Words of Wisdom

Learn from the mistakes of others. You can never live long enough to make them all yourself.

Groucho Marx

and….

It was not long ago (just a couple of months past); i had the pleasure of a conversation, by phone, with a very, very talented photographer – during the call, i had nothing but questions – and no answers.

And after a bit, i got bold – “Jim, among the treasures, that are your pictures- would you find one for me. Something – colorful – just fun – unmitigated joy (and when you’re done with that – there is that thing about the stables). There is, still a place in my heart, in my life where that lives – and i really want to show that to the rest of the world. And shame on ‘um if they can’t take a joke.”

And I received this image. All – all and more.

Thank you, JAMES MICHAEL MOORE, thank you. there is a place in this world for a spastic old fart like me.

(Forgive the poor quote; read the T.S.Elliot, any T.S.Elliott)

There is a still point, a point between the up and the down, not moving to the left or right, to or fro, still. Dancing, that moment when – it is that moment – still – not glancing but seeing – still – it is a point in a dance – any and every moment of a dance and it’s all about the dance. And the still point – the still point – the still point is the dance.

for those that may not have known, Jim is my son

Facebook evolution

Long, long ago in a far distant land of 50’s Middle Class Suburbia there lived a loathsome creature; its broad smile with teeth yellowed from Chesterfields, bright white shirts, starched and ironed to razor sharp collar folds that claimed the heads of more than one.

These returning vacationers, as they were called, lured their victims into their dens to suck their minds dry…Friday evenings and God help us, Sundays after pool parties…the carnage.

It always began, innocently enough, with refreshments, libations and ridiculous snacks they called: “Poo Poos”.

And it was then then that the cylinder (one if you hoped to survive), the true monsters brought out two, three and, I am ashamed to admit, my own father, tortured tens with four cylinders of…35mm slides. Each slide was accompanied by:”…and here we are…”;”…the kids were so darn cute…”.

I learned early to run, with eyes closed, fingers in my ears chanting loudly the mystic ‘LaLaLa’. At times this did result in a collision with an offending wall or door frame but a mild concussion was far preferable to vacation memories.

I am now far from that land, that Suburbia, the scars of past collisions covered by Just For Men enhanced locks and my father’s Cannon was buried with him; I thought I was safe…but no.

I carelessly opened my Facebook page and it was there: Bobby Jean has posted 127 pictures…”here is little Judy having her first bowl of Cheerios at the lake. Isn’t she cute?”

Madly scrolling on; “…this is the steering wheel of…”

“George has reposted Ted’s favorite meme that he found on The Knight’s post of last day he and his kids were vacationing in…”

I thought it I just pulled the plug…the battery was fully charged…I closed my eyes, muted the computer and bolted for the door, hoping against hope that I remembered to close it…alas, no collision.

These fiends that hope to drain you of any intelligent thought, they are not your friends; ESC, ESC.

peace out pilgrims