1.4.2025 – there’s a gallon of

there’s a gallon of
milk from 1908 that’s
aged better than that

This thing of writing these essays started as an effort to recognized use of words in today’s media.

With that in mind, I cannot recall the last time I read anything like the line, “There’s a gallon of milk from 1908 that’s aged better than that.”

From the New York Times story, What we got right — and wrong — in weird NFL season: Concern for Bills, belief in Chiefs by Saad Yousuf where, under the heading, “Things we got wrong,” Mr. Yousuf writes:

The “genuinely mediocre” teams: Back in Week 3, we took on the task of categorizing the 12 teams that split their first two games and sat at 1-1. One of the categories was “genuinely mediocre,” and it included three teams: the Patriots, Denver Broncos and Jacksonville Jaguars. That’s right. The only three teams that enter Week 18 with a chance to clinch the top seed in the AFC were labeled as “genuinely mediocre.” There’s a gallon of milk from 1908 that’s aged better than that.

I have to say that based on what was going on in Week 3, Mr. Yousef’s choices looked pretty safe but who could have known how the NFL, through their officiating proxies, would ordain that the season play out?

Back in the day I was sitting in a pre-election meeting at a TV station in Atlanta, Georgia and the News Director put on the table the idea of creating a list of the greatest un kept election year promises in Georgia history.

I banged the table and yelled, “Sherman will never cross the border!“

I’d have to say that there are gallons of milk for 1864 that aged better than that one.

No one could come up with anything better, though ‘Izzy will be loved by generations of Atlantan’s‘ came close.

1.3.2025 – I guess I mean this

I guess I mean this
if lived well … then just as true …
is the peace you feel

Adapted from the book, I See You’ve Called in Dead – A Novel by John Kenney (Zibby Publishing: New York, 2025), where Mr. Kenney writes: (Tim, the landlord and friend of Bud, the hero of the novel, is speaking)

I don’t really know what I mean either.

I guess I mean this.

That at the end — and I’ve had the privilege to be in the room with a few people now, my parents, two friends—I think, and it’s just a guess, but I think we let go of everything and the true nature of experience falls over us.

This … miracle that is existence.

Which we layer with so much.

With anxiety and fear and greed and smallness and what’s next and hurry up and I’ve got a meeting and all the … stuff … that gets in the way.

I’m not saying we should all go live like a monk.

I’m saying that if you haven’t lived the life you want, if you haven’t loved life, then at the end, I think a deep and very sad regret comes over you.

But if you have, if you’ve lived well … friends and family and … if you’ve lived … then just as true is the peace you feel. I’ve seen it.

Does this make any sense or do I sound mad?

With anxiety and fear and greed and smallness and what’s next and hurry up and I’ve got a meeting and all the … stuff … that gets in the way.

Does this make any sense or do I sound mad?

Mad, not meaning angry but crazy.

I think the passage makes, if anything, too much sense.

Maybe that’s the craziest part of the passage.

The Moth and the Star

A young and impressionable moth once set his heart on a certain star. He told his mother about this and she counseled him to set his heart on a bridge lamp instead. “Stars aren’t the thing to hang around,” she said; “lamps are the thing to hang around.” “You get somewhere that way,” said the moth’s father. “You don’t get anywhere chasing stars.” But the moth would not heed the words of either parent. Every evening at dusk when the star came out he would start flying toward it and every morning at dawn he would crawl back home worn out with his vain endeavor. One day his father said to him, “You haven’t burned a wing in months, boy, and it looks to me as if you were never going to. All your brothers have been badly burned flying around street lamps and all your sisters have been terribly singed flying around house lamps. Come on, now, get out of here and get yourself scorched! A big strapping moth like you without a mark on him!”

The moth left his father’s house, but he would not fly around street lamps and he would not fly around house lamps. He went right on trying to reach the star, which was four and one-third light years, or twenty-five trillion miles, away. The moth thought it was just caught up in the top branches of an elm. He never did reach the star, but he went right on trying, night after night, and when he was a very, very old moth he began to think that he really had reached the star and he went around saying so. This gave him a deep and lasting pleasure, and he lived to a great old age. His parents and his brothers and his sisters had all been burned to death when they were quite young.

Moral: Who flies afar from the sphere of our sorrow is here today and here tomorrow.

1.2.2026 – try to remember

try to remember
people you have ever known
back to earliest

But some nights I could not fish, and on those nights I was cold-awake and said my prayers over and over and tried to pray for all the people I had ever known. That took up a great amount of time, for if you try to remember all the people you have ever known, going back to the earliest thing you remember — which was, with me, the attic of the house where I was born and my mother and father’s wedding cake in a tin box hanging from one of the rafters, and, in the attic, jars of snakes and other specimens that my father had collected as a boy and preserved in alcohol, the alcohol sunken in the jars so the backs of some of the snakes and specimens were exposed and had turned white — if you thought back that far, you remembered a great many people. If you prayed for all of them, saying a Hail Mary and an Our Father for each one, it took a long time and finally it would be light, and then you could go to sleep, if you were in a place where you could sleep in the daylight.

From the short story, Now I lay Me in The Nick Adams Stories by Ernest Hemingway (New York, Scribner: New York, 1972).

I get up in the morning and see what happened over night.

Hemingway have seen what happened overnight as well.

In his short story, A Clean Well Lighted Place, Mr. Hemingway write, “Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.”

Going to bed, knowing everything that could happen overnight, who could sleep.

I lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, I can go to sleep.

After all, I say to myself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

1.1.2026 – Janus, two faces

Janus, two faces
one looking forward, one back
doorway to New Year

January Latin Janus, the ancient Latin deity who guarded doors and entrances. Naturally he looked after the doorway to the New Year, too. Janus had two faces — one looking forward, one back. That useful but humble man the janitor derives his title from the same root, janua, door. Janus’ temple was closed only in times of peace, which were not frequent.

From In a Word by Margaret Samuels Ernst with illustrations by James Thurber (Great Neck, N.Y. : Channel Press. 1954).

Janus might have had two faces, one looking forward and one looking back but in the words of Willy Wonka, “You can’t get out backwards. You got to go forwards to go back.“

Hope for a new years worth of good thoughts.

One question I ponder, do fans of that team in Columbus feel better about this season that ended with a 1 win and then 2 losses then they do about last season that ended with a loss and then three wins and a ‘so called’ National Championship?

Deep in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s world of “a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning,” you bet they do.

12.31.2025 – life not segmented

life not segmented
months, years, dawns, noons, evenings, night
rather moods, traumas

Life is not segmented artificially by what we call days,

months,

years,

dawns,

noons,

evenings,

night;

rather, life is segmented by our moods,

impressions,

traumas,

odd transferences of power from inanimate objects—

the aesthetic principle—

dreams,

linked by time spans of loves

and hates

and indifference,

unexpected changes in the prism of our understanding,

areas of passion or lust that disappear in a moment,

lapsing into a kind of sloth,

dread

and slowness …

From Sundog: a novel : the story of an American foreman, Robert Corvus Strang, as told to Jim Harrison by Jim Harrison (Washington Square Press: New York, 1989).

1,000s of titles on my devices and nothing is catching my interest.

Can’t get into any of the novels I had such high hopes for when I got them with the idea that I could lose myself for a day or two.

So I end up back in Jim Harrison’s Sundog which again I realize is needlessly profane, off color and inappropriate in so many ways and yet with such a powerful use of language that I come back to again and again.

This passage I found particularly appropriate for the day when we review the the top 25 of everything because of it being the end of the year.

Hard to think that the passage of time, the revolutions of the earth and the orbit of the planets are artificial segments used to divide up life but I find that I cannot argue with the thought that life is not segmented artificially by what we call days, months, years, dawns, noons, evenings, night; rather, life is segmented by our moods, impressions, traumas, odd transferences of power from inanimate objects—the aesthetic principle—dreams, linked by time spans of loves and hates and indifference, unexpected changes in the prism of our understanding, areas of passion or lust that disappear in a moment, lapsing into a kind of sloth, dread and slowness….