Sunday, January 01, 2006

for this new year ... of course ... i'm wishing much peace and happiness and understanding and compassion to us all in general ... and you in particular, dear reader ... may we each be more conscious of the blessings that pour down over us every day ... even now

posted at 12:16 PM


Saturday, December 31, 2005

Happy Birthday, Meg!!

posted at 1:16 PM

wring out the old
sing in the nude

bring out the odd
spring on the gnu

string out the cod
cling to the knew

bling out the mod
swing in the yew

suzanne's oldyear-newyear song seems just about the best i've seen in a while ... my sentiments exactly

posted at 10:18 AM


Friday, December 30, 2005

trying to catch up a bit with the fyp05 first line index ... i think much of this project is about accumulation ... and that this is a fitting project for a life like mine which is about accumulations ... of me and the varied stuffs i call mine ... but with these pomes and their first lines something else is going on ... that is not completely or doesn't seem completely ... arbitrary as the alphabet ... i imagine standing up for a complete reading of the index ... wondering what kind of performance that might be ... still haven't dropped the notion that it might be danced or sung or performed some way by many voices ... singly doubly triply and grouped and all together ... it would be an ultimate narcissism ... and lots of fun

posted at 8:08 PM


Thursday, December 29, 2005

had a very good afternoon with mr. p. whitgrove of san francisco... poet ... we wandered through the art institute and over to millenium park ... & i meant what i said when i said it was a good thing i forgot the camera because i was in the unmediated now and having a real good time there in the art and the chilly wind walking and talking ... like that

posted at 7:45 PM

stumbled onto Imagining America: Icons of 20th-Century American Art last night ... quite a lot of fun

posted at 9:58 AM

Chapter 1

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo

His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.

He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.

O, the wild rose blossoms
On the little green place.

He sang that song. That was his song.

O, the green wothe botheth.

When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.

His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:

Tralala lala,
Tralala tralaladdy,
Tralala lala,
Tralala lala.

Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.

Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper.

The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:

-- O, Stephen will apologize.

Dante said:

-- O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.--

Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes.

Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,

The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects urged them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said.

Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog- in-the-blanket. And one day be had asked:

-- What is your name?

Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.

... happy 89th birthday, mr. dedalus

posted at 9:32 AM


Wednesday, December 28, 2005


posted at 12:47 PM


Tuesday, December 27, 2005

a good goosey christmas time with mom and meg and korie and luke and pat and mike and josh and beth and rihab ... good gifting all around ... even the funniest moment when mike and i realize we've given each other a cd we each already have ... but neither has the one we got for the other ... so we just swapped ... and now he's listening to neil young's prairie wind & i've got the way mellow guitar/bass of metheny/haden beyond the missouri sky ... i hope mike finds his choice for me as much to his liking as i've found my choice for him ... & beth is the latest family member to take a stab at getting us to remember each other's important dates ... with her Murphy Family Red Letter Days calendar ... complete with that wonderful photo circa 1963 ('64?) with each of our younger selves ... it may be the only picture of all twelve of us ... many thanks again for all the stuff ... i can feel the love

posted at 10:22 AM

Beloit College Mindset Lists

posted at 9:18 AM


Monday, December 26, 2005

from Thomas Merton

There must be a time of day when the man who makes plans forgets his plans, and acts as if he had no plans at all.

There must be a time of day when the man who has to speak falls very silent.  And his mind forms no more propositions, and he asks himself: Did they have a meaning?

There must be a time when the man of prayer goes to pray as if it were the first time in his life he had ever prayed; when the man of resolutions puts his resolutions aside as if they had all been broken, and he learns a different wisdom: distinguishing the sun from the moon, the stars from the darkness, the sea from the dry land, and the night sky from the shoulder of a hill.

from No Man is an Island by Thomas Merton. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, New York, 1955.

 A note [from The Merton Foundation] about inclusive language. Merton wrote before inclusive language was common practice.  In light of Merton's inclusive position on so many issues and his many references to our essential unity, we hope these reflections will be read from an inclusive point of view.

posted at 9:52 PM


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