Thursday, May 27, 2010
The Cost of Conformity
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The Cost of Conformity
Honesty is an interesting concept. There must be more honest people in the world than dishonest people or we wouldn’t be able to function as a society. Some people feel the world is just getting worse each day, but in the long run. I think most people eventually figure out its easier to live honestly in the world than dishonestly. It does seem young people who commit crimes eventually get the message as they get older.
I think the most disturbing part about the whole concept of honesty is we really aren’t honest with ourselves. We are mostly conformists. There are things we do every day which we only do only because other do the same thing. It is a basis for society and for sociability, but it makes me wonder how much of what we do is just because others are already doing it. There is a scene in an old black and white movie called “Metropolis” made back in 1925 which reminds me of how many of us conform.
In this old classic, the workers live underground and march off to work in a big square, with everyone wearing the exact same hat, shirt and pants. It’s an eerie image, and when you seen the second shift walking home from work twice as slow, but still all looking exactly the same. It was an interesting prediction to make 85 years ago, but if you look around today at the number of people wearing baseball caps, levis and t-shirts, that kind of conformity has come to pass.
Are we honest because everyone else seems honest? Do you do things because other people do? If other people are speeding down the road, do you go the same speed even if you don’t want to?
Some of us attend church so we can make a good impression. Do we not shop on Sundays because others don’t? Or do we do what we want when we want because we want to do it?
Conformity is something that takes the individuality out of our lives and denies the world the unique contribution we might be here to make. When we really pay attention to our purpose, we may find a whole new life out there waiting for us. How do we find our purpose? Why would we want to find our purpose?
Finding a purpose can give meaning to what you do in life. It could guide and direct your actions, and give you clear directions for the big decisions you may face. It could break us out of our automatic conformity. It may motivate you to do different things than you have been doing, and help you survive failures. You’ll be able to face rejection if you are truly committed to your life purpose.
Unfortunately, there is no universal formula for finding a life purpose, especially since everyone will have to find their purpose in their own way. It takes time and should be thought of as a lifetime process. Our purpose may change as our lives change. But by identifying our strengths and our passions, and causes in which you believe, you will be on the right path to find something meaningful to do with the time and talents you’ve been given.
Find a way to do some work on those things that interest you. Using your strengths and passions, working on things you think you might enjoy will help you understand if you really are on a path which is right for you.
Real enjoyment happens when we lose ourselves in whatever it is we are doing. Time seems to fly, and when we realize hours have passed, this is a good indication we may be doing something true to our purpose. Some people call this “being in the moment”, and when you are completely present in the moment, everything else vanishes and you are not thinking, doing, but you are just being.
This is what happens when we are going something we truly enjoy. Many people experience this with their favorite recreation. Time doesn’t pass in the same way. My favorite way to make time disappear is gardening. When I am working in the yard, time stands still, but also seems to pass so quickly. I have projects on which I have been working for years, and while they may be done someday, then I will move on to another project which will be completed in its own time.
A real purpose in life can make the difference between a life fulfilled, and a life of misery. Today is the day to start that journey which puts you on the path which will make a difference for you, and for the world. You will never know unless you take the chance to find the reason you are here now.
Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the abundance he finds in this universe with 800-word columns which he then records into a 5-minute podcast. Read or listen, or do both and get the positive boost you need to face the day. Broadcast live each Sunday from 7 pm to 8 pm on www.k-talk.com, these episodes are also available at www.daneallred.com and at www.daneallred.podbean.com. The compilation of 33 episodes from “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” is available as an audio DVD and free book at eBay.
Lost or Stolen
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Lost or Stolen
I looked on the back of my debit card. It says, “If lost or stolen, please call 1-888-555-1212”. So let me think about that for a moment. If I lose my debit card, I’m supposed to have the number somewhere else so I can call and report it is missing? And if someone finds it, what are the chances they will call in and report they found it? Or would the normal everyday passerby be tempted to see if it worked?
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used the card and entered the wrong pin, and then was told by the clerk to just run it as a credit. This means anyone else could do the same thing if they find my card. It doesn’t make me feel secure.
Some people feel like the world is a more dishonest place. I’ve had things stolen from me before, but usually it’s my fault. I remember how excited I was to get a class ring when I was in high school. It was really nice, and they are way too expensive, but what do we know when we are 17 years old? We just know we can’t live without it, so we sacrifice and get it or just have mom and dad buy it.
I was working one summer cutting pine poles, and stopped at a service station on the way to the stand of timber. I took off my ring to wash my hands in the bathroom and left my ring on the sink. I realized later in the day what I had done, and after a long day getting the chain saw to work, dodging falling trees, trimming limbs and hauling logs to the truck, I went back to the gas station later that night and surprise! no one had turned in a lost ring. Who would want a high school ring from another school? No one I went to high school with would have been even close to where I was. It wouldn’t be their school colors. But, nonetheless, the ring was gone and someone had a new trinket.
It wasn’t the last ring I had stolen, although technically, I lost my class ring before someone kept it. My wedding ring was stolen one night when I was in the middle of a performance. For those of you who know who Howard Ruff is, you may be surprised to know he like to sing opera. In fact, I got to help him put on a show called H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan. One of the scariest moments during rehearsals was when Howard had a kidney stone attack. I drove him home in his car and my wife followed me to his house. I knew he was in a lot of pain, but I didn’t know how much until I passed my first kidney stone about five years ago.
So when the performances were finally started, we were all singly mightily on stage while someone else was going through our stuff backstage. They waited until a scene where everyone was on stage. Howard lost a couple of hundred dollars, and they stole my wedding ring.
That’s right. A plain silver wedding ring. Well, really white gold, but I still can’t understand why anyone would want someone else’s old ring. I guess someone was supporting a drug habit and needed some cash. So think about this. Whoever stole my ring has to go to a pawn shop and claim they don’t want their wedding ring anymore. Or the person who usually buys their stolen goods knows better than to ask where the ring came from. Either way, it seems like way more work than getting a regular job.
But this may be where most of us actually are dishonest without really thinking about it. On our job, our employers trust us to give an honest day’s labor for our wage, and if we don’t like the pay we can always go get another job. But as a society, we tend to think our employers owe us more somehow, and taking time off work to do our personal errands seems acceptable. Employers complain about employee theft, but is it really a big deal? The National Retail Security Survey estimated retailers lost $15.9 billion in 2008, and they expected 2009 to see an increase in employee theft. You want abundance?
Listen to what super salesman and marketing guru Joseph Sugarman says about honesty. “Each time you are honest and conduct yourself with honesty, a success force will drive you toward greater success. Each time you lie, even with a little white lie, there are strong forces pushing you toward failure.” Honesty can make us more successful. Dealing with the consequences of being dishonest take a much bigger toll. It may make you fail.
Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the abundance he finds in this universe with 800-word columns which he then records into a 5-minute podcast. Read or listen, or do both and get the positive boost you need to face the day. Broadcast live each Sunday from 7 pm to 8 pm on www.k-talk.com, these episodes are also available at www.daneallred.com and at www.daneallred.podbean.com. The compilation of 33 episodes from “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” is available as an audio DVD and free book at eBay.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Eight
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CHAPTER EIGHT
When the news was broadcast later that night, John Graham was sitting in his comfortable living room with Reba, his wife. They were back on level ground again now that the first of the month money fights were over, and watching the local news was their way of winding down the day.
John was not prepared for what Paula Rogers would be reporting that night. He had decided not to tell Reba anything about the money until is looked like he would be able to keep it. Until they would be able to keep it. He was biding his time, but finding the money had added an incredible pressure to his days, as he had to remember not to say anything about the money, then he had to pretend he didn’t know anything about a robbery, and that he hadn’t visited with and turned evidence over to the police.
Paula Rogers seemed to be trying to change all that. “Look, it’s Greg,” Reba said, pulling on John’s shirt sleeve and turning up the television sound. “It’s that nice Paula Rogers girl reporter, too.”
John had a sudden sinking feeling.
Paula Rogers said “One hundred thousand dollars”.
John could feel the knot growing in his stomach. It felt like an empty pit as he willed the pre-recorded event not to mention his name. Would Greg mention where the evidence had come from?
Paula Rogers said “another Paula Rogers exclusive”.
The lump in his stomach softened a bit. Reba turned to him. “Can you believe that? Right here in our little town. Nothing like that ever happens here.” She looked at him and waited for a response.
“Yeah.”
“Is that all you have to say, ‘Yeah’?” said Reba. “Your friend is on the television helping with a major investigation and you say ‘Yeah’?”
Now he was incapable of speech.
“What’s the matter with you?” Reba inquired, leaning toward the man she had been married to for a quarter century. She sensed there was more than she was being told.
“Uh, maybe Greg will be able to keep the money,” he probed for her reaction.
“Yeah, right,” she laughed. “And maybe he’ll give some to us.”
John Graham laughed too, but it didn’t really sound sincere. He wondered if Reba noticed.
Smitty played the flashlight over the murder scene. There was not much blood, but that didn’t make Mike Shepherd any less dead. From what they could see before the officials arrived there was trauma to the back of the head, probably from a sharp instrument.
“This must be the attendant”, Smitty said to the small crowd of officers gathered around the body. “But what is he doing so far from the booth? Why not just kill him and leave him there? There doesn’t seem to be any indication of dragging a body to this location.”
Three other flashlights played over the ground back towards the station. Zabronsky spoke up first. “Maybe the kid decided to take the money back.”
It was likely what had happened. There was some trauma around the face and hands, like a fight had taken place. “But no one’s life was worth the couple of thousand that was probably stolen,” Smitty thought to himself.
The T-Bone was just one of those greasy spoons along the roadway, but since most places like that served some of the best food around, it was always busy. Paula was glad, since that meant she could work on Greg a bit more seriously than if she had to worry about being overheard.
Approaching the booths which had seats covered with red naugahyde, Greg was ready with his favorite first joke at the restaurant. “Makes you wonder just how many naugas had to die to make this bench,” he said. Paula just smiled. It was Greg’s familiar old saw to help him get comfortable, which meant he was comfortable enough to encourage him a bit. She turned away from sitting opposite him in the booth, and scooted him over into the corner and sat on the same bench with him.
“Will you protect me from the wild naugas that invade the restaurant to avenge their dead brothers?” She leaned in close and wrapped herself around his closest arm.
Greg recognized the approach and slowly disengaged his arm from the entanglement. “You really think I live a life of shoot ‘em up adventure, don’t you? Or are you just making fun of the sedentary life I lead in a one-cop town?
Paula was not to be put off so easily. “A one and a half cop town, Officer Jones,” she said seductively. “A man with all that power is irresistible.”
“You are making fun.” Greg was still taking it good-naturedly. “We can’t all live in the big city with all the big important news reporters, you know. Some of us have to live out here in Hicksville, and protect Ma and Pa Kettle.”
“Don’t start,” she said. “I know you love it here and would never move. So don’t start humoring me with bad-mouthing the people you adore. And who adore you.”
She was right as usual. And this is where the conversations of the past had usually led. She wanted adventure and would probably move from city to city as the affiliates raised her salary and counter-offered each other. He would probably be buried up in the cemetery on the hill after living here his entire life. Greg wanted the conversation to be different tonight, so he decided to take charge of its direction.
“I really do want to thank you for the broadcast,” he said to her as she stared into his eyes. “I think it will really help to flush out whoever robbed the bank. There’s a short guy still out there who will be coming to town to find that money.”
There was a short guy just across town sitting with his mouth open. He, too, had just finished watching Paula Jones reporting on the found money, and even as she trying her hardest to seduce the local police captain, Ray was making other plans for Greg Jones.
So the money was here in town, and the local cops were so kind as to keep it safe until Raymond Johnson decided to pick it up. It was almost too easy. This little hamlet couldn’t have more than a few hundred people in it, and that meant the local cop was just a step above the blue-light special cop at the local department store. Ray had enjoyed his past encounters with backwater cops. He had shot a cop or two and could remember the looks on their faces when they realized they were not the fastest draw in the West, that the warm feeling running across their clothes was their own blood, and as they dropped down on their knees, the look of disbelief that crossed their faces just before they died was almost comical. Ray wondered why people, who were pretty easy to kill actually, were so surprised when they found out they were dead.
Maybe someday, he would spend time for the murders he had committed. But he wasn’t above a few more murders before the sentence. He also decided that the risk of getting caught doing this murder was very slim. Probably the state cops wouldn’t even bother to investigate. What did he have to lose, besides 100 grand?
By the time desert came, Paula had messed up Greg’s hair a few times, and by the looks the locals were giving him, they were probably enjoying it more than him.
“Paula…”
“Greg, it’s all right,” she cooed into his ear. “We’re both above the age of consent, and this is nothing most of these people haven’t seen before.”
“I was going to say, let’s go somewhere more private.” Greg’s eyes met hers, and the surprise in her eyes made him laugh out loud. “Sorry, I guess this is kind of sudden.”
Paula didn’t need to be asked twice. She was gathering up her purse as she commented to Officer Jones on his speed. “Yeah, this is really a sudden change of mood, after two years of me chasing you shamelessly, now you are sitting there shamelessly and letting me chase you.”
Greg laughed again. “You’re right. You are the world’s most patient woman. I’m sorry it’s taken two years for me to come around.”
He flipped a twenty on the table and they practically dashed out of the diner.
Anyone investigating Officer Greg Jones house at 11:30 that night would have had an interesting report to file. It would have begun with two people writhing together on the couch. The passion was building, and Paula could feel the objections melting that had stood in her way for two years.
Greg was also aware of the passion that smoldered beneath him. Paula was doing all she could to go slow, because this obviously was not Greg’s usual nightcap. He was being careful, far too careful, but being a patient woman, she was able to wait a few moments more.
A dark figure passed outside the house, and almost tried to twist the front door knob. But then he heard a moan from within the darkened house and he froze in his footsteps, waiting and holding his breath. When he heard some more noise from inside of the house, he lightly stepped off the front porch and left quickly, but as quietly as he had approached.
Inside the house, Paula Jones had decided to speed things up a bit. She grabbed Greg’s broad shoulders and twisted him onto the floor. He was surprised by the sudden movement, but didn’t fight, and rolled onto the carpet with Paula on top of him. Then she raised up, as their hips stayed together.
“Not your usual date, I’m guessing by the shocked look on your face,” Paula said.
“I definitely think I’m in unknown territory here,” he confessed. “Thanks again for bringing the show to town,” he said, but this time he was not referring to the broadcast.
She leaned down slowly and kissed him lightly, then rose back up again, still sitting across his waist. “Glad to oblige”, she whispered. “I’ve visited enough these past two years, it’s about time we got down to business.”
“Thanks for coming to my town to share,” Greg said slowly. He pulled her down towards him. Paula had a strange look on her face, and hesitated. Then Paula leaned back slowly and said, “What was that?”
“I’m just grateful you’ve been so patient with me,” he said, rising up on his elbows. Something was not quite right.
Paula stood up, and he was left lying on the floor.
“No,” she said. “What did you just say about sharing?”
Greg stopped and looked up.
“All I said was I was grateful.”
Paula stepped back. “You said you were grateful I was sharing. What did you mean?”
“I’m not very good at this, am I?” he apologized. “You must be used to guys who are a little more smooth.”
Paula was now at least 3 feet away, and Greg was left kneeling in the middle of the room by himself. She straightened her blouse and pulled at her jeans.
“What did I say?”
Paula turned around and tried to gather her thoughts. This was not turning out how she had hoped, and she was sure this was not what Greg had planned for this evening either.
She sat down on a nearby chair.
Greg was still unsure what he had done. Now it was his turn to bow his head and wonder how to rescue this night.
He could hear her sobbing quietly. He went over and tried to comfort her as best he could, wondering what he could do to make this better. Sitting beside her, he let her have a good cry, during which she turned and sobbed on his chest while he drew her close.
“Let’s just call it a night. I’ll take you back to your motel.” Greg could feel her head nod slightly, and he also heard a sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief, which made him sigh with relief, too.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Misery by Anton Chekhov
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MISERY
by Anton Chekhov
“To whom shall I tell my grief?”
The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses’ backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. . . . His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.
It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.
“Sledge to Vyborgskaya!” Iona hears. “Sledge!”
Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.
“To Vyborgskaya,” repeats the officer. “Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!”
In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse’s back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of. . . .
“Where are you shoving, you devil?” Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. “Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!”
“You don’t know how to drive! Keep to the right,” says the officer angrily.
A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse’s nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.
“What rascals they all are!” says the officer jocosely. “They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse’s feet. They must be doing it on purpose.”
Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. . . . Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.
“What?” inquires the officer.
Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: “My son . . . er . . . my son died this week, sir.”
“H’m! What did he die of?”
Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:
“Who can tell! It must have been from fever. . . . He lay three days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God’s will.”
“Turn round, you devil!” comes out of the darkness. “Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!”
“Drive on! drive on! . . .” says the officer. “We shan’t get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!”
The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box. . . . Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another. . . .
Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their galoshes.
“Cabby, to the Police Bridge!” the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. “The three of us, . . . twenty kopecks!”
Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a ruble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare. . . . The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.
“Well, drive on,” says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona’s neck. “Cut along! What a cap you’ve got, my friend! You wouldn’t find a worse one in all Petersburg. . . .”
“He-he! . . . he-he! . . .” laughs Iona. “It’s nothing to boast of!”
“Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?”
“My head aches,” says one of the tall ones. “At the Dukmasovs’ yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us.”
“I can’t make out why you talk such stuff,” says the other tall one angrily. “You lie like a brute.”
“Strike me dead, it’s the truth! . . .”
“It’s about as true as that a louse coughs.”
“He-he!” grins Iona. “Me-er-ry gentlemen!”
“Tfoo! the devil take you!” cries the hunchback indignantly. “Will you get on, you old plague, or won’t you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well.”
Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:
“This week . . . er. . . my. . . er. . . son died!”
“We shall all die, . . .” says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. “Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?”
“Well, you give him a little encouragement . . . one in the neck!”
“Do you hear, you old plague? I’ll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don’t you care a hang what we say?”
And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.
“He-he! . . . ” he laughs. “Merry gentlemen . . . . God give you health!”
“Cabman, are you married?” asks one of the tall ones.
“I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth. . . . He-ho-ho!. . . . The grave that is! . . . Here my son’s dead and I am alive. . . . It’s a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door. . . . Instead of coming for me it went for my son. . . .”
And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, “Thank God!” they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him. . . . The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona’s eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. . . . His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona’s heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight. . . .
Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.
“What time will it be, friend?” he asks.
“Going on for ten. . . . Why have you stopped here? Drive on!”
Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins. . . . He can bear it no longer.
“Back to the yard!” he thinks. “To the yard!”
And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. . . .
“I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even,” he thinks. “That’s why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work . . . who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease. . . .”
In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.
“Want a drink?” Iona asks him.
“Seems so.”
“May it do you good. . . . But my son is dead, mate. . . . Do you hear? This week in the hospital. . . . It’s a queer business. . . .”
Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. . . . Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet . . . . He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation. . . . He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. . . . He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son’s clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country. . . . And he wants to talk about her too. . . . Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament. . . . It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.
“Let’s go out and have a look at the mare,” Iona thinks. “There is always time for sleep. . . . You’ll have sleep enough, no fear. . . .”
He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. . . . He cannot think about his son when he is alone. . . . To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish. . . .
“Are you munching?” Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. “There, munch away, munch away. . . . Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. . . . Yes, . . . I have grown too old to drive. . . . My son ought to be driving, not I. . . . He was a real cabman. . . . He ought to have lived. . . .”
Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:
“That’s how it is, old girl. . . . Kuzma Ionitch is gone. . . . He said good-by to me. . . . He went and died for no reason. . . . Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. . . . And all at once that same little colt went and died. . . . You’d be sorry, wouldn’t you? . . .”
The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.
Another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from Dane Allred's program "Abundance".
Monday, May 24, 2010
Anton Chekhov Biography Out Loud
Click on the player above to hear the podcast of this episode.
As a doctor, he saved lives, delivered babies, dispensed medication. Yet he refused to let other doctors diagnose his tuberculosis. He would later die at an early age, only 44 years old. But he is best remembered for his famous plays, which were said to offer a "theatre of mood" and a "submerged life in the text.” He once said, “What seems to us serious, significant and important will, in future times, be forgotten or won’t seem important at all”. You may recognize his most famous plays, “The Cherry Orchard”, “Uncle Vanya”, “The Seagull” and “The Three Sisters”. He worked closely with Constantin Stanislavski, the Russian actor and director. Who was this famous doctor, playwright, and author of many, many short stories? We’ll find out next on “Biography Out Loud”.
Today on Biography – Anton Chekhov
Anton Chekhov, Russian playwright lived from 1860 to 1904. He has been called “the greatest short-story writer in the history of world literature” by the Encyclopedia Britannica, and influenced many other writers. Trained as a doctor, he used his interactions with all different kinds of people to populate his stories.
He once said, “I feel more confident and more satisfied when I reflect that I have two professions and not one. Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress. When I get tired of one I spend the night with the other. Though it's disorderly it's not so dull, and besides, neither really loses anything, through my infidelity.”
His father went bankrupt and left the family, fleeing to Moscow to avoid debtor’s prison. Anton Chekhov helped his family and paid for his education by tutoring, selling goldfinches, and also sold short stories to local newspapers. He once said, “When you live on cash, you understand the limits of the world around which you navigate each day. Credit leads into a desert with invisible boundaries.” After becoming a doctor, he made little money treating patients and he charged the poor nothing.
Though he had many struggles in life, he said, “We learn about life not from pluses alone, but from minuses as well.” He also said, “The person who wants nothing, hopes for nothing, and fears nothing can never be an artist.”
He wrote about poor conditions on Sakhalin Island, a prison colony run by Russia. He was disgusted with the conditions he found there, where children were imprisoned with their parents. “Love, friendship, respect, do not unite people as much as a common hatred for something.”
He was disappointed with the first production of “The Seagull”, but Constantine Stanislavski restaged it in Moscow to critical praise.
Success with “The Cherry Orchard”, “The Three Sisters” and “Uncle Vanya” helped Chekhov gain national recognition, and then international praise. Raymond Carver called him “the greatest short story writer who ever lived”.
He worked for over a year on some plays, and once said, “You need to work continually day and night, to read ceaselessly, to study, to exercise your will.... Each hour is precious.” Optimistically, he proclaimed, “There is no Monday which will not give its place to Tuesday.”
Of his urge to write he said, “I have in my head a whole army of people pleading to be let out and awaiting my commands.” Once he became a successful writer he said, “I don’t care for success. The ideas sitting in my head are annoyed by, and envious of, that which I’ve already written.”
Of marriage, Anton Chekhov said, ““If you are afraid of loneliness, do not marry.” He did marry Olga Knipper, an actress he had first met in rehearsals of his play “The Seagull”. He also said, “I observed that after marriage people cease to be curious.”
Constantly plagued by tuberculosis, he moved to Yalta to improve his health. He once said of illness, “It’s even pleasant to be sick when you know that there are people who await your recovery as they might await a holiday.”
He died at the age of 44 from the tuberculosis which had plagued him for years. Of death he said, “Death can only be profitable: there’s no need to eat, drink, pay taxes, offend people, and since a person lies in a grave for hundreds or thousands of years, if you count it up the profit turns out to be enormous.”
At the end of the “Three Sisters”, Anton Chekhov writes, “Time will pass on, and we shall depart for ever, we shall be forgotten; they will forget our faces, voices, and even how many there were of us, but our sufferings will turn into joy for those who will live after us, happiness and peace will reign on earth, and people will remember with kindly words, and bless those who are living now. Our life is not yet at an end. Let us live.”
Anton Chekhov continues to live through his works, as one of the world’s greatest authors.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Abundance May 16 Inspiration
Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the “Abundance” of this world every Sunday from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time). This is the entire broadcast and is also available at daneallred.podbean.com. “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”, which includes all 33 audio episodes and a free book is available on eBay. This podcast also includes chapter six and seven of “The Plodder’s Mile”.
Click on the player above to hear the podcast.
Click on the player above to hear the podcast.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Mending Wall by Robert Frost
This is another episode of “Literature Out Loud” from the weekly program “Abundance”. As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday. “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” includes 33 audio episodes and a free book is available on eBay.
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
MENDING WALL
by Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
MENDING WALL
by Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Seven
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this chapter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“If I find out someone else has my money,” said Ray to himself, pacing in the rut that was once the carpet, “I’m gonna massage him with the butt of my gun and then shoot him.”
Ray had decided to stay in town and search the tracks for one more day. There really wasn’t a chance of finding the train now, and there was no practical way to search all those miles of track. He had also decided to go back to the town where Tommy was being held tomorrow and watch for evidence to be leaked to the press, like it always was in cases like this. Then he might have an idea if the cops had the money, and he could figure out what to do next.
Ray hated feeling helpless. It reminded him of the days he spent being beat on by his older brothers, who hated being beat by their dad. The pecking order in the Johnson household had ended with him, with the beatings usually getting worse as they were passed down the line.
Even when social services had split up the family and sent Ray to foster homes in the hopes of a better environment, most of the families he ended up with were in it for the money. They didn’t really care about Ray, and they usually had their own kids to prefer to the freeloaders the state had sent. Why else would someone want the kids no one else wanted?
Being cheated out his money just when it was in his grasp, ready to be spent, the golden dreams had been dashed again. Ray was determined that this time, he was going to get what was his, and he didn’t care who had to get hurt in the meantime.
Smitty had some good advice for Jones. There were a couple of ways to handle the investigation, and one was subtle, the other pretty obvious. Jones had decided to do both.
He was on the phone with the local television station. “Paula Rogers, please. This is Greg Jones.”
Paula was one of the local reporters who owed Captain Greg Jones a few favors for the quick and reliable information he had often shared with her. The scoops had made her a local celebrity, and the bigger stations were looking at her for anchor jobs. She knew Greg liked her, and Greg was more than happy to have her attention, if only for his sources. She picked up almost immediately.
“Greg!” He could almost hear the smile over the phone. “What have you got for me now?”
“How do you know I’m not calling you up for a date?” said Jones playfully.
“First”, she said, “you have never called me up for a date yet, and second, last week when I asked you out, you found some kind of paperwork you had to do.”
Now Greg was smiling. She was right. He wasn’t ready to take that step, but she really wanted him to. He knew she wanted him to. But he just couldn’t do it. Even though she had made it a point of “dropping in” every week or so, he still couldn’t work up the nerve. They had been on dozens of dates, all of which she had arranged.
“You’re right, I’m a big chicken,” he chuckled. “So are you ready for the hot tip of the day?”
“If you really did call me every day,” Paula said, “then that really would be something to get excited about.”
Now Jones was blushing. To stop this train of thought in its tracks, he began another conversation about another train. “Did you hear about the bank robber they arrested on the train here in town…?”
It was after lunch. John had been able to spend an entire lunch period talking with the guys he regularly ate lunch with without even raising the topic of money, which usually was a favorite topic around the table. Now John Graham was wondering what he would be able to tell his history classes today that would keep them from sleeping on their desks, and would keep him from thinking about that money.
Today they were scheduled to talk about Watergate and other topics from the ‘70’s, but the distraction of his newfound wealth was beginning to cloud every 30 seconds of thought. He decided to just strike out into the subject and see where his subconscious and the kids in class would lead him.
“So who here knows why we all know Richard Nixon’s name?”
“This is Paula Jones with another WGHH exclusive.” She was looking especially lovely today, thought Greg as he watched her from the sidelines. Her blonde hair flipped up at the ends and made her look much younger than she was, which he was sure was the desired goal.
Greg Jones was a little too shy for his own good, which is probably why he was still single at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. He had been involved with several women, only to be too slow to keep them interested. He had decided it was a personality fault, and that it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. He was not prepared, however, for the unique patience of Paula Rogers.
She had been burned twice by flashy rich guys. Paula had been engaged twice, and had come as close as M-Day minus one month until the last jerk had pulled the plug. She had her sights set on Greg Jones, and while he may not have known it, she was ready to be as patient as was necessary to catch this one. Though she was younger than Greg by a few years, she had much more wisdom than him when it came to catching a mate.
She smiled and looked over at Greg.
“Local Ridgeway police captain Greg Jones has been credited with recovering some of the $100,000 stolen two days ago from the First National Bank in Delan,” she intoned, without a pause, hitch, or hiccup. “Though all of the money has not been recovered, Captain Jones has been recognized by the state authorities for his quick response. Investigations will continue while officers inspect the money that was found for fingerprints.”
Greg was always amazed at the calmness with which Paula delivered the news, even when it involved grizzly details. She was a pro. She was looking into the camera to wrap it up. “We’ll keep you up to date with any new developments here at WGHH, and this has been another Paula Jones exclusive.” She always wrapped with that same tag-line, even when it wasn’t a story exclusive to her. She had explained it to Greg, “Only Paula Jones can have a Paula Jones exclusive.” It made the viewers think they were getting information they couldn’t get at another station, and it was one of the reasons her network had been rated number one since shortly after her arrival. It was the main reason so many other stations wanted Paula Jones to work for them.
Paula handed the microphone off, and took Greg by the elbow and ushered him off to their own little private corner of the office while the camera crew packed up. “So, how was that, boss?”
Greg could feel himself beginning to redden. “Thanks, Paula, that was exactly what I needed. We want whoever robbed the bank to come and try to get the rest of his money.”
Paula looked concerned. “Doesn’t that put you in danger? I mean,” she said, taking both his hands and pulling him to face her, “won’t that robber come armed and dangerous?”
“Well, probably, but I don’t think he’ll come in demanding the money,” Greg explained, pulling her hands down to his side. “We think he’ll just want to find out where it is, and then we can catch him trying to take it. We’ll put some surveillance on the office. I shouldn’t be in danger, but I think I can handle myself. I am a big, strong man, after all, you know.” He puffed up his chest.
She took the invitation to lean over and tousle his hair, with the other hand pressed on his chest. “I know you can handle yourself. I’m just wondering if you can handle a dinner with a friendly reporter.”
Greg blushed now. She was always able to throw him off his guard, just when he thought he was in control. He liked it.
“Sure, let’s go to the T-Bone,” he said, and took her hand, leading her out the door.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Six
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this chapter.
CHAPTER SIX
Ray paced a trail in the cheap motel carpet. He was turning over the details of the day in his head. He had returned to Ridgeway the very next day, less than 24 hours after the train had been here and he had thrown the parcel between the wheels.
Could it have gotten caught in the undercarriage of the train? Did it get ground up into a bunch of zeros and ones? “Nah,” Ray thought to himself, since there would have been something left of the bills if they had been destroyed. But what if they had caught under the train, and had dropped off somewhere between here and this Hicksville where the train had stopped?
Maybe he had walked up and down the wrong part of the tracks, and the money was still sitting somewhere just a mile or so away, waiting patiently for Ray to come back and pack that bundle back to its proper home.
Or maybe someone else had found it first.
Ray knew he could go crazy trying to figure out what could have happened, so he decided to focus on what he would do next. It was time to make another list.
Officer Greg Jones had his own worries, which he tossed around in his mind, wondering how much longer he should ponder the possibilities before he called Smitty and bounced a few ideas off of him. There was definitely something wrong, but to find out what the real problem was would take some careful thinking, and some even more careful investigation. “This’ll be out of my jurisdiction, if I’m lucky” Greg muttered to himself, looking at the bundle which was still sitting on his desk.
“Smitty” Harold Smith had told him the robbery netted the thieves $100,000 or thereabouts. The bundle had $1800 in it, but was clearly designed to look more like $100,000 – or thereabouts. Was it the same robbery? If it was, then where was the rest of the cash?
In most cases, if John Graham had turned in a real stack of $100,000, Greg would have had to turn it over to the state immediately anyway. But the local jurisdiction regulations said he could keep amounts up to $2000 in the local evidence lockers as long as it was verified by at least two officers. His deputy had helped him fill out the proper paperwork and they had both signed off on the amount. State detectives would arrive tomorrow to take the money back to the bank. All the ducks were in a row, but something still didn’t make any sense.
Where was the rest of the money?
Smitty wondered the same question out loud. “So you have 18 one hundred dollar bills, but the package was made to look like it should hold more?”
Jones nodded into the phone, but said, “Yeah, and it’s a pretty good job of making it look like a big bundle of money. If someone was picked up and you found this on their person, you would probably not stop to count the bills until you got back to the station.”
Now Smitty was nodding. “So to you, this looks like it’s meant to mislead us long enough for the real money to escape?”
“Yeah,” said Greg. “But if you guys didn’t find the money on the train, and this was left on the tracks, where’s the rest?”
“I can think of three places,” Smitty intoned, trying to sound superior, like the city cop he was.
“I can think of four,” said Jones.
Smitty was not one to take a challenge lightly, so he started in on his three guesses, hoping to deduce the fourth on his way.
“Okay,” he said, drawing in a breath, “the three I’ve got are one, the money is still on the train somewhere; two, the small guy we didn’t find still has the money; or three, there is another package of money somewhere out there on the railroad tracks.”
Smitty came up empty. Harold Smith had to admit defeat and ask his friend for a fourth possibility. Just as an inkling was coming into his brain, too.
The friend. But Jones beat him to the punch.
“I hate to say this, Smitty,” said Jones as he drew in a quick breath, “but I think we have to watch my friend John Graham, too.”
He had talked about Francis Bacon. Christopher Marlowe’s name came up and the suspicious early death of this great writer came up, too. Woody Allen’s name came up, but only as comic relief to an otherwise deadly boring subject for high school students. John Graham liked to read Woody Allen’s essay called “But Soft…Real Soft” to his classes as a summary of how ridiculous it was that there were people at major universities worldwide who were paid handsome salaries to debate year after year who really wrote plays from 400 years ago. John Graham didn’t care who really wrote the plays, and certainly the students could give a flying leap less who wrote them. But it was one of the things John thought students who had taken a drama class in high school should know before they graduated and pretended to go out into the world trained and ready for the workplace.
But the lecture had the desired effect. He had been distracted, too, and realized that he hadn’t thought about the money for almost an entire hour. Now that class was over, however, his thoughts did return to another aspect of this new adventure in his life. He began to think how cleverly he had handled the entire situation, even planning several scenarios in advance in his mind.
Scenario one. If his police friend Greg Jones decided the money was really at John’s house, and got a search warrant for it, John had hidden the money in so clever a place that he was almost certain no one would ever find it. Result: he could keep the money and spend it slowly over a lifetime.
Scenario two. He became so overcome with guilt at having kept the money that there was no clear way to keep it without going crazy. John had decided that if this happened he would simply take the money to another town and drop it off at the nearest church or charitable organization. With the amount of time he was spending lately contemplating his options, he was smart enough to realize that this could be a distinct possibility. Crazy didn’t seem that far off.
Scenario three. He gets caught with the money, through insanity, as he had imagined before, or through carelessness. He could brag about the money to someone somewhere someday and find himself the center of suspicion. At this point, to plead insanity would not be a bad idea. Then he could return the money and beg forgiveness for his moment of weakness. His church preached repentance and forgiveness at least once a month, and it seemed to him that those with shortcomings were favored by pity at least, and usually respected more later by the congregation for having shown weaknesses.
Scenario four. John Graham knew there was another possibility out there, that there was always the unseen, the unexpected that always showed up and slapped you across the kisser with the Homer Simpson-like “Doh!” that someone who hasn’t thought everything through usually deserves. This was danger waiting to happen. John had once heard a Secretary of Defense call these the “unknown unknowns”. There was nothing you could do about it, so the best defense was not to worry about it. You could worry if you wanted to, but you would still get slapped up side of the head.
“Greg?”
“Yeah, this is Captain Jones.”
Smitty bent over the phone on his desk. “Hey, Greg, Smitty here.”
“Harold!” said Greg, a little too loud.
Harold Smith was trying not to talk too loud, because a major investigation had just fallen into his lap thanks to the help of his good friend in Ridgeway. He didn’t want to share this good fortune with anyone else in the department just now, and when a major event broke here at the office, everyone wanted a piece of the pie for their own claim to fame. “You were right on the money, buddy.”
“It’s from the robbery?” said Jones.
“The serial numbers match the last bills of $100,000. Whoever made the fake package may have had access to the entire amount,” said Smitty. “But why would they make a decoy?
“Maybe they made it on the train to distract us. So what do we do next?”
Smitty paused. “Wait just a minute. Zabronsky just came in the room. I’ll call you right back.”
Smitty had called Jones back earlier in the evening and filled him in on all the details. Unfortunately, there just wasn’t enough on the bank robbery case to work 24/7 on it, so when the next call came in, he was out the door with his partner.
It was way too late for the local gas station lights to still be on, especially when there was no one around watching the place. The police had been called by a guy who stopped for gas and had figured out after pumping it, there was no one to pay. Paranoid about being caught not paying for gas or else feeling his patriotic duty calling, he was still there when Smitty pulled up.
“This doesn’t look right,” he said, getting out of the car.
“Thanks for coming over so fast,” said the nervous customer, waving a twenty in the air. “I pumped my gas, but can’t see anyone to pay.”
Smitty looked around at the gas station, still fully lit though it was long past the posted closing time. One of the sliding glass doors was open, and music was playing inside the booth.
“Maybe the guy is in the john,” Smitty said, motioning to the back building. “Have you checked back there?”
The customer shook his head no, and Smitty motioned for his partner to check it out. Smitty walked over to the booth, and taking the information from the customer, also took his twenty. “Thanks for reporting this, and if there’s anything else we need, I’ll call you at your home number, or come by your house.”
There was no need to keep extra eyes around that would only keep asking stupid questions like, “Could you give me my change from the drawer?” Smitty explained that nothing could be touched until it they figured out what had happened, and that the change from the twenty would be mailed to him.
The now irate customer left muttering something about getting screwed by the cops every time he tried to do something good. Smitty called for another team to come in and help search the area. Then he called the corporate number on the booth to tell them one of their gas stations was unattended.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Birches by Robert Frost
This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from the weekly program "Abundance". As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday. “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” includes 33 audio episodes and a free book is available on eBay.
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
Birches
by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
Birches
by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Abundance Hearing May 9
Click on the player to hear the podcast.
Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the "Abundance" of this world every Sunday from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time). This is the entire broadcast which includes several poems. These short pieces are available here at podbean and are also available at 1001Thanks.blogspot.com. “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”, which includes all 33 audio episodes and a free book is available on eBay. Also included is Chapter Five of “The Plodder’s Mile”.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
O Captain My Captain by Walt Whitman
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
O Captain My Captain
by Walt Whitman
O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Five
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this chapter.
CHAPTER FIVE
Officer Greg Jones had a few jobs to complete. But first he had to call his deputy, who was part-time, to come over and help him catalogue the evidence. Regulations said two people had to count money, and even if he wanted to flip through the pile and see if there were more bills inside, he would still have to wait for Larry to arrive.
He worried as he waited that his good friend John may have tainted the evidence, but this still seemed to be a straight-forward robbery, and the serial numbers on the bills would match, or they wouldn’t. It wouldn’t matter once Larry was there if they could reassemble the pile of papers and money to look exactly like it had, because they would take some Polaroids and those could be used as evidence as well.
That would be the next job. He would have to call the store and have the delivery boy bring over some more film. The stuff in the camera was so old Greg doubted it would still work, and delaying any more while they waited for film would destroy the fun of the investigation.
They would together and dissect this package, and try to figure out just what had happened. Why would someone make a bundle that looked like it was a lot of money when it wasn’t? And who had the rest of the money?
Raymond Johnson was not the most patient man in the world. He had once stabbed himself in the hand with a potato pitchfork, and rather than wait for an emergency room technician to pull it back out of his hand, he calmly walked over the concrete step and pulled it out himself. He also pulled dirt back into the wound and had to have intravenous antibiotics for 3 days, but the pitchfork was out. He even went to the doctor down the street and convinced him to sew it up rather than go the next town to the emergency room.
But with $100,000 sitting somewhere out here on the tracks, Ray had developed a patience he had never experienced before. This was his fourth trip down the tracks and he still couldn’t find the bundle. He was pretty sure where the train had stopped, since there were only two road/railroad intersections in the entire town. He knew it was farther south on the tracks than the Ridgeway city limits sign he had seen from the train.
This was the right place, but there was no package. It was beginning to grow dark as Ray tried to think of what would be the next step. Without the money, he could see no future prospects, unless he was to go and rob another bank himself. The fifteen years he had spent in prison for trying to rob a bank by himself had convinced him that it was best to have a partner these days, a front man, and his best front man was enjoying cable TV back at in jail.
Tonight, Ray would have to spend a few dollars on a motel in town. Then he would think about where the money might have gone. One way or another, he was going to find that money.
John Graham was not usually a nervous person. He was able to stand in line at grocery stores while clerks took their own sweet time trying to find the subtotal key on the register. He could sit in traffic that wouldn’t move, no matter how hard the people around him honked, just enjoying the radio. He even liked standing in long lines because it gave him time to notice what the others in line really looked like, and let him wonder where they came from and what the real story behind their lives really was.
But now almost $100,000 was sitting in his house, and John was a guy who didn’t like to break a $20 because the money would then vanish in a matter of hours. He had been daydreaming at work all that day about what he could spend the money on if no one found out he had it.
He had cycled through sports cars, motorcycles, motorized parachute flyers, ultra light airplanes, cruises, hot tubs, house remodeling, expensive watches, fine art, diamonds, rare coins, expensive electronic toys, shoes, suits, and safaris. Then he would chastise himself for even thinking about spending the money since it really wasn’t his and it would probably end up back at the bank safe in the depositors’ accounts.
Then the next cycle would begin, and to relieve the guilt, John would think about what he could by for Reba. Expensive clothes, figurines, exotic trips, jewelry, furs and fast cars. Then another wave of guilt for even considering spending this windfall on such ridiculous extravagances. He should be thinking of college and books for his daughters or their husbands, trust funds for his grand-children, contributions to his church.
Would. Should. Could. John recognized this ridiculous cycle of thinking for what it really was, and thought about the fact that he might not be the best person for God to tempt with such a great temptation. He wasn’t dealing with it very well, and he realized that his preoccupation with this would soon turn into some type of mental disorder, with the end result being an institution. He could almost picture himself being carried away in a straight-jacket muttering “Rings, watches, vacations, tuition. Rings, watches, vacations, tuition….”
It was time to get focused on the matter at hand, and that wasn’t how to spend money that wasn’t really his. It was time to talk about who really wrote Shakespeare’s plays to students who didn’t really care who Shakespeare was.
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
This is another episode of “Dane Allred’s Partly-colored Dreamcoat” from the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Death Be Not Proud by John Donne
This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from the weekly program "Abundance". As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday. His new book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” is available at www.daneallred.com and on eBay. You can also sign up and get automatic downloads as a subscriber at daneallred.podbean.com or on Apple’s iTunes.
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
Death Be Not Proud
by John Donne
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
Death Be Not Proud
by John Donne
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
Click on the player above to hear an audio version of this poem.
This is another episode of “Literature Out Loud” from the weekly program “Abundance”. As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday. His new book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” is available at www.daneallred.com and on eBay. You can also sign up and get automatic downloads as a subscriber at dane.allred.podbean or on Apple’s iTunes.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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