October, seen from a hilltop meadow

This may or may not be the World Tree, "Yggdrasil," from which in Old Norse mythology Odin hung for nine days and nine nights as the price demanded of him to gain wisdom to be all-powerful in the nine worlds. I rather doubt it, but there seemed to be something mystical about this lone tree as it watched the October sun set in the distance. Perhaps, the tree wished to follow the sun. Perhaps, since I no longer have roots, perhaps, I will.

T.S. and I have a difference of opinion

In a segment entitled, "The Burial of the Dead," poet T.S. Eliot opens his indisputably most famous work, "The Waste Land," with these lines:

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

That, friends, Romans and countrymen, unlike the drivel put out the past decade or two or three, by blank verse, free verse, open verse and/or no verse poets is an example of real, actual, genuine poetry.

But, just for the sake of argument, I vote for October or January as the cruelest month. (We shall leave any arguments regarding actual poetry for another time.) Both these months have foreshadowed sledge-hammer hard blows to my psyche. Each year, I hold my breath waiting for each October to pass. Some years, they are (thankfully) uneventful. Some years, they slam me in their opening moments. Other years, they ambush me at the last possible second.

So, you ask me, how can a month (October for now; we will wait on January) with such beautiful colors and such stunning sunsets be cruel?

To which, I respond: Why, or how, so often is that which is beautiful also cruel?

Oh, hell. Who cares? Time to lighten up.

Well, once upon a time they were boys

A few days ago, I posted the Thin Lizzy version of the song, "Whiskey in the Jar." I am not certain many, if any, actually listened to the song here and, if they did, realized that the men on stage were only some of the surviving members of this Irish hard rock band. Absent from the group was Phil Lynott, one of the founding members and the lead vocalist, who between liquor and drugs finished himself off at age thirty six.

I hate to shatter the image you must have of me. I mean the image of a mild-mannered, ivory-tower, conservative, old-school, polite, somewhat pedantic gentleman. But, I think that at this point in time, I must be in the mood for a wild night with a wild woman in a wild bar.

October, as I have mentioned, traditionally is a harsh month for me and I am holding my breath and hiding in the shadows as it passes by me this year. I need to cut loose. So, with a night at Dino's bar and grill foremost in my mind, here again is Thin Lizzy, here again minus Lynott, this time performing what is considered the band's only "major hit" song -- "The Boys are Back in Town."

Some lines
from the Thin Lizzy song
"The Boys are Back in Town"

Spread the word around
Guess who's back in town

You spread the word around

Friday night they'll be dressed to kill
Down at Dino's bar and grill
The drink will flow and blood will spill
And if the boys want to fight, you'd better let them

The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town