Bulletin on the Conclusion of
I might call this a bulletin to myself and, should resist that urge.
With the posting of chapter #46, Ardensville is concluded or as we
in the industry say, “The End”. Now should Howard Hawks or John
Huston or Frankenheimer call, it might move to another or higher
dimension. Or not.
I'm grateful to those who helped and those who encouraged me.
Especially am I grateful to the great Juan Fernandez, lay out and
web master extraordinaire. Thank You for hangin'in there with Celia.
I would also thank Robin Bass who endowed Ardensville a visual
signature of distinction.
Thank You(s) for hangin' in there with Celia. I hope we provided
some amusement in the two years it took to roll the story out, one
of those years having a substantial appetite for amusement. Aw hell,
Now as much as ever, your comment and criticism is invited and
welcome. I promise, you will not be punished or persecuted for
availing to us your thoughts. Thank You.
“Next case”, as my Father would conclude. I was thinking, maybe,
a longish comic poem about mono-agriculture. In this our Age of
Anxiety we might all be elevated with the aroma from A Pot of Basil.
When is a cautionary tale NOT part of a remedy.
Peace and Health
this our troubled
Well here's a bit of interesting news; an old buddy o' mine and I filed
a patent for something we've been working on for a few months now. It's a
little spray bottle thing (pocket size) that you would use when putting a new
mask into circulation. You give it a little shpritz with our formula and instantly,
before you ever put it on, your mask will smell like bad teeth, deep burp and
disinfectant. Better living through chemistry. We think we've got a hit.
To other matters, Spring is sprung. A bumper sticker for the ages.
Crocuses leap from the Earth like they were snake bit. Soon behind them the
gladiolas and yellow yellow daffodils. I just love them bulbs, don't you.
The conclusion of Ardensville is afoot. I once knew an attorney who
moved from lucrative divorce law to less lucrative licensing. I was applying
for a liquor license at the time. She said the duration of most divorce cases
was wearing her down terribly so she moved to an area of the law that
provided closure. She expedited the acquisition of the license, we shook hands
and I never saw her again. Ahhh, closure.
Folksizhome will continue and Celia and Petra, Harold, Morrow,
the Crew, Penny and Babby will ride into some sunset but as day follows
night, so Winter gives way to Spring and here we are.
Let us all rise, face the Sun and breathe in deeply. That was one
tough Winter. And heartfelt toasts to those now absent from our midst this
otherwise glorious Spring. Primavera.
03/13/21 Just Knock
How strange it has become and how strange it all is. But it seems to
stop at – is. Now, I have to go with the ritual deprivation angle here.
Rituals are more than lighting candles (how archaic is that?) or feasts or
murdering trees or trips to the dentist. They are shared common experiences
which may provide social cohesion. To this effect, rituals can reinforce social
distinctions or, they can overcome social distinctions creating homogeneity
over larger aggregated populations.
Rituals also provide for us, the anticipation of events, which we take
for granted, that will occur. Anything taken for granted can become the
dreaded false sense of security. In this universe at least, nothing has-is-will be
I never cared for digital clocks. They suggest to me that Time just moves
forward in a straight line through infinity. In an unorganic concept, this might
be so but that is not my experience of it. Mine is a sense of circles.
Sun up, Sun down. Moon up and then down. Start all over again.
Circles. Everywhere. When time is reduced to a straight line, to me, it
becomes as the unsettling void of distance at sea when land is beyond sight.
When sailors of antiquity were troubled by the immeasurable distances of
the oceans, what did they do? They consulted the circles. Circles do not lie.
They do not conceal or guide us falsely.
Now, many of us and in varying degrees, all of us, are out to sea without
an astrolabe. Bereft our rituals, time takes on a distinct shapelessness.
The future once so dependable, now lurks below the surface. At least on
shit creek you know what direction things go, paddle or not.
Spring is on Her way
Now there's a ritual
To count on,
Bet the cave on.