standing here tonight
I’m afraid that I don’t hear
a thing just silence

Readers of this blog, bless their hearts, will be familiar with the fact that throughout my day I listen to an online radio station from London, ClassicFM.

There was a time when American college radio stations fulfilled the role of sources of classical music on American airwaves but then somewhere in the 1990’s (why does that seem so long ago) someone made the decision that college radio stations should move in the direction of AM talk radio.

So I discovered ClassicFM.

There are many things on the plus side to listening to a radio station for London, not the least of which is that those folks are 5 hours ahead of us (or 4 depending on whether or not we are saving daylight).

I like to say that this 5 hours difference gives me confidence to go on, as somewhere in this world someone has already made it through the next 5 hours.

Of late I keep thinking about how they, the Brits, are ahead of us.

Are just 5 hours ahead of us.

The point being, what happens there, is on its way here.

For me, I have to say, that the Brits Prime Minister lasted but 45 days on the job, is a bit chilling.

The Brit Conservative Party was started in 1834 and their latest leader lasted less than 2 months.

Avoiding comment on the reasons and everything but the fact that the leader lasted less than 2 months, it got me to thinking.

It got me to thinking dark thoughts.

Understand this moment by itself would have been grim but lets just look at the headlines.

This country is facing one of its most divisive elections since the Civil War when half the then country said SEE YOU LATER. (Then Abraham Lincoln said, NO SO FAST)

What might have been a border war in the long history of this sad world is threatening to expand its borders in ways too unimaginable to not be imagined.

The ability to house the citizens of this country is disappearing in the rush to build vacation homes for some of the citizens.

The ability to feed, clothe, employ and educate the citizens of this country is drying up as the Government of this country shows, less and less, the desire to feed, clothe, employ and educate the citizens of this country.

Mother Nature, after centuries of neglect, looks to be warming up to show everyone that, boy howdy, payback’s a bitch.

It all got me to thinking of a movie.

A movie called Margin Call.

A movie about how in 2009, the bill came due.

Almost by accident, one of the minor characters in the movie runs some simulations and learns, to his dismay, that if current trends continue to decline, the company he works for will be worthless in about 2 months.

This feller alerts his boss, who tell his boss, who tells his boss, who calls the big guy at the top.

The big guy shows up and the feller who discovered it all explains his fears of continued decline in the market, that the music of making money is slowing.

The big guy looks at the assembly of bosses and under bosses and looks out the window and delivers this short hamletonian soliloquy.

Do you care to know why I’m in this chair with you all?
I mean, why I earn the big bucks?
I’m here for one reason and one reason alone.
I’m here to guess what the music might do a week, a month, a year from now.
That’s it.
Nothing more.
And standing here tonight,
I’m afraid that I don’t hear a thing.
Just silence.

I feel like I am looking at the top of a snow mountain peak and I can see that an avalanche of snow and ice and rocks has started away up at the top and it is only a matter of time before it all comes down on me here in the valley.

The thing about avalanches, once they start …

I think of this movie.

I think of this country.

And I think of Verses in the Bible.

I think of Psalm 137 verse 1.

I think that By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion.

And standing here tonight, I’m afraid that I don’t hear a thing.

Just silence.

change minds – delicate
work- dutch people don’t like to
be told what to do

Fascinating read in the article by Raymond Zhong in the New York Times (10 10 2022), They’re ‘World Champions’ of Banishing Water. Now, the Dutch Need to Keep It.

The sub heading is ‘As climate change dries out Europe, the Netherlands, a country long shaped by its overabundance of water, is suddenly confronting drought.’

According the article, and who am I to question the NYTs, “The Netherlands’ success at getting rid of excess water helped it become an agricultural powerhouse — the world’s No. 2 exporter of farm products after the United States. This year, though, drought and energy concerns caused by Russia’s war in Ukraine have prompted anguished debate about whether it is sustainable for the Netherlands to produce so many of its famous tulips, plus so much cheese, meat, fruits and vegetables.”

Growing up with a Dutch Heritage in West Michigan, I could verify several things in the article.

The story of the Netherlands’ centuries of struggle against water is written all over its boggy, low-lying landscape. Windmills pumped water out of sodden farmland and canals whisked it away. Dikes stopped more from flooding in.

Boy Howdy!

Working in all that boggy land, why do think we wore those wooden shoes!

Mr. Zhong interviewed a Dutch Farmer names Peter van Dijk, who grew, what else. blueberries!

Mr. Zhong also interviewed Gertjan Zwolsman, a policy adviser and researcher at Dunea, a drinking-water company who, in a comment about the bog land now garden spot of Europe as saying, “There is nothing natural about the Netherlands.”

Lastly, Mr. Zhong quotes Mr. van Dijk again, saying “Changing farmers’ minds can be delicate work, “Dutch people don’t like to be told what to do.”

NO KDDING!

just ‘not right’ you know?
touch of the flu, a slight sprain
a tad overwhelmed

I am not sure how bad a ‘touch’ of the flu is.

I am not sure how bad a ‘slight sprain’ is.

How much overwhelmed is a ‘tad overwhelmed’?

You got the flu or you don’t.

It’s sprained or it’s not.

If things get worse, are you more overwhelmed?

Then just ‘not right’ does seem to work.

It is not right.

It is not what I would choose.

Is it not all the way to being wrong, well, gee whiz.

Then I think of this line from Wobegon Days, by Garrison Keillor.

When I was a boy, if I came around looking glum and mopey, [my mom would say], “What’s the matter? Did the dog pee on your cinnamon toast?” and the thought of our old black mutt raising his hind leg in the pas de dog and peeing on toast made me giggle.

Well it might be just ‘not right’ but no dog climbed up on the table and peed on my toast.

And the picture does make you laugh.

And I don’t feel so fluish.

My ankle doesn’t hurt.

And I seem to hold off the incoming tide for a bit.

And I’ll go make some toast.

Growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, in a family of 11 kids, we all had our days and we all had our favorite things to do.

My little brother Pete loved to have toast for a snack, morning, noon and night.

We could be watching TV and Pete was gone soon to return with a plate of two pieces of cinnamon toast.

It could be late at night.

Middle of the afternoon.

For some reason it was those moments when our family would return from being somewhere, anyway, the store, a family party, church or anything where we were all gone and we would pile out of the car in fall into the house and Pete would make a beeline for the bread box and the toaster that stick in my mind.

We all knew about his habit.

And we all knew when he made toast.

We all knew because Pete never ever, so far as I know and I will have to check with his kids, learned how to operate a toaster.

Or, Pete like burned toast.

For him, the smell of burning toast was the signal the toast was done.

I don’t know what you remember about your home as a kid but in the days before people started burning popcorn in a microwave, there was few household smells worse than burning toast.

I came to hate and still hate that smell.

I would see Pete get up with the ‘I need toast’ look in his eye and start feeling just ‘not right’ right then.

It made me sick though I am not sure if it was the smell or worrying that I would have to smell it the rest of the night.

And then Pete would get up and burn some more toast.

He would come back to the TV room with his plate of charcoal and I would ask him, why, why do have to burn it.

I think I even offered to make toast for him.

I can smell it to this day.

The next time I am feeling just ‘not right’ you know? A touch of the flu, a slight sprain or a tad overwhelmed, I am going to think of a dog coming in a peeing on Pete’s toast.

Not sure what good it will do but I bet it will sure make me feel better.

incongruous range
of turmoil and misery
and stupidity

These last weeks have made it difficult to write both haiku and essays about haiku.

I watch TV and its about the war we can’t do much about.

I pick up one book and suddenly I am back in the refugee crisis caused by the Spanish Civil War.

I pick up another device and without any indication of where I was going, I find myself in Carville, Mississippi and learning about a US minimum security prison that shares housing with the national leprosarium because all persons diagnosed with leprosy (Hansen’s disease) in the U.S. were required, by law, to be quarantined and treated there.

While at the same time, my job is to sell sunshine and beaches online.

Going mad, using both definitions of the word at the same time.

You bet it has been difficult to write both haiku and essays about haiku.

Good gracious, but what is wrong with me today?

What worked for me in the past was to get back to the roots of all this and focus on word usage in my reading.

I came across this line from the book, How Proust Can Change Your Life, by Alain de Botton,

I have been avoiding this book because no matter how I try I cannot get into Proust.

The legendary Civil War writer Shelby Foote loved Proust and claimed to read the complete In Search of Lost Time (all 9 or is it 10 or more volumes) at least 10 times.

But I cannot get it going so I did not want to know how Proust could Change my life.

Anyway I was paging thought the it and there was this:

However brilliant, however wise the work, it seems that the lives of artists can be relied upon to exhibit an extraordinary, incongruous range of turmoil, misery, and stupidity.

Now on usage, it is a wonder.

Not just turmoil, misery, and stupidity.

Not turmoil, misery, and stupidity that works together and builds on itself.

But incongruous turmoil, misery, and stupidity.

Incompatible turmoil, misery, and stupidity.

Turmoil that rejects the misery and the stupidity.

Misery that cannot relate to the stupidity and the turmoil.

Stupidity that cannot understand the turmoil or the misery.

All adding to one vile brew in my brain.

And not just incongruity in my turmoil, misery, and stupidity but extraordinary incongruity in my turmoil, misery and stupidty.

In the words of Charlie Brown, THAT’S IT!.