swol’n convulsive motion,

I’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed

Of sin delirious with its dread:

But those were horrors — this was woe

Unmix’d was Gin —  pure and sloe:

He faded, and so calm and meek,

So softly worn, so sweetly weak,

So tearless, yet so tender, kind,

And grieved for imbibers he left behind;

All the while his nose with rosacea bloom

Was as a mockery of the tomb,

Whose tints as gently sunk away

As a departing rainbow’s ray;

An eye of most transparent light,

That almost made the tavern bright;

And not a word of murmur, not

A groan o’er his untimely lot, —

A little talk of better days,

A little hope my own to raise,

For I was drunk  — in silence — lost

In this last loss, of such a cost;

And then the sighs he would suppress

Of fainting Nature’s feebleness,

More   slowly   drawn,   grew   less   and    less:

I listen’d, but I could not hear;

I call’d, for I was wild with fear;

I knew ‘t was hopeless, but my dread

Would not be thus admonished;

I call’d, and thought I heard a sound —

I burst from bar stool with one strong bound,

And rushed to him: — I found him not,

I only stirr’d in this black spot,

I only lived, I only drew

The accursed breath of tavern-dew;

The last, the sole, the dearest link

Between me and the eternal brink,

Which bound me to my failing race,

Was broken in this tavern place.

One on the earth, and one beneath —

My drinking brothers — had ceased to breathe !

My hand shook, would not stay still,

Alas !    my throat was full of swill;

I had not strength to stir, or strive,

But felt that I was still alive —

A frantic feeling, when we know

That what we love shall ne’er be so.

I know not why

I could not die,

I had no earthly hope, only breath,

And that forbade a selfish death.

IX

What next befell me then and there

I know not well — I never knew —

First came the lost of light, and air,

And then of darkness too:

I had no thought, no feeling — alone —

Among the imbibers I stood a stone,

And was, scarce conscious what I wish’d,

As mindless bogs within tavern mist;

For all was blank, and bleak, and grey;

It was not night,  it was not day;

It was not even the neon-light,

So hateful to my heavy sight,

But vacancy absorbing space,

And fixedness without a place;

There were no stars, no earth, no time,

No check, no change, no good, no crime,

But silence, and emotionless breath

Which neither was of life nor death;

A sea of stagnant idleness,

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless !

X

A light broke in upon my brain, —

It was the warble of a bird;

It ceased, and then it came again,

The sweetest song ear ever heard,

And mind was thankful till my eyes

Ran over with the glad surprise,

And they that moment could not see

I was the mate of misery;

But then by dull degrees came back

My senses to their wonted track;

I saw the tavern walls and floor

Open slowly round me as before,

I saw the glimmer of the sun

Creeping as it before had done,

But through the crevice where warble came

That bird was sober, as fond and tame,

And tamer than upon the tree;

A lovely bird, with azure wings,

And song that said a thousand things,

And seem’d to say them all for me !

I never saw its like before,

I ne’er shall see its likeness more:

It seem’d like me to want a mate,

But was not half so desolate,

And it was come to love me when

None lived to love me so again,

And cheering from my tavern’s brink,

Had brought me back to feel and think.

I know not if it late were free,

Or broke its care to perch on mine,

But knowing well captivity,

Sweet bird !    I could not wish for thine !

Or if it were, in winged guise,

A visitant from Borinquen paradise;

For — Heaven forgive that thought !    the while

Which made me both to weep and smile —

I sometimes deem’d that it might be

My mother’s soul come down to me;

But then ‘twern’t mortal well I knew,

For she would never thus have flown,

And left me twice so doubly lone,

Lone as the corpse within its shroud,

Lone as a solitary cloud, —

A single cloud on a sunny day,

While all the rest of heaven is clear,

A frown upon the atmosphere,

That hath no business to appear

When skies are blue, and earth is gay.

XI

A kind of change came in my fate,

My keepers grew compassionate;

I know not what had made them so,

They were inured to tales of woe,

But so it was; — my broken chain

With links unfastened did remain,

And it was liberty to stride

Along tavern room from side to side,

Back and forth, and then athwart,

And tread it over every part;

And round the pillars one by one,

Returning where my walk begun,

Avoiding only, as I trod,

My brothers’ graves nary any sod;

For if I thought with heedless tread

My step profaned their lowly bed,

My breath came gaspingly and thick,

And my crush’d heart felt blind and sick.

XII

I made footing in reality’s mount so tall,

It was not therefrom to escape,

For I had buried one and all,

Who loved me in a human shape:

And the tavern would henceforth be

No longer a prison unto me:

No child, no sire, no kin had I,

No partner in my misery;

I thought of this, and I was glad,

For tavern life had made me mad;

But I was curious to ascend

Oer my barr’d windows and to bend

Once more, upon the mountains high,

The quiet of a loving eye.

XIII

I saw them, and they were the same,

They were not changed like me in frame;

I saw their white hair like snow

On high — their long purview from below,

And the deepest hope in fullest flow;

I felt my thoughts leap and gush

O’er wasted time in broken rush;

I saw the brilliant lights of distant town,

And fuller sails go skimming down;

And then there was a little isle,

Which in my very face did smile,

The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seem’d no more,

Much broader than a tavern floor,

But on it there were seven palm trees,

And o’er it blew a Caribbean breeze,

And by it there were waters flowing,

And on it there were young flowers growing,

Of gentle breath and hue.

The fish swam quickly by El Morro’s wall,

And they seem’d joyous each and all;

Reina Mora sang in the rising breeze,

Methought she never flew with such ease

As then to me she seem’d to fly;

And then new tears came in my eye,

And I felt troubled — and would fain

I had not left my recent chain,

And when I did descend again,

The darkness of my dim abode

Fell on me as a heavy load;

It was as is a new-dug grave,

Closing o’er one we sought to save, —

And yet my glance, too much oppres’d,

Had almost need of such a rest.

XIV

It might be months, or years, or days,

I kept no count, I took no note

I had no hope my eyes to raise,

And clear them of their dreary mote;

At she came to set me free;

I ask’d not why, and reck’d not where;

It was at length the same to me,

Fetter’d or fetterless to be,

I learn’d to love despair.

And thus when she appear’d at last,

And all my bonds aside were cast,

These heavy walls to me had grown

A hermitage — and all my own !

And half I felt as she had come

To tear me from a second home:

With falseness I had friendship made,

And watch’d it in its sullen trade,

Had seen the imbibers by moonlight play,

And why should I feel less than they?

We were all inmates of one place,

And I, the monarch of each race,

Had power to love — yet strange to tell !

In quiet I had learn’d to dwell;

My very chains and I grew friends,

So much a long communion tends

To make us what we are; — even I

Regain’d my freedom with a sigh.

 

 

 There was a very intelligent man who had a very inferior habit; he was an inebriate. He wrote his story in the Atlantic Monthly of 1869. This story (other than the introduction) is all in his own words.

Click on his temporary home below in order to start the story. You will have to use the

button to move from the beginning to the end.

The Inebriate Asylum

© wtomosky

Braggadocio

Today I am going to brag a little (because up to this point I did not have much to brag about).

Amazon notified me that out of their hundreds of thousands of authors I rank 7,111  in the HORROR catagory.

I have to thank my “Adirondacks Screaming” book for that.

My other books are not horror. Each one has a description attached and you can read several of the first pages of each book for free.

Overall, for thrillers, I rank 21,200 (which I think probably isn’t too bad).

Here is a link to my author page:

http://www.amazon.com/Waldo-Tomosky/e/B004WJ6OOG/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

My deepest thanks to those of you who have purchased my books.

Oh yes, almost forgot. You can loan them to a friend’s E-reader after you purchase them.

Wally

AN OPEN LETTER TO SAN GERMAN

Tags

Aguacate, Avacado, Calle Victoria, Hotel Oasis, La Linea, La Parguera, LaCariba, Malanga, Pasteles, Pastelillos, Pirates, Porta Coeli, Puerto Rico, San German, The Caribbean, The Marketplace, Town Square

I met him 52 years ago

I married him 50 years ago

I met him again yesterday

And the day before that

And last week

And last year

 

 My sons drop in

But I cannot say their names

I am afraid I will mix them up

So I say nothing

I nod

And attempt a smile

Not convincingly

I am sure.

 

Do they know that I know?

Do they know how unhappy it makes me?

 

 

But not sad all the time

From my chair I

Sometimes visit San German

I see my Momi and Popi

I see my friends.

 

There is Sally and Fredi

Wanda and Margarita

Sally’s brother Poppy

Don’t forget Tonita!

 

There are others

I forget their names

We all belonged to “Club Indio”

The club met on Sally’s front steps

Or Somewhere on Calle Victoria.

 

Later we had boyfriends

We walked on the town square

Past Porta Coeli

Up and down the “City of Hills”

 

In my mind I can see

InterAmerican University

The market place

Aguacate

Malanga

Mamacita buying banana leaf

For making pasteles

The food images come easily

Maybe because of the fragrances.

 

But now I am in my new country

My adopted country

My Spanish has gone

My English has followed

I am silent.

 

I am thirsty

I do not remember my water glass

Maybe he will offer me some

He sometimes forgets

I always forget

We miss each other

While sitting together.

 

The TV keeps talking

I watch

It takes up my time

I don’t know what they say

He doesn’t listen to what they say

He has his computer

I think he loves it

More than me.

 

And so I visit San German

The “City of Hills”

That once was by  the Caribbean

and La Paguera

Where pirates raided

My ancestors moved San German

Over the mountains

Piece by piece

And built Porta Coeli

And San German

And its steep streets

And the square.

 

Then Hotel Oasis

Then La linea came

And the market place

The cementerio

Where Mamacita

Popi

Nicki

Louis

Julia

Felicita

And others

Now sleep.

 

It is not for me

I have a new place

In my new country

Where he and I will sleep together

Maybe I will remember his name

Maybe he will remember my water

Maybe we will travel once more

To San German.

 

That would make me happy

I could visit Sally and Margarita

I could visit my sisters

And brothers

All thirteen of them.

 

Maybe mamacita would comb my hair

And Popi would let me sit on his lap

To play with the hairs growing from his ears

And I would have my own pony again

And I could play with the children

Of the sugar cane workers

And walk on the steep streets of San German.

© Copyright – Waldo Tomosky

 

Fort Townsend, Port Townsend and the Native Americans

Tags

Becher Bay, British Columbia, Chimakum, Chinook, Duke of York, Fort Townsend, Harpers New Monthly Magazine, Hoh, Indian School, Klallam, Nanaimo, Nanaing, Port Townsend, Puget Sound, Queen Victoria, Quilcene, Salish Sea, Salmon Fishing, Seattle, Twana, Vancouver Island, Victoria, Washington Territory

 

Questions That I Ask Myself Since Becoming A Housewife

Tags

Ants, centapedes, Clothes Dryer, Dishwashers, Dog Urine, Dust, Honey Do List, leaf blower, Mice, Mice traps, Naughty Channel on Cable, Patricide, shirts, Socks, Southern Comfort Manhattans, Spiders, Vacuum Cleaner Bags, wriggly things

Questions that I ask (and answer for) myself since I have become a housewife.

by Waldo Tomosky on Monday, August 15, 2011 at 11:36am

Why am I always short one sock, and one sock only, when I take clothes out of the dryer?

Why does the sponge in the sink smell worse than my socks?

Who turned off the dishwasher before it had completed its job?

Why did I unload said dishwasher and put away dirty dishes?

Which ones were the dirty ones and which ones were clean?

Should I resolve never to rinse the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher so that I know which ones are the dirty ones?

Is there a reason why towels should be folded before putting them in the linen closet?

If I can’t see where the dog peed then nobody else is going to either.

What is that ungodly smell in the living room?

How the hell do you wash sneakers without them coming out looking like giant marshmallows?

Is it really wrong to have a Manhattan at 2 PM in the afternoon?

And then another at 4 PM?

Would “Two and a Half Men” be as funny if I was a woman in a woman’s body?

Why didn’t someone tell me there is supposed to be a bag in the vacuum cleaner?

And then another at 8 PM?

Tidy bowl does not work well on salad bowls. Who came up with that product?

You’re supposed to clean the curtains? Why, then, do the windows open?

Why do the ladies in the neighborhood point at me, giggle, and then look away when I wave to them?

How do you keep wall hanging floral wreaths clean? I’ve already destroyed two in the washing machine.

Why are there little smelly bars of soap in every drawer and linen shelf that I look into?

Who invented those little black box mouse traps? You can’t see the blood running out of the little bastard’s ears when you catch them.

I like the spring loaded wood and wire traps that SNAP when they work. Sometimes you can even hear a little squeak immediately after the SNAP. (I know that the last statement was not a question. I just had to tell you what gives me a tingle.)

Who is the SOB that keeps on putting those wriggly little mosquito larvae in my outside water fountain?

Why can’t I simply open the windows and use my leaf blower to dust the house?

Who put the unknown code on the cable to lock out the naughty channels?

And another at 10PM?

What happened to my new shirt? I put Clorox, Oxy-clean, Ammonia and Super Soap in the washing machine and the shirt still came out with holes in it.

Just because I know how to use a hammer, screw driver and saw doesn’t mean I have to fix everything – – – – – does it?

Which brings me to a very philosophical question: Why should I be forced to compile my own “Honey Do” list? That just is not right on several levels.

Can I cross off things on the “Honey Do” list even if they are only 70% complete? Take the lawn for example. I mowed 70% of it last week. I really really plan to do the other 30% sometime soon.

Where are all these spiders coming from?

And ants?

And those little things with all those legs?

Vermin-cide? What is that? I have heard of Patricide (even been promised a can of it) but never vermin-cide.

Why does this dog want to go outside all the time?

Why isn’t there a book on all this stuff?

When I talk to myself this afternoon (after the 2 Manhattans) should I wish myself a “Happy Fathers Day?”

Yours truly,

Waldorfia

© Copyright – Waldo Tomosky