Sunday, August 28, 2011

A perfect shot, a perfect novel, a perfect kiss

A few times in recent weeks, I have mentioned this thought: One man's fantasy is another man's reality. The same concept can be applied in any number of directions, such as: One man's idea of perfection is another man's idea of failure. I do think there is such a thing as perfection, but it is fleeting, just as our lives are fleeting. The definition is filled with variables. Winslow Homer was a Nineteenth Century American illustrator, painter and printmaker. This is his work, "The Sharpshooter on Picket Duty," done in 1862 and showing a Civil War soldier perched in a tree taking aim downfield. Perhaps, it is a perfect painting, depending upon the criteria used to measure it and what variables it reveals in the mind of someone looking at it.

So, you think nothing is perfect?

There are a number of reasons James Dickey has been among my favorite writers for a number of years, and I have posted about him and his fabulous novel, "Deliverance," more than once in the past.

The first piece I read of his was the utterly frightening and fantastic poem, "Falling," in which he describes the thoughts and actions of a stewardess who has fallen from an aircraft and is descending to certain death upon her impact with the earth. I was in graduate school at the time I read it, and had a number of jumps under my belt by that time. Each had involved a device known as a parachute, something not available to the unfortunate stewardess.

Having read and discussed that poem in class created a fear (well, just a little) that persisted powerfully until my next jump and was significantly greater than any fear I had known on any previous jump, including the very first. But, I was barely eighteen on my first, and men that age usually have no fear. (Age and experience give birth to fear.) Just to make things a bit more "poetic" and as a means to conquer fear, I actually read some of the lines from Dickey's "Falling" on that next jump.

But, I am drifting again, in a manner of speaking. Like who cares, hah?

Back to the here and now.

As a (former) hunter, among the elements that appeal to me instinctually in "Deliverance" is Dickey's concept of the Zen in archery. This is to say that the archer travels with, rides with, becomes a part of the arrow as it flies toward the target and, more significantly, upon impact with the target.

I had been an archer and a bow hunter since I was a boy, and Dickey's thought was new to my experience at the time. It expanded my entire perception of hunting and, to put it bluntly, of killing. Not only that, but I expanded my range of thought from Dickey's archery to firearms and the flight of a bullet from the weapon to the target.

No, we are not going there.

My whirling and swirling mind connected these thoughts (abstract dots) with a song sent to me a few nights ago. It was "Nichts ist vollkommen" or, in English, "Nothing is Perfect," from and by Romanian Michael Cretu and Austrian Peter Cornelius, whose musical careers include association with Enigma.

Yes, there is perfection in many things and in many ways, my mind countered as it immediately entered into argumentative mode while listening to the song. I have made a few perfect shots (firearms, not camera) in my life -- once with a handgun at more than a half-mile and once with a rifle at a touch and a breath beyond a mile. (Into the "great beyond," one might say, with a laugh on his lips.)

Of course, this depends entirely on the definition of "perfect." In my illustration, if, at one hundred yards, I placed a rifle bullet into a target the size of an American half-dollar, is that not a perfect shot? But, some would counter, if the target had been considerably smaller -- say the size of an American dime rather than a half-dollar -- and the round was off just enough so it would have missed a dime by the width of a hair while still striking the half-dollar, would the shot still have been perfect?

Although that argument is not silly and worth putting forward, is perfection the difference between a half-dollar and a dime when the target was a half-dollar and not a dime? Once again, define perfect. Is not perfection accomplishing the intended goal in the prescribed manner?

Here, we will depart from Dickey and his Zen of the arrow and mine of the bullet. Maybe, we will discuss it and its ramifications another time. Probably, never -- at least never here. Maybe, in a novel.

In my own opinion, I also have experienced perfection once or twice or three times in stories I wrote as a reporter. They were well written, were factually accurate, with all details and elements covered and had no grammatical or typographical errors. Might someone else have written them better? Could be, but I do not think so. Written them differently and equally effectively, sure, but better? No.

Wandering back to James Dickey for a moment, while his personal life was most imperfect, I think a case could be made that "Deliverance" is a perfect novel. The subject matter puts it into a category which probably does not appeal to a vast audience, but, from my point of view, Dickey captures the "thin veneer of civilization" concept in a most definitive way and lays bare the essence of (or the lack thereof) archetypal, primeval man.

I prefer to think that perfection is like happiness. It comes and it goes. It is momentary. It can and does exist now and then, here and there, once in a while -- then it is gone again.

Do not believe what I have written here, if you so wish. But, I do believe there is such a thing as a perfect shot from a handgun, a perfect story by a writer, a perfect photograph by a man or a woman with a camera, a perfect painting by an artist -- and, most importantly, a perfect kiss emanating between a man and a woman. Who would dare to argue against the last?

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Time to let slip the wolf

Either in 1953 or 1954, depending upon which source one utilizes, John Huston directed and, along with Truman Capote, did the screenwriting for a motion picture entitled, "Beat the Devil." Gina Lollobrigida portrayed Maria Dannreuther, Humphrey Bogart was Billy Dannreuther and Jennifer Jones played Mrs. Gwendolen Chelm as the lead roles. I watched the film a few nights ago for the first time, and fell in love with the story -- a comedy and a parody -- and the characters. I wish I could meet such people in real life -- and, in the meanwhile, find a few more films as special as this one to escape the bonds of reality for a few days.

Julius O'Hara (Peter Lorre) in the film, "Beat the Devil:"

"Time. Time. What is time? Swiss manufacture it. French hoard it. Italians squander it. Americans say it is money. Hindus say it does not exist. Do you know what I say? I say time is a crook."

A tale with two purposes

I am not here writing this. What I mean is, White Bear is typing this as he takes dictation from me via cell phone. Obviously, I have no idea if he will publish what I say or, sneaky fellow that he is, he might publish whatever happens to be on his mind at the moment.

I wrote the following to a friend a few days ago: "I stumbled into a film, 'Beat the Devil,' a comedy. I usually do not go for comedies, but I love this one. (It was) Made in 1954 with Humphrey Bogart, Gina Lollobrigida, Jennifer Jones, Peter Lorre, Robert Morley and others."

The story centers around four crooks/con men, their accomplices and people they meet on their way to Africa from Italy, supposedly to sell vacuum cleaners, but actually to swindle the owners of uranium-rich land. I fell out of my chair watching the antics of Ivor Barnard as Major Jack Ross and Mario Perrone as the purser on the SS Nyanga. (It was) Written by John Huston and Truman Capote. I feel like the characters are all people I personally know. The film was sort of designed to be a spoof on the ever-famous, 'The Maltese Falcon'."

Capote was relatively young and relatively unknown when he was asked to drop everything and fly in to the Italian countryside to work on the script on a day-to-shoot basis. One story has it that he would speak to his pet Raven every day on the telephone. One time, the Raven refused to reply to Capote's voice on the telephone, so Capote hopped onto an aircraft and flew to Rome where the Raven was boarded in a hotel so he could visit the bird. Yeh, my kind of people.

Apparently, the film has become a cult classic. I can understand why. It is absolutely marvelous. I enjoyed it so much that I ordered a copy, which is rare for me. I really recommend it to anyone who needs a bit of real, old-fashioned, genuine comedy in his/her life.

But, the primary purpose of this brief post is to say that I have been on the road a few days and, before the journey even had ended, I encountered a personal situation which has demanded my time and my attention. More importantly, it was a mood changer, a destroyer of my patience and a forecaster of the end of the particular trail I happen to be on at the moment. My emotions right now are ranging from anger to depression to frustration to a bit of confusion. I need a few days to read novels, to watch films, to escape long enough for my mind to push aside the fog.

So, please pardon me if I ignore you for a couple of days and fail to comment at any of your blogs until I slip the knots which bind me.

Petersen (Robert Morley) in the film, "Beat the Devil:"

"You mean Mrs. Chelm is an unqualified liar?"
Billy Dannreuther (Humphrey Bogart):

"Well, let's say she uses her imagination rather than her memory."

(For the record, I fell instantly in love with Mrs. Chelm and her imagination. What man would not?)

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Those who live near an ocean or a sea sometimes think they have a monopoly on visions of huge waves crashing into shorelines and whatever else happens to be in their way. This photograph, taken by a Lake Superior aficionado, demonstrates the power not uncommon on the greatest of the Great Lakes. Waves ranging to twenty-five feet are not unknown, especially during the gales of November. Beautiful and deadly. Reminds me of some .... never mind ....

I am very flattered, but ....

A few years ago while I was working as the editor of a newspaper, a young lady asked me if I would meet her after work for a drink. She said she had some business to discuss with me.

It seemed natural. She was a professional person who held an important position with county government, and frequently had stories she wished to appear in the newspaper. I always had thought of her as a quintessential career woman. She was, in fact, a friend as well, although not close. We "hung" with the same crowd, and whenever newspaper reporters, photographers and editors congregated at a local saloon, invariably she was among us. So, we met to discuss her business.

After about the third drink, Judy (her actual name) did get down to business. She was unmarried and in her late thirties. She was watching the clock run out on her in several ways. She wanted a child, and she wanted me to be the father. At first, I thought she was joking. After a fourth drink -- or, maybe, the fifth -- I realized she was absolutely serious.

There would be no legal ramifications, she explained. We could draw up a contract with an attorney to ensure I would bear no familial or financial obligations. Other than the two of us and the attorney, no one would ever know.

Did I mention that she was very attractive?

She explained all the reasons why she had selected me from among the men she knew. You can believe I was very much flattered and very much tempted. You can also believe I thought about it very seriously for a few days.

Eventually, I said no. I was married then, and felt I could not enter into such an agreement for that reason. Neither did I think I would be able to watch a child grow up from afar with no contact.

About three years later, Judy adopted a little girl as a single parent.

For me, it was one of the roads not traveled. Judy and I still write to each other and talk on the telephone at times. She is one of the few people I would do literally anything for, simply because once upon a time she made me feel like the most important man in her world.

Beyond that, possibly after reading this piece you have a greater sense of knowing why I admit that I do not understand women.

The way of all men ??

I read somewhere that many men, sometime in their forties when fifty is near, abruptly realize all they have at that very moment is all there really is to life. This is it. No city of gold, no magic girl, no paradise -- earthly or otherwise -- awaiting them. So, they get a divorce, buy a convertible sports car and find a girlfriend twenty years younger than themselves as their consolation prize to life.

Well, I started doing that when I was about twenty-five. Possibly, I  merely was precocious. (Yes, I am teasing .... sort of ....) Whatever .... I am still doing it, over and over again. Maybe, the only difference between me and the others is that I cannot accept the notion that this is all there is, and I continue to search. The greatest mystery of life is why we, each of us as an individual, think as we think, believe as we believe and do as we do.

The creation of beauty

Since I was a college boy, my definition of art always has been: Art is the creation of beauty. Subjective it might be; narrow it might be, but do I care? One guess.

For reasons I would not explain even if I could, this also more-or-less is my definition of the perfect woman: A person whose purpose in life is the creation of beauty. Sometimes it is a child, sometimes it is something visual, sometimes it is in the form of sound. You get my drift.

A beautiful face is a beautiful face, no doubt. But, that is an accident of birth and has nothing to do with who or what a person really is -- as are many of the attributes we individually possess.

When I look at a woman (or for a woman), I look for one who strives to create beauty. Chauvinistic as it may sound, this I do believe is the role of a woman on planet Earth. As I pointed out somewhere or other a few days ago, both of my former wives were rather accomplished artists, primarily as painters in oils and watercolors.

This is why two variations of one of the most beautiful compositions on planet Earth are posted here. I have used the song -- Johann Pachelbel's Canon in D -- before on my page, including the first variation here now. I put the first up again because it is mostly women performing it -- creating beauty -- which, in turn, makes them oh so beautiful and perfect to me. I used the second piece because the photographs accompanying it add to the melancholy of my moment.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Some came running

Since I am not much of a photographer but like to include an illustration with each post if I can come up with something, today we return with a bit of history to accompany another view of the one and only White Bear. I am sure you can easily identify him, but unless you frequented these pages in 2009, you probably have not seen Fram Teddy Bear, pictured here on White Bear's right. This photo was taken about this time of the year when Fram Teddy and I ventured to Lake Superior on a brief excursion. Fram Teddy ran off to Europe in August 2009, and he likes it so much he has never returned. Of course, he does have a girlfriend there.

An hour ago,
the ending of this
post was very different ....

I watched a film on television a few days ago. The name was, "Some Came Running." It was based on a novel by James Jones, whose name I immediately recognized. He was one of the finest novelists of his generation, in the minds of many. Frank Sinatra, whose name I also immediately recognized, had the lead role. He was among the best singers and actors of his generation, in the minds of many. Shirley MacLaine and Dean Martin also had prominent roles. The film was made in 1958, and is considered a bit of a masterpiece today. It was nominated for five Academy Awards. These things I did not know before doing a bit of research.

It is the story of an aspiring, non-conformist writer who returns to his home town after World War II, the two women in his life and the one he eventually chooses. There also are more twists in the story: Conflict between brothers and small-town morality, for instance. In the book, Prince Charming dies at the end. In the film, Cinderella dies at the end. It is what takes place among the characters between the homecoming and the shoot-'em-up ending that is fascinating. (I do not believe I have used that word -- fascinating -- for a long while.)

With the discussion about fantasy, reality, ideals and other esoteric elements surrounding life and living which have taken place on this page recently, I tried to place in context my thoughts with "reality" as depicted in the film.

Siding sideways for a moment, to be honest I have been more interested in European women than in American women the past few years. In theory, anyone who knows me would understand this. Since theory frequently escapes immediate notice, I will elaborate. In the sense of women, period, I have given up on trying to understand them. But, in the sense of curiosity and learning about varied cultures and societies, period, American women have nothing left to offer me. On the other hand, European women, who have grown up, been educated and lived their lives in a setting alien to my experience have so very, very much to teach me in terms of pure knowledge. Not very complicated, actually, but sometimes the obvious is not always obvious to those who are not hunters or professional observers.

It finally dawned on me that in the cocktail of life, there are too many possible ingredients to mix the perfect drink (potion) to suit the taste of everyone. With that determined, I have now concluded that it is better to find love than it is to discover intellectual compatibility. I might be wrong, but, who cares? It will not be the first time. Such is life.

If you do not understand where I am going with this, I would suggest you find the novel or the film, "Some Came Running," and the conclusion to this post should become plain as day. The only difference is that my story has both Prince Charming and Cinderella living happily ever after.

Are we returning to fantasy, reality, ideals and other esoteric elements surrounding life and living? I guess. But, this time the tale might be about two people whose searches have come to a satisfactory conclusion, rather than about a lone individual who seeks a Holy Grail when, in actuality, he knows it (she) does not exist. At least a million years of existence have proven that.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

View from the patio

To sit outdoors throughout a day is very different than to sit indoors. Even if you catch glimpses of the same sights, feeling the heat of the sun and breathing the scent of flowers or freshly cut grass carried along on a soothing, gentle breeze creates a world that can never be duplicated within the four walls of a building. With a break in the heat and the humidity, this is what I saw in a continuous stream during my afternoon hours. Thousands of people, coming and going .... coming from where, going to where?

What if I were to tell you ....

What if I were to tell you that I am not real?

What if I were to tell you that I am an eighty-year-old grandmother of seven?

What if I were to tell you I am a seventeen-year-old boy who lives in Canada?

What if I were to tell you I am an alien who was stranded on Earth when my spacecraft crashed into Lake Superior?

What if I were to tell you I am Fram the First, who lived a thousand years ago and cannot escape this realm of mortals because of a curse placed upon me by Skuld, who was both a Norn and a Valkyrie?

What if I were to tell you I am a prison inmate sentenced to life behind bars without the possibility of parole? (That one made your heart skip a beat, did it not?)

What if I were to tell you I am White Bear and Fram is a figment of my imagination?

What if I were to tell you I am your next door neighbor and I am standing out in my yard waving to you right now?

What if I were to tell you everything you have read about me in my posts is a true and honest depiction of the man I believe myself to be? Take it (me) or leave it (me), this is me.

So, which of these segments do you believe .... or do you believe something else entirely? Maybe, my name actually is Dr. Victor Frankenstein and .... well, let us move on to an entirely different topic.

Someone wrote this to me today:

Maybe I don't even exist, maybe , in a mysterious way
I have already vanished...
It is a virtual space, a place where our personalities
are defined only by the words we say...
We are words...
This internet thing helps us hiding behind
words showing whatever we think we are.
The image you project in your mind about me
maybe it's what you want me to be.
This imaginary world is complicated.
We are only words, mixed with our inner feelings, expectations
a lot of wishes and with our great, never-ending, secret Dream.

Wonderful words, thoughts beautifully expressed, are they not? I am jealous.

My reply was a remark to this effect: "You are more than words because it is your nature to express yourself through art, and art cannot vanish, therefore, you cannot vanish."

As for me, I said to the writer of the note: "I am invisible because I do leave only words which can be erased. Add to that, I have no great, never-ending, secret Dream. Instead, I have an emptiness inside of me. I wander aimlessly, hoping to find a place/person to fill it."

And, this is true. This is reality, and I think there really is nothing to do about it other than to continue wandering -- even if it goes on forever.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

The Ghost & The Sunrise

This is not the sandy shoreline and the sun-filled, cloudless sky I write about today, but this is The Lake and these rocks actually are only a few miles from that beach on which I slept. This place is called the Black Rocks, and I have "danced" with my canoe many times amongst them. And, this is The Lake to me. It was Lac de Superior or Nadouessious to the early French explorers --  the superior lake or the lake of the Sioux. This is where many places appear the same now as they did ten thousand years ago, when the last glaciers disappeared into clear, cold, blue water. This is where one version of Neverland exists, from my rather narrow point of view. 

I am nervous, so I write

Like many disenchanted humans before me, and, undoubtedly, many after me, upon the dissolution of a relationship, I once opted to secure a pet to console me. My choice was a young, female German Shepherd.

Things went well for about a year, but the time eventually came when I was on the road and could not be accompanied by a German Shepherd. I left her with my parents. I have felt guilty about doing this ever since, although I knew then and believe yet today that her life was much better with them than it would have been with me. In short, she lived her life as a princess, with everything in the world required to keep her happy and healthy.

A few nights ago, I awoke in the proverbial middle of the night, opened my eyes and saw what might have been a wolf, but, what I immediately knew was my German Shepherd sitting next to where I slept. Her face was a foot or, possibly, eighteen inches from my own. It was dark, so there were no distinct features. She was, in fact, black. It was the shape of her head and her ears that made her instantly recognizable to me. She startled me. My heart, I think, skipped a beat. She was there for a few seconds, then faded away over the span of a few more seconds.

When I told a friend about this occurence, I said I was uncertain if the apparition I saw was a wolf or a dog. But, I knew, and had known from the very first glimpse of her. It was Argos, the German Shepherd who was mine for a year and then left behind by me.

This friend, a young lady who is both intelligent and knowledgeable about such matters, told me the spirit of Argos was there because she wished to communicate with me. I would like to think she was there to thank me for having ensured that she had a good life. But, I worry, because having a good life is not always the same as having the life you desire.

There is more to this story than I am telling, but who among us reveals everything?

The most perfect morning

Once upon a time, in a place that served me as Neverland for a few years, I drove my truck along a winding, logging road through deep and dark woodlands to the shore of Lake Superior. I knew the path, and traveled it often, but usually not in the darkness of midnight as was the case this time.

Near the shoreline, I parked, took cigarettes, lighter, a quart of brandy and my sleeping bag, and with them walked along the beach until I found a suitable place to pitch camp. Beneath a clear and starry sky, maybe fifteen feet from the shoreline where foot-high waves gently rolled and rocked and crashed, I began digging down in the sand. The deeper I dug, the warmer the sand became. A foot beneath the surface, the sand was still actually hot from absorbing the rays of the sun throughout the day. (See, you learned something today.)

I dug a place large enough to fit my entire body. It was the perfect bed -- soft, warm sand contoured to my body. I lay down within it, covered myself with my sleeping bag, lit a cigarette, opened the quart of brandy and stared at the twinkling stars in a pitch black sky. I watched a full moon begin to rise over the waters of The Lake. A mile, possibly two, offshore, I saw an iron ore carrier slide slowly across a glistening beam of light which led directly from the moon to me.

Somewhere along the line, I fell asleep.

The sun woke me.

It was the heat of the sun shining on my face as it rose up over The Lake that woke me. I lit a cigarette, uncorked the brandy and watched the sunrise. A few minutes later, I got up, walked back to my truck and pushed this song into the tape player. With all six speakers in the truck blasting to heights unimagined, I sat down with another cigarette in one hand and the bottle of brandy in my other hand, and listened to the words of this song while looking out over the most beautiful body in the world -- the living body of Lake Superior.

The golden sun and the throbbing music and the pure, blue sky joined with The Lake to form what might have been the most perfect morning in my life. I never have been able to duplicate those few moments I experienced that morning -- moments of absolute contentment blended with complete exhilaration from the sensations of being alive -- but, I continue to try.


Sunrise, and the new day's breakin' through

The morning of another day without you
And as the hours roll by
No-one's there to see me cry
Except the sunrise...
The sunrise and you.

Tired eyes drift across the shore
Looking for love and nothing more
But as the sea rolls by
No-one's there to see me cry
Except the sunrise...
The sunrise and you.

Sunrise, - bless my eyes,
Catch my soul - make me whole
- Again.

Sunrise, new day, hear my song
I am tired of fightin' and foolin' around
But from now till who knows when
My sword will be my pen
And I'll love you, love you
For all of my time.

Sunrise, - bless my eyes
Catch my soul and make me whole
- Again.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Katharine Mari, Bloody Marys & Marzyciel

How much has America changed in the last blink of a cosmic eye? Well, all right, let us define a blink as the past one hundred years. How much has the world changed? Take a look at the people walking down a city street, in school, at church, shopping in the mall. Do any of them look like the pair in this post card? Not just the clothing, but the faces, the expressions. Post cards record visual history in the form of photographs and illustrations, and offer folk art in the sense of portraying us as we once were. I wonder, should these two children be transported to today's America, would they like it or would they choose to return to their own way of life as it existed in 1914. Yes, I wonder.

There once was a young lady who did it twice

A number of years ago, a young lady told me she believed in a theory she called "The Do It Twice Principle." She did not apply it to everything, obviously, but to certain activities she experienced for the first time. It began, she explained, the first time she went off the high board at a swimming pool. She was not sure in her mind if the experience was good or bad, so she waited a few minutes and did it again, but this time trying to sense ever moment of the experience rather than simply "doing it and being petrified," as she described her first leap.

This way, she continued, she could decide more objectively if an experience was worth repeating. In the particular "experience" I was engaged in with her, she was applying her concept to men she dated. In case you are at all interested, she declared her experience with me to be a worthwhile endeavor after our two encounters, and we dated exclusively over the next few months. Eventually, I moved on and she chose to stay in her "home town," close to family, friends and the world as she knew it. Actually, this has happened to me a few times. I move; she does not.

I often have wondered why this particular girl chose not to move at least once, if not twice, so she would have had the opportunity to decide whether it might be a worthwhile experiment. I guess I was not inspirational enough .... or, whatever ....

So, with a flickering memory of Kati Mari, I will utilize her "do it twice" concept to publish a second post card. This one is dated 1914, which would place its origin to the Christmas of nearly ninety seven years ago. I like the number ninety-seven for a variety of reasons, none of which I care to mention today. I will say once again, though, that in my mind the last decades of the Nineteenth Century and the first years of the Twentieth Century -- up to about the time of the first shots of World War I -- comprise the Golden Age of America.

If you will, please, think of this post card as an early 2011 Christmas greeting from me to you. Who knows? I may have journeyed to Neverland by December.

My kingdom for a genuine Bloody Mary

Once upon a time, James Bond (Ian Fleming) had his famous gin and vodka (yes, both, together) Martini "with a large, thin slice of lemon peel," and Ernest Hemingway had his white rum Daiquiri at the El Floridita Bar in Havana, Cuba.

When I go out for a nice meal in a nice establishment with a nice friend, I invariably order a Bloody Mary or two before the meal. Sadly, I have discovered even the classiest joints no longer employ bartenders who know what they are doing, and who would be better suited for employment in a Saturday night beer saloon than in a classy joint.

Everyone, it seems, uses a premixed, factory-bottled, Bloody Mary cocktail of "gooygook" when making the drink these days, rather than prepare their own unique mix of ingredients from scratch. In a word, "yuk." No, it is worse than that, so, "yuk" times two over and over again.

Oh, for a return to the world of bartenders as they existed in the days of Bond and Hemingway.

Our private domain is Neverland

For today's music, White Bear has selected some of Polish composer Jan Kaczmarek's scores from the film, "Finding Neverland." Although a devotee of the American Western film genre, White Bear admits this is his favorite motion picture and music.

For the first ten or twelve nights after arriving in Poland, while staying at The Duval and before moving into an apartment overlooking Castle Square, White Bear kept this music playing all night most nights. That was fine with me. It was a great and memorable experience.

By the way, in case you are not aware: Marzyciel = daydreamer.

Monday, August 1, 2011

And I never was nor ever will be

This post card fascinates me, entrances me, captivates me. It was only a century and a few months late in arriving. On its back, in pencil, these words are written:

"With best wishes from your loving father in the year 1911."

Voices call to me from the past. Echoes from a thousand years ago still drift on the wind for me to hear. Written words from a century ago mysteriously find their way into my hands, somehow arrive and are visible before my eyes. "Do you remember me?" they demand, they beg, they simply wonder. Yes, I think I do. Yes, I really believe that I do. There is no time behind me or beyond me. I am time. All right. Enough jabbering. With apologies to Lord Krishna, or to whomever wrote the Bhagavad Gita, for being the dialectic opposite of your thought:

My apologies .... well, maybe .... sort of ....

What is time?
Where is time?
Who is time?
I have all the time in the world;
Nay, all the time in the universe,
For time is but an instant and,
Yet, an eternity.

My life is both
An instant,
An eternity,
Yet, it is neither, for my life is
But a dream,
And I never was nor ever will be,
For I am time, only a wisp of 
Imagined memory beyond tomorrow.

Something special ....