The patience of readers; winners$ & losers$

A homemade illustration just for the fun of it: I turned around, and what did I see, but these things on a bookshelf waiting to remind me that summer approaches, nothing can stop it, and only I can prevent me from making this summer forever a part of my life. Keep the sights on the target and squeeze the trigger.

Thank you, for your patience, those who read ....

A few people are being very patient with me. Sometimes what I write is overly serious, more-or-less brooding. Sometime what I write is more-or-less goofy. Long live Fram the First. Right now, I am eating crackers, salsa dip, Swiss cheese and dill pickles, drinking apple juice and trying to type. Pretty interesting material to read. Right?

What I am saying is that a few people actually are being nice and putting up with me. Fewer still, but some, actually are taking time to write comments about my stuff. It amazes me. Thank you.

When working for a newspaper, a reporter knows the circulation numbers but, most of the time, never knows how many people actually read the articles he writes. I remember an occasion when a man came up to me, said he knew the editor was out ill, and asked me who was writing the editorials. Immediately going into defensive mode, I braced myself and said, "I am." He looked at me with genuine amazement and said. "My god, I've met a philosopher. You're a philosopher. You know that, don't you?" He made my day. On another occasion, a man simply told me he enjoyed reading my book reviews; on another, a county bought some land to turn into a public park, initiated because of articles I had written about canoeing and camping there. Another time, a state agency that cost the taxpayers about a million a year was shut down due to articles I had written about waste and corruption. Sometimes you know you had an effect.

Having completed this circle, I want to return to Day 1. What I really am hoping for here is that the right person is reading what I write, or that I will drift onto a site where I encounter the right person producing her own page.

Ernest Hemingway once was my favorite writer. He probably remains among the top five on my list. Hemingway said, "Things either happen or they don't." Whatever impressions of Hemingway remain in me, those words have become an absolute part of me. It is sort of like U2, and "with or without you," and most of us learn to accept that.

I think I am growing. In the least, I know I am changing. I think I am becoming more a citizen of the world and less of a nationalist -- although I curse anyone who tries to take my guns or my books away. I believe there are principles that override daily life and comforts. I think, with the exception of some medieval cathedrals, nothing man-made surpasses the beauty of nature. The call of a wolf is majestic; the sound of a motorcycle is junk noise. I envy people who have religion, and abhor those who would try to do away with it, which is one reason I am disgusted with the current state of affairs in the U.S.

There I go, drifting again. What this amounts to is to say that I think life is an experiment, whether created by a universal god or by accident, I have never known and probably never will. I have reached a point in my life where it is more important to know rivers and ruins than it is to know mayors and their cronies. Thieves have more to fear from me than I have from them; all they have to do is to stay on their own side of the street and they will be safe from me.

Those interested, please continue reading in days to come. As I said long ago (well, a few weeks ago, anyway), I am here to learn, which requires you to be writing, whether in reaction to me or to express your own thoughts. If anything further comes of it, so much the better. If not, the essence of old Ernie and I will drift along to another time and place, maybe on to Harry's Bar, while on the road to Greece.

Some make it, some lose it ....

It is fascinating how economic times hurt some and benefit others. I might be a beneficiary. My house is a 40-year old ranch style rambler (? I was informed ?). After talking with a pair of realtors, the suggestion is to ask a somewhat premium price for it based on its location, and to put it on a 60-day, first-of-the-month-notice, rental basis until there is a sale.

The house is a block away from an elementary school, around three or four blocks from a high school, a mile away from a major mall, two miles away from a hospital and on a quiet street. Someone with a bit of money is bound to come along. And, if not, this is a house that certainly would rent to a young family. The rental income would pay the taxes, pay the insurance and provide me with a few dollars. I could play it by ear whether or not to actually sell, should the opportunity arise.

When I had to depart Sanctuary/Refuge, the housing market was booming and I was able to make money. This was a couple of years ago, before the advent of socialism in America. Even with a more-or-less split of the money from the sale of Sanctuary/Refuge, I gained enough to pay cash for this house and to have money left over for play-time or save-time or whatever. I could say more, but not right now.

This is turning into Part 1 of Plan A.

Music Note: Listening to and sort of watching the Rolling Stones ....
Specifically, "Bridges to Babylon Tour '97-98" ....
The relevant lines from: "Gimme Shelter:"

I tell you love, sister, it's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
Kiss away, kiss away

Time for Odysseus, critical mass & turn signs

Another photograph by an unknown photographer, this time of the ruins of Troy in modern-day Turkey, across the Aegean Sea from Greece. The site is estimated to have been occupied from around 4000 BCE until it was devastated by the Greeks about 1200 BCE. Odysseus walked here, among the Greek army, at least according to Homer in his "Odyssey."

It is time ....

I think it is time for me.
Time for me to know,
Time to walk the paths of Odysseus,
Time to search for his presence,
Time to discover if he was real,
Time to meet his goddess of the flashing eyes,
Time to stand before his rosy-fingered dawn,
Time to watch Achilles die,
Time to witness Troy in flames,
Time to swim his wine dark sea,
Time to dance with his Calypso,
Time to blind his Cyclops,
Time to walk his Ithaca,
Time to greet his Telemachus,
Time to string his bow,
Time to kiss his Penelope,
Time to know if he was there,
Time to learn if the words were true.

There can be no tomorrow,
Until yesterday has been lived.

The invention of a natural-born critic ....

My journalistic responsibilities, once upon a time, included putting together a weekly outdoor page and a weekly arts and entertainment page. (That might actually be a conflict of interests.) Define an arts and entertainment critic. Are they born? Do they descend from a mountaintop? In this case, it was an English major who walked in through the door, had opinions on just about everything and said, “Sure, I'll do it.”

Having a broad background in literature through reading countless books in the course of obtaining a degree and simply because I enjoy doing it, there was a certain amount of logic for accepting this task. Most of the work was coordinating coverage by reporters and freelancers, but I did a certain amount of writing myself. I did book reviews, and expressed my viewpoint about a few plays and motion pictures. So far, so good. But, I also was a critic of music, art shows, photography displays and a few other events associated with arts and entertainment. That was a stretch. It involved reciting my approval or disapproval based on personal taste, without any real training to back up my verdicts.

So much criticism is just that -- personal opinion based on personal taste without credentials upon which to base it. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that, but I wonder how many people have given up on writing poetry or short stories, or painting or singing or playing an instrument, because they received no comments or only negative comments from people who had no real background to provide legitimate criticism.

Back at the newspaper: I think I at least tried to be fair and innovative. For example, there were occasions I would assign three writers to attend a play or a concert, and run their pieces side by side so as to present a multi-opinion review. Instead of two reporters arguing who would review a particular book (and get to keep it), I would stretch the budget to buy a second copy and run the reviews of both.

This came into my mind because I made a comment yesterday that, re-reading it later, sounded more like a critical analysis than a simple remark expressing pleasure. It was in regard to a particular post at another website. I suppose this might demonstrate why I win awards for writing editorials, but fall short at writing love letters. My initial reaction always is to charge, even at times when I should tread softly.

Regrets, no way; new exploration, yes ....

There has been brief discussion (mostly by me) about being able to go back in time and doing things differently. When I consider it, I am not thinking about regrets or mistakes I have made. I am wondering where I would be, what would I be doing and who would I be doing it with had I turned right at the last intersection instead of turning left.

My illustration is this: When I decide it is time to change jobs, I might send out 50 resumes, not to specific job openings, but to newspapers in geographic areas where I would like to live and to explore. I might get five or six interviews and be offered three or four jobs. One time, for instance, I had my choice between work in Arizona, Michigan and Nebraska. I took Michigan. If I were to return to that time period, whatever the method, I would choose one of the other locations simply to have new and different experiences.

I know everyone has had experiences like this: A young lady might have had to decide between Clint and Brad (or neither). She went for Clint. Had she the opportunity to relive this episode, would she choose Clint again or would she go with Brad to discover what her life would have been like if she made this selection? Forget about how life was with Clint; simply think of it as repeating history vs. creating new history.

Had I this option of reliving an episode of my life choosing between a pair of similarly matched young ladies, I would not choose the one I actually did the first time around. I would choose the other. Good times, bad times, mistakes, happiness, sadness, whatever, my choice would be to experience the new.

The more I think about it, the more I believe most people would stay with the known quantity even in this hypothetical experiment. Perhaps, that is why I have doubts about the existence of the proverbial "soul mate."

Music Note: Listening to Uriah Heep ....
Specifically, "Look at Yourself" ....
Some lines from: "July Morning:"

There I was on a July morning
Looking for love
With the strength
Of a new day dawning
And the beautiful sun

I was looking for love
In the strangest places
Wasn't a stone
That I left unturned
Must have tried more
Than a thousand faces
But not one was aware
Of the fire that burned

Dreams, Democrats, Greeks & Trojans ....

"…. he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret. — Be it so."

Lord Byron
Some lines from: "The Dream"

A dream ends; a building never does ....

Before I meander away from the notion of reincarnation and transmigration of souls, I want to touch on a thought residing just on the other side of that doorway: The implications of reoccurring dreams. Ever have one?

If I've ever read any material regarding reoccurring dreams, it has passed from my memory. But, I have experienced one, as well as another, shall we say, odd, sort of series of dreams.

The reoccurrent dream: When I was around 11 or 12, I began to have a dream that I was rolling and rolling on the ground while being shot at by a man in a military uniform. I could see him clearly, distinctly, his face, his weapon. I could see the landscape between the two of us, and behind him. I always woke as the rounds seemed about to catch up with me.

I had the dream probably once or twice a year for several years. Possibly, I had seen one too many "war movies" as a boy but, for whatever reason, I never had that dream again after my time with the Marine Corps.

The odd dream: I cannot count the number of times that I have had a variety of dreams that all take place in the same building. The building is an absolutely huge, log structure, in the style of a house, with three stories. But, the settings and the scenarios of the dreams differ vastly.

This building has been on "main street." I have been living on the second floor, while there has been a newspaper office on the first floor. People from both my past (some now dead) and my present, have been there working. We have discussed work and personal matters.

This building has been located in a bog and woodland area, such as one might see in northern Minnesota, where it was my residence. I was moving about on both the first and the second floors, preparing to defend myself against a "home invasion." The door was being battered. There was a woman also present. I knew her, but never saw her face, and now no longer recall who it might have been.

This building has been a hotel with a beach setting, and I have been a guest occupying the second floor, with the lobby being the first floor. Adjacent to the lobby is a bar (of course), where I have engaged in conversations with a number of people, some known to me in actual life, some not.

Those are a few of the "odd dreams" I recall. The building does not look like any I ever have seen, and never have I been to the third floor of the structure. The only elements always consistent in these dreams are the physical appearance of the building when looking at it from the outside, and inside on the second floor. Any dream interpreters out there?

No doubt, liberals rule the media ....

I spotted a newspaper poll yesterday in which readers were asked to pick the "best" president in the history of the U.S. The newspaper included three choices from among the four who are on Mount Rushmore: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. The other four presidents nominated by the newspaper to select from were all 20th Century Democrats, only two of whom even merit an ounce of objective consideration.

Even petty things such as that cause people to lose faith in journalistic integrity.

Missolonghi, Heraklion & where was that place?

Any recommendations for places to hang out in Greece? I'm really beginning to get my head turned in that direction for a "scout," a "recon," an "inspection tour" this summer. I do want to visit Missolonghi, where the poet Lord Byron died and which has a museum commemorating his one-time presence there, and Heraklion, the grave site of writer Nikos Kazantzakis. Other than that, I'm only thinking wind, water and sun. Such is my mantra.

Exit Trojans, enter Vikings ....

I'll stir Trojans and Vikings into my mix today. I recall reading a supposition a few years back that the "Old Trojans" became the "Old Vikings." Seriously. The article was published in "Archaeology" magazine. It offered evidence that after the destruction of Troy by the Greeks around 1200 BCE, the survivors from the region began a journey that lasted a few hundred years, migrating north and west.

Some stayed in what today is Germany. Others gradually continued on to modern-day Denmark, eventually going on into Sweden, and finally into Norway. Evidence cited was based on linguistics, religious patterns and a variety of other elements. Maybe my great-grandpa and great-grandma to the 100th power (please, do not check my math) witnessed the clash between Achilles and Hector. Where are your roots?

Music Note: Listening to Roy Orbison ....
Specifically, "The All-Time Greatest Hits" ....
(Dream Baby & In Dreams)

There is sarcasm and there is SARCASM ....

Ambrose Bierce in 1866. After the war, before the writing.

Spending an afternoon
with the master of the invective

There are days when I think sarcasm rules the contemporary world. Sarcasm, satire, cynicism, skepticism -- you get the picture. But then, I think of "Bitter Bierce," and I know everyone since him has been nothing more than a pretentious amateur.

The master of invective writing was Ambrose Bierce.

Here is a brief (and probably boring) biography: Bierce was born on June 24, 1842, in Horse Cave, Ohio. He was the 10th of 13 children. The primary influences in his early life were his father, his father's library and an uncle, General Lucius Bierce. He briefly attended the Kentucky Military Institute.

Bierce enlisted in the Ninth Indiana Infantry at the outbreak of the Civil War, just before his 19th birthday. His battle record is remarkable, and includes Philippi, Shiloh, Corinth, Stones River, Chickamauga, Missionary Ridge and Franklin. He suffered a severe head wound at Kennesaw Mountain in 1864, and was hospitalized for months. After the war, he was part of a small military inspection group that, on horseback and by wagon, crossed Nebraska, Wyoming and Montana, and then turned south to California. The places he saw and the people he met on the way could fill a book, but he wrote hardly a word of this incredible journey.

His writing habits changed during the next four decades. Bierce wrote dozens of short stories (perhaps the best known is, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," hundreds of essays and a few thousand newspaper columns -- among other things. His most recognizable work probably is, "The Devil's Dictionary." He lived in England for a few years. For a few months, he was manager of a gold mine in the Black Hills of South Dakota. But, he spent most of his adult life living and working in San Francisco.

In the fall of 1913, Bierce paid a final visit to a number of his old Civil War battlefields. His plan was to enter Mexico, find Pancho Villa and witness first-hand the Mexican revolution. He passed over the Mexican border in late autumn, and wrote one last letter on December 26. Bierce then disappeared. He was 71 years of age. Despite the many rumors and hypotheses concerning his death, nothing substantial is known about his final living days on earth.

Some biographies of Bierce's life include: "Alone in Bad Company," by Roy Morris, Jr. (1995); "Bitter Bierce," by C. Hartley Grattan (1929); and "Portrait of Ambrose Bierce," by Adolphe de Castro (1929). One of the more entertaining (if not accurate) accounts about the disappearance of Bierce is a work of fiction entitled, "Old Gringo," by Carlos Fuentes. A very well done movie of that novel was made with Gregory Peck as Bierce. Jane Fonda and Jimmy Smits had supporting roles.

Now, why am I writing about Bierce? I have no idea, other than to say that for the past few days I've really been thinking about sarcasm, satire, cynicism and skepticism, and it's relevance to contemporary society and, once again, "Bitter Bierce" is the all-time master of the invective. Maybe someone will read this commentary and become interested enough in Bierce to read some of his short stories. He wrote a number of them I would consider classics.

He is such a fascinating and perplexing character that I would include him on my list of the three people from history (from "before my time") who I would most like to interview. All right. To be honest, by interview I mean to spend an afternoon with him, asking him questions and listening to him talk about his life, while we both proceed to get drunk. Guy thing; reporter thing; truth-teller thing.

From "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce:

ABSURDITY, n. A statement or belief manifestly inconsistent with one's own opinion.

ELOQUENCE, n. The art of orally persuading fools that white is the color that it appears to be. It includes the gift of making any color appear white.

CYNIC, n. A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be. Hence the custom among the Scythians of plucking out a cynic's eyes to improve his vision.

CONSERVATIVE, n. A statesman who is enamored of existing evils, as distinguished from the Liberal, who wishes to replace them with others.

Music Note: None; currently sort of watching "Somewhere in Time" on television ....

More truth in poetry than in news stories ....

Politicians & reporters. Do not trust either.

How many times have you voted for a candidate for political government office because you had "trust" in the person? I never have.

Perhaps that goes back to cynicism. Most certainly, it goes to the role and responsibility of journalists. Journalists are (at least, once were) trained to be skeptics, doubters, investigators, fact seekers and objective to the best of their abilities. It is very obvious some journalists are better at these things than others.

Television reporting, by-in-large, is pretty pathetic. Many newspaper reporters are more suited for producing fiction than for pursuing the facts. This has never been truer than it is today. Over here, for example, stands a Republican candidate. Over there, stands a Democrat candidate. Each is presenting his political point of view. Inside that view are personal beliefs, personal ambitions, dollars and cents, pressures from constituents, arguments from lobbyists and friends, and a host of other elements. Between them stands the reporter. How can the average citizen learn which candidate is telling the "truth" and is being "honest" when the reporter has abandoned traditional journalistic precepts and is allowing his personal feelings to enter the story?

Journalists and politicians must maintain an adversarial role, I believe. That does not mean the relationship cannot be friendly, cordial and polite, and even have a sort of friendship exist between individuals in the two camps. It does mean that the journalist and the politician both need to understand it is a reporter's obligation to check the facts behind every word that comes out of a politician's mouth. Increasingly, this no longer is the case. Increasingly, fewer facts are emerging from the spin. Increasingly, there is no one left to trust. Increasingly, people have no choice but to follow candidates blindly.

Returning to the beginning of this commentary: I never have voted for a candidate because I "trust" the person. I vote for the individual who I think is best suited for the task at hand in terms of the conditions that exist at that particular point in time, and this is becoming a more difficult task with every election due to the disintegration of American journalism.

Discovering Emily & rescuing Percy's heart ….

I have no idea how many people browse the "world of blogs," either idly or in a pattern searching for common interests, but it really is a fascinating pastime. My brief periods of exploration the past few days have centered on poetry.

A few sites I have visited are primarily dedicated to one or more well-known poets. The other day, for example, I found one where Emily Dickinson was featured. There was a photo of Ms. Dickinson. Although one of my majors was English, I do not recall off hand ever seeing a photo of her before.

The lead poem on the page was this:

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

Where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

The simplicity, yet the depth of those few words, is breathtaking. I think I have gained a new and greater appreciation for Ms. Dickinson through my exploration of the blogs.

My own studies of verse have revolved mostly around the British poets of the 19th Century. Byron, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Coleridge and their brethren, to name a few. English major snobbery, I suppose.

The only recent American poet I ever took a close look at was James Dickey, and only then because I consider his novel, "Deliverance," to be a classic -- a heroic tale told in contemporary style and language. Besides that, it is about canoeing and the "Zen of archery."

Speaking of novels and British poets, may I recommend another of my favorites? It is, "The Missolonghi Manuscript," by Frederic Prokosch. Lord Byron spent the last few months of his life in Missolonghi in Greece, where he died at the age of 36 in 1824. This novel is presented as if it were the memoirs of the dying man, written as he reviews his entire life. Byron, in addition to being an author of the first order, literally was the Sean Connery/Jim Morrison/Brad Pitt of his time. Among the ingredients of the novel is an account of the death by drowning of Percy Shelley, his funeral pyre and the snatching of his heart from the flames as a macabre memento. Something for everyone.

Music Note: Listening to The Doors ....
Specifically, “Absolutely Live” ....
(Another California connection, featuring the Byron of his time)

Beatles, Boy Scouts & mock sabbaticals ....

Quote the Beatles:
"You say you got a real solution"

One thing seems explicitly clear to me. Other than corruption, the economic problems facing the U.S. today stem from a "shop until you drop habit" by individuals and, most particularly, by government (local, state and federal). To compound the problem, the shopping has been done largely with credit rather than real money.

Now, the President and most members of Congress actually think that having government extend and expand the shopping spree with still more credit buying will solve the economic problems. Well, maybe, maybe not.

The fascinating (one of my favorite words) element here is that neither the leaders nor the followers can accurately predict what the end result will be. The design of the scheme reveals an obvious step toward the massive redistribution of wealth, and there is nothing new about that. The Greeks did it successfully; the Romans did not fare so well and suffered 100 years of civil war. (Had redistribution gone well for the Romans, Julius Caesar might not have been assassinated, therefore, Shakespeare would not have written his play and, therefore, we would not have his most excellent piece of theater to enjoy.) The U.S. did redistribute wealth to a moderate extent in the 1930s, the 1960s and, some would say, resumed doing it again in the late 1970s and early 1980s.

Personally, I think a revolution has begun. I hope I am around to witness it fully to the finish, to learn what shape of government evolves from it. (This might take a few decades.) As historian and philosopher Will Durant put it: "Civilization is not inherited; it has to be learned and earned by each generation anew; if the transmission should be interrupted for one century, civilization would die, and we should be savages again."

Truly risky business and, for sure, the next few years could be absolutely, positively fascinating. In the meantime, my "real solution:" Buy gold and diamonds, and vote historians to Congress rather than attorneys.

Like a good Boy Scout, "Be Prepared"

A few days ago, someone commented that my words had a cynical tone to them. My response was to say that I was born cynical.

I don't suppose I actually was born that way, but close, and my opinion is that working as a newspaper reporter has fostered a deepening cynicism. Think about it. I've covered a couple of murder trials, been to numerous crime and accident scenes, and become of aware of many instances of corruption, malfeasance, incompetence and conflict of interest in government and business. Sometimes, as a general news reporter, you are a witness to the best in people but, more often, you are exposed to the worst.

Some people lead very sheltered lives and try to avoid hearing or reading negative news. They might go so far as to block out the words of someone who disagrees with them on political, religious or any number of issues. Fine for them, but between natural curiosity and a measure of cynicism born from exposure to the world as it is, I want to be aware of everything and anything which might affect my life. I know, from experience, that lightning does occasionally strike, harshly, mercilessly, sometimes in the form of nature, sometimes in the form of another human being. I want to be prepared physically and mentally as best I am able should such a thing happen near me.

I guess that means while some might consider me a cynic, I would say I utilize my cynicism as a tool to be a realist. Remember the Boy Scout motto.

It might be time for a "mock sabbatical"

Just to find out what is going on in the newspaper employment market, I checked out "JournalismJobs.com" today. Six openings in Florida, six openings in California, no openings in Minnesota. This website has been filled to the brim with newspaper openings in the past. What does that tell you? It tells me that any changes for me might involve another "mock sabbatical," which, actually, would be welcome.

Music Note: Listening to Scorpions ....
Specifically, "The Best of Scorpions" ....
(One of my favorites, "Still Loving You")
(Deutsche kennen gute Musik)