14, 240. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,261

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,261

(the drainage ditch of time)

I'm not a fan  -  at all  -  of

nostalgia, though I do get

somehow put into that 

category, much to my own

consternation : old photos,

and things to remember. The

superfluousness of the modern

day, however, is more what

drives me. Nostalgia is both

weak, and thin. It holds nothing,

and brings nothing new to the

table except maybe gawking

backwards. At that superfluity.

At what has been thrown away.

-

Today's world has to be backed

by something better than that; to

be tolerated or seen for what it

is. It needs steel and education.

Nostalgia, by contrast, is dumb and

soft. Things need to be pushed and

shattered, tossed; not just looked

at. We have somehow lost all the 

categories that once brought out

all the glories. Highways through

the middle of country towns, and

overhead ramps and turn-offs for

cheap plazas and junk  -  it's as

if everyone's gone unconscious

and, zombie-like, just walks about

in a daze unmindful of what's now

around them and where they are.

And no one ever stops to think or

see how and by whom this has

occurred. That's where the nostalgia

racket comes in  -  the same plotters

who schemed all this crap out are

busy presenting the past as an ideal.

It never truly was, and any notion

of the past becomes their Hallmark

card version of cheesy glamor: the

open hearth, the country lane, the

big trees, the grandma at the stove

anxiously awaiting again her kids'

and grandkids' visit. That's where

the Little Red Riding Hood aspect

of the hidden evil hides: the nostalgic

yen for allowing the bastards with

the sharpened teeth to have their

way.

-

True nostalgia, I guess, would be

filth and odor. Carcasses and sick 

people. Old timers chopping wood

with aching backs and tired limbs,

and kids with fevers and open sores

eating berries and mushrooms. It

can't be avoided, the taking of

anything to an extreme and the

extent of the falsehood of 'nostalgia'

is that it always picks a most gentle

and comfortable spot to drop you

off into so you can miss the direct

assault of the present on your own

place and time. Councilmen on the

take voting yes for more condos. 

Mayors and Town Supervisors

huddling with out-of-state and

corporate developers to flip over

enough money and loose change

so as to betray both their place and

people, substituting instead hideously

perfect glamor palaces of historic

local bullshit and tax-burden old

categories of homes, and houses 

as 'History' museums for the local 

scum to come and drool about all

they've lost.  Like a veterans' home

soldier with a couple of wounds,

each wound gets its own story.

-

It's all sleight-of-hand really; all

that nostalgia crap becomes a

trick, used by professional thieves

to steal the nose from off your face.

I want none of that. None. Everyone's

had a Grandfather who did this or

who did that. So what?

-

I left all that. I live now in a pile

of rubble, a place tripping over its

own ruins and memories  -  old

and twisted barns, abandoned 

homes, unused silos, broken 

down trucks and cars, signs that

curse out Presidents and cast out

Devils. The stories of the past here

are of old days and slaughter, the

raids of settlers and Indians upon

each other, unmarked graves and

tales of massacre and woe  -  fishing

damns, railroad trails, and calamities.

Anyone wishing the make nostalgia

from such a storied past is usually

stopped by the reality of the present.

There's little bullshit out here and

mostly what goes on, mostly, I repeat,

are silent avowals of the current

work of day-today living. The

drainage ditch here is deep, but

it runs out very slowly.

-

I like the world better that way.

Turning the light on to press through

the darkness is only good if that light

illumines not just a nostalgic view of

the past, but a notably realistic view

of the now: a well-darned sock of the

present  -  reeking with the odor

of toes sticking out and well-worn

heels of betrayal and disquiet.

14,239. SACRED TO HEART

SACRED TO HEART

The torrent of my blinding heart

is what you think you're seeing;

but it's not. I was only born to

see this through. Yesterday, and

tomorrow too. Are they supposed

to all add up to pleasure?

-

Here the letters I've written  can 

really stand out  -  I can write them

to you, like a postcard from some

lucrative spa, waiting for my steam

to change to fire and burn me.

-

A scalded heart is probably red, as

red as that of Jesus, the one with

the sacred heart, emitting small 

flames like desire. Is that really

how one radiates goodness?

14,238. MONSTER GRAPHICS

 MONSTER GRAPHICS

Can you eat my cat 'o nine

tails before I count to three?

The gold gift medallion is now

waiting for thee. I looked up at

the sky and saw, distant, high,

some jet trail that was disrupting

the sky : Spirit Air like the old 

Peoples' Express? Everyone 

bracing to buy stock in the best,

but these budget airlines just

ain't worth the test.

-

If figure if your pilot can't land

then just stay up in the sky, I'll

keep looking up and wave you 

goodbye.

14,237. AMETHYST MONKEYSHINES

AMETHYST MONKEYSHINES

Whatever it was, I had to make sure

it wouldn't happen again; like opening

a cereal box with a shoehorn. 'He's back

in town!' I heard someone say. 'Not me,'

I replied, 'I'm going away.'

-

Remonstrance and new fabrication.

They were all talking about some war.

I wasn't sure which one but it sure

sounded familiar. As same as all the

others too. Leaving my dog at the

meat counter now.

-

I wasn't meant to be like this. The girl

at the coffee shack looked me over. I

was three times her age, but decided

not to say. She had a wet head, and 

was leaning on the fake fence they 

had around the wait line. Those

places always make me nervous.

-

No one playing cards; no, they

mostly stare at screens, or some

cranky Princeton marms just keep

jabbering on. I liked things the

way they used to be : I'd walk

right in and have coffee and sit

me down next to Mari Lee.

14,236.RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,260

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,260

(hanging out, while learning)

The thing about Inman Avenue, 

the street I lived on, was that it

did end with Rt. One. That artery

of movement  -  cars always

running by, while I sat. At first

I wasn't even sure where it went,

in either direction. But I soon

learned the ways: NYC in one

direction north, and in the other

some vague thing called 'Shore

Points.' Soon enough, I got

familiar with that direction. 

My father had a penchant for

taking 'young son' to the salt

water fishing spots all along those

'shore points.' Nearly every good

Saturday, for a while, he'd pile

me into the 1953 Ford Wagon

he had, and we'd putter off to

some guy's dock where small

boats were rented, like 6 bucks

for the day. My father would

bring along a 10 hp outboard

motor he had and we'd clamp

it onto the rear of some rowboat

type rental and be gone. Hours

spent thusly  -  motoring out

along the roiling waters, past

other, larger of course, boats, 

and fishing or crabbing for way 

too many hours. I grew tired

of that routine, but it went on,

and it started early too, like

6am, so we'd be home by 4 

with either 6 or 7 bluefish 

or fluke or flounder, say, 

and/or some 80 crabs. I

used to think 'having the 

blues' had something to do

with fishing, until I learned

music. 

-

I guess if I disliked the ocean,

I loved the river  -  the river here

being Route One with its steady

stream of traffic. North. I never

cared twice about the southbound 

cars, but I'd take my bicycle often

and ride to the end of the street, by

the trailer court and the junkyards,

just to stand there or sit on a rock

or a stump, and watch the flow.

Of cars and trucks wending steadily

on their way to, as I soon learned,

places I felt much more attuned

to  -  the two airports, the truck

depots, the highway stops, the

skyway and then the Holland 

Tunnel. All approachable in

minutes  -  20 easy miles off by

car. No, it's not like that now,

but traffic has changed and much

of the old roadway paths are gone.

But back then the traveling was

still easy, and no big-box stores

nor any of the other junk that

today throws at us littered the 

way. Old Route One went straight 

on with few hindrances : Linden

Airport and the GM Plant, in the

postwar switchover back to

producing autos and not tanks 

and things for the war. Every

local loser in the world had a

good chance of getting a job there.

Right past it was the Gordon's

Gin Distillery, and then some

Instant Coffee place  -  the odors

were sometimes cool, and just

right too, as I supposed always

that booze and coffee went hand

in hand. There was a cookie factory

too, back behind it all. The Gypsy

graveyard, and the Jewish ones.

A few churches, and then the big

airport, Newark. There was a

large curve in the speed-highway

there, and  -  on our trips back to

Bayonne to visit remnant family

members - he'd always take it at

about 100 mph, it seemed. One

time, at the 'Welcome to Newark,

the Science City. Hugh Addonizio,

Mayor', sign he finally got snagged

and written up by some surly cop.

Surely, he was surly, Shirley. That

was one of my word-games to self.

-

When you're a kid, there's not like

any 'proclamation' that tells you

what to like, or dislike. It's more

about family and parents and the

rest, steering you or telling you

already what you like or dislike. 

I never got to be part of that, sort

of always remaining aloof. All

the things that others liked and by

which they were kept happy. were

things I hated. Nonetheless, I had

to soldier on, and did so in my way.

'Kid television' was no help  -  all

that silly shoot-'em-up cowboy stuff,

Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, clowns

and puppets, some school-teacher

type lady with a bell, who was always

droning on about something. And

I sort of hated cartoons too, which

everyone else liked  -  they seemed

one-dimensional and without much

essence, plus the subject matter

always seemed ridiculous to me.

Cats coming out of faucets; dogs

always shown sleepy; Farmer Brown

and his people; other characters who

were always hiding behind trees!

All I ever noticed was trees being

destroyed and torn down, and the

busy drones of development undoing

all of the golden world being otherwise

presented as Edenic. Never figured out

why that went  -  how adults could 

destroy the same world they seemed

to idealize.

-

I was a mess, I figured...and they'd

made me that way  -  commerce, trade.

money, work. All that stuff was a newer

form of encumbrance and slavery, and

all these people just fell into it. I was

pretty perplexed as a kid, and never

really comfortable. The respite that

getting smeared by a locomotive gave

to me, I realized two years later, wasn't

really so bad. I tried just hanging out,

listening to the adults and pretending

I understood, or nodding assent. It

was all a search, mostly for invisibility.

I was already tired of all their crap,

and spent my muse-time in fantasy

worlds of my own. 

-

The junkyards too were all along

Route One. As you travelled, you

could see the north-flow of junk,

lands being filled and soiled with

oils and fluids of wrecked and dead

cars, junkyards and back-lots filled

with them. Many of them are still

there, visible quite nicely, some, 

from the rail-rides and the train 

tracks. There's this one street along

the east back-sides of Elizabeth and

Newark, that's nothing but junkyards,

one after the other; except maybe now

they call them 'Auto Salvage' yards

and they're all organized and sorted

out, and run with computers too. It

used to be they'd just send you out

back, into the jumbled heaps of crap,

and let you find the compatible vehicle

for what you needed and have you

take it off. Then they had helpers too,

and these greasy old guys who just

about knew where every car part or

screw and bolt and mirror that you

were seeking could be found, and

exactly to location too! I always

wanted to work in a junkyard, like

that, and grow old and greasy and

grizzled knowing all that stuff, but

I could never get started, from the

one at Leesville on out, because they

all wanted me to, in order to be hired,

have my own rolling-card set of

tools and all the rest to bring in. I

never had any money for that stuff,

so I was always locked out of that

career move. Later on I became 

friends with a cool guy named 

Fred Fox, and his father, on the 

edge of the highway in Rahway 

(it's all gone now, and them too

too, since they re-routed the 

highway and built new  overpasses 

and a municipal incinerator). His 

garage and shop was pretty

much a compact equivalent of 

the best of the junkyards I'd ever 

seen. Sometimes I'd just hang

out there, a'learnin!

14,235. HEREWITH REMOVAL

HEREWITH REMOVAL

They never should have stopped in

Lambertville but instead just kept

going. All that southern comfort

and easy climes  -  fairer weather

than one would ever imagine  -  

stopped them at the border. The

river had soured. The paper mill

ran on.

-

Trying to cross the Delaware, three 

kids died on Tuesday; rolled right

off the log they were riding.

-

Sometimes you can't tame the waters,

but they can sure tame you.

14,234. MOST KINDLY

MOST KINDLY

For the man who looks like

Robin Hood most everything's

a giveaway, I'd guess. Meeting

Little John on that walkway 

bridge, we all just knew that

someone had to give. It was

not a martial air that we were

hearing  -  just the snort of

horses and the clatter of those

anxious men who's traipsed

the Sherwood paths for days.

Tired. Maybe disgruntled too.

("One of them must move,

to let the other through!')...

14,233. TO BE SUPERSTITIOUS

 TO BE SUPERSTITIOUS

Staring down the barrel of a

recoiling gun leaves little time

for reflection. See that thing?

Gone! In an instant!

-

Time is funny like that, how

it passes. It takes a a good

month for a tree to lose its

leaves, yet we can leave this

life in a moment. Jeez!

-

The coin that lands heads up?

That must mean something

good. The ladybug on the

window brings good luck,

it's understood. But in spite

of all these actions, I'll take

my chances blind.

-

The wind is leaving, gently.

I hope to leave in kind.

14,232. MY HIP-HOP IS A MISH-MASH

MY HIP-HOP IS 

A MISH-MASH 

Always been like that Heaven help us

God helps those who help themselves.

14,231. RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,259

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,259

('stranded in a desolate wilderness')

It was a funny time, this living

as I was doing  -  on Inman 

Avenue, in a place called Avenel, 

which never amounted to much

for me, as a place, except for

an occasional and dreary dot

on a local map as an outpost

of something that was underway

as greater 'Woodbridge.' Which

was all wrong, because there

was nothing great about that 

either, except as a town that

was dwindling down into

old enclaves of Hungarians,

Poles, and other Slavs, with

corner taverns and gin mills

abundant. Railroad and 

refinery stuff, mostly. Soon

enough even that was engulfed

by the entering and crossing of

both the Turnpike and the Parkway,

which crossed there and brought

many a wayward truck and

warehouse into being. At the

end of my street, Inman Ave,

there was a truck depot for

'Teufel Bothers'  -  which

meant 'Devil' in German, and

which I duly noted. They had

tanker trucks for fuel oil and

gasoline parked around. next

to them was a trailer park, filled

too with an odd share of faintly

Germanic names as well. Odd, that.

A few of the NYC wrestlers on

the wrestling circuit lived there:

Karl Van Ness, I think was one,

and some other guy too, name

now forgotten. But a 'Killer

Kowalski' and 'Haystack Calhoun'

type. They came and went on

their wrestling tours, leaving

trailer kids and I guess a wife

(or two) behind. The kids, boys,

that I got to know were OK, but

sort of measly in the outreach

department. Quiet and unassuming.

Unlike their Dads' bombastic

loudmouthed wrestling way.

It's funny how time removes all

of that, as now I hardly remember

what went on. I also had a trailer

friend there named Gary Anthony.

He came and went in the matter

of a few years  -  like maybe 5th

and 6th grades, but he was the

first person I knew without a

father. He lived there, in a trailer, 

with his mother. Just the two of

them. He was a bit effeminate, I

always thought (in those days long

before 'gay' was anything), and

I always just blamed it on too much

living with Mom. Whatever. 

-

The cool thing about the trailer court,

and probably the reason for its existence

in Avenel  -  otherwise pretty worthless  -

was that it was situated on Route One

North, an easy access and quick drive

to the two tunnels accessing NYCity.

The Holland Tunnel back then I

don't even think was a dollar yet.

More like a quarter probably, and 

it was a scant 17 or so miles away,

via the Skyway. The 'Pulaski'

Skyway that is, speaking of the

honored Poles of our then existence.

I always liked the Skyway  -  it was

elevated high above the grubby 

expanse of the outlying Newark 

and Kearney meadows, it was free,

and it soared skyward in a unique

way. Years later, when I was

motorcycle-ganging it, the

Skyway became a unexcelled

speedway for both flash and

drunken kinetics at high speeds.

There was little to care about, on

two wheels and properly 'lubricated,'

when one was elevated high above

like that  -  open lanes and basic

upward and downward straightaways.

One time, coming off the Skyway,

late at night and plastered like fish,

four or five of us basically splattered

along the sidewall high curbing

coming down off it. Bikes went 

flying, well, sliding anyway, as

we each, miraculously, were

separated from our bikes and

slid too along the ground. It was

late, and dark. Pieces and people

were scattered (my wife had flown

off the back, and I had to find her).

We were pretty much unscathed,

but bloodied up, road-rash and

scratches. All the motorcycles

were able to travel back to Iselin, 

except for one. There's a story there,

and I'm getting to it.

-

Back in Iselin, one of the guy's

wives, Peg, was a lead nurse at

JFK Hospital, and  - though angry

at the event  -  was able to patch

and sooth those who needed attention,

salve, bandages, etc. (RIP, Peg, we

miss you dearly). It took hours

before the last guy, whose bike had

been immobilized, showed up. As

we all were standing around at the

Skyway crash location, two hairy

biker guys had shown up, unbeknownst

to us from where, in a station wagon.

They stopped, pulled over, and said

they'd take the smashed motorcycle,

and its rider, back to Iselin, thereby

saving us cops and trouble. They'd

been alerted on some Hoboken

radio-connection that bikers were

in immediate need, and had answered

the call. (I found all this out later).

They scooped up the motorcycle

and the rider (Pete), but it was 

hours before he returned, with them,

to Iselin, for his own version of

medical attention. We were all

confused. 'What kept you? Where

were you for two hours plus?' It

turned out that his good samaritans

of that night, armed and ready, 

 were also out on a pre-scheduled

drug-delivery deal to the very pits

of Jersey City  -  which delivery into

dangerous turf and its own pitfalls,

had consumed well more than an

hour. No matter, we were all back

together, they stuck around a bit

for a beer or two, and left.

-

My friend Howard, from what was

then Edison Harley, took my

motorcycle in for repairs, and I

had it hopped-up and re-tuned at

the same time. Some 1200 dollars

later, in those days (1993?) a good

chunk, I had a new killer motorcycle

under my legs. Pete used to build

his own bikes, so he came out with

a new project and a story to tell.

-

Woodbridge, being what it was,

had its own smooth feel of immigrant

and arriviste. By contrast, Avenel,

and then Iselin, both co-existed on

some modest (very) scale beneath

the supposed gentility of all those

Woodbridge people, with their larger

homes, older streets, and a main drag.

Most of our bars were Iselin bars,

except for the Maple Tree, which

was definitely Avenel. All of these 

places  -  the Pioneer, Hank's, Jack's,

and Flip's...and the Maple Tree and

maybe the Blue Bird, were well

below sanction in the class-department

of proper drinking. But, like the Avenel

trailer court (Hiram's), we neither cared

nor did it matter. It was what it was

and it ought to have stayed. 

-

I learned about that 'Teufel' Brothers

thing meaning Devil from a 5th/6th

grade friend of mine, Theresa Nocks.

Which I always thought was Knox.

While in the 'portables' - a shack

section of the grade school we went 

too, which were not 'portable' in any

way and never moved an inch  -  she

and I for some reason often got eraser

detail. That meant that, at the end of

the last class in Friday's we'd get to 

go outside, with all the erasers, and

clean them, as it were  -  by slapping

them on the brick sides of the School 4

walls. Soon enough they got, instead, 

an electric eraser-cleaner, which was

like a grinder but it had, instead, a

soft brush that whirred around, to

which we'd gently hold the erasers as

they cleaned off, with white powder

flying everywhere. I never knew

much about Theresa, except that she

lived on Clark Place, the second

house in, next to Waler Wilk. She

was vaguely Germanic, and used to

say 'Danke', instead of 'thank you.'

And she also was able, somehow, to

me that Teufel meant Devil in German.

-

Yeah man, it can be said that I

miss those days and still hold what

I can of the memories dear. Life is a

weird thing, throwing stuff like this

at us without a guidebook or any

advance notifications of what it all

will be. Like being stranded in

a desolate wilderness, young, and

without any shoes, just waiting

for whatever comes.

14,230. WITHOUT AMPLIFICATION

WITHOUT AMPLIFICATION

Like the monasteries of old that

just fell to oblivion, that's how my

heart left the town that I lived in.

Not once, not twice, and not three

times either. Every move was a

feint, a sidestep from that same

oblivion of old.

-

The Scriptorium goes empty, and

there are no longer any monks to

write. The wine-fields are barren

and burned or encroached. All

that are left are the stories and 

myths : Anselm. Benedict. and

Bernard. 

-

My bones are brittle from  a lack

of sustenance. I live on like some

fiery hack who won't shut up.

14,229. CEDAR POST

CEDAR POST

Down at the Cedar Post, the

assholes were still gaggling

about Will Smith. 'Who the 

hell's that?' I asked. 'And what

do I care?' Then the swing-man

from Shohola stepped over to

me and said, 'I know just what 

you mean.'

-

I looked down at the cavernous

floor, thinking 'I might not come

here any more,' but that thought

passed. I drove over to Barryville,

where there was another bar at

the corner.

-

Down at the other bar at the corner,

the assholes were still gaggling

about Will Smith. 'Who the 

hell's that?' I asked. 'And what

do I care?' Then the some guy

from Eldred stepped over to

me and said, 'I know just what 

you mean.'

-

I looked down at the cavernous

floor, thinking 'I might not come

here any more,' but that thought

passed. I drove over to Shohola,

where there was another bar at

the corner.....

14,228. CAN YOU BRING ME SOMETHING DIFFERENT?

CAN YOU BRING ME 

SOMETHING DIFFERENT?

The sky has broken open again and

I can see right through it  -  that most

dense blue is really another world. I'm

thinking I want to fly. Over. Under.

Around. And through. What does

that sound like to you?

-

I hold the rainfall that batters my head

in my hand  -  the rain is in my hand,

not my head. Can't you understand?

-

Fires burn bright at the edge of the

cliff; as if an underdraft, driving up,

ignited new flames. I'll just stay here

and watch a while.

14,227. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,258

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,258

(contentious cockroaches)

In startling ways I now look

back upon my old childhood 

days as something I'll never

see again - as regards people

and societal habits. It's easy

to overlook, yes, but as I

recollect back, it now seems

almost a golden age if compared

to the society of today. Try as

I may, I cannot ever recall the

sorts of contentious issues that

today bungle everything up.

I guess society was a lot more 

primitive 70 years ago, in those

respects anyway, but the most

we ever heard about to fear was,

perhaps, a 'truant officer' or a

'dog catcher' to snatch our loose

Fido. Never did I hear of things

like DYFS or Child Welfare or 

race sensitivity or spousal abuse

at home, with or without kids.

-

Now, yes, it may be that all of

that existed and we never saw it,

but that merely supplants my

reference here  -  we lived in a

quite happy bliss of baseball cards

and pick-up ball games, or rock

collecting through the woods and

stream. Investigating things. Rides

on our bikes to rivers and woods.

I never once heard of care about

intangible issues about words and

attitudes and points-of-view. We

fairly well did what we wished and

the Devil take the hindmost.

-

You may call me stupid, and that's

OK, but there was no enraptured

drama of today's sort, about styles

and fashions, gangs or cliques, and

certainly none of todays ephemera,

from keyboard sidelights to Internet

issues of communication. Mostly our

mothers and fathers always seemed

true-to-core, and there were never

problems past the usual points of

family disciplines or any internal 

squabbles, which stayed that way.

Even (in my strata anyway) divorce

was a seldom thing. Most all of my

friends had two parents and the usual

roles and genders.

-

I tery to figure out now the unhappiness

the must run through society to have

brought us all these ambiguous ways

of catching up with and controlling

problems and 'infractions' that  -  back

then  -  weren't even perceived. How

did any of that happen? Certainly not

because people are smarter now. Just

the opposite. Everything has been

hammer-headed down now to a blunt

and rounded circle of circumstantial

evidenes by which we only know of

the problem(s) when someone else

tells us of them  -  most likely to try

and sell us a false cure. Maybe it's

the rot and sugar of fast food? The

inherent foulness of chemicals in

everyday snacks and meals. The

highly-vaunted means by which all

this racketeering is sold to us : media,

medicine, journalism, and TV and

all that ambrosiacal 'streaming' stuff

that goes on.

-

In my clarified world of 'then'  -  when

I was a youngster  -  we'd occasionally

see some bloviating, red-faced, preacher

or authority figure going on about the

evils of rock 'n roll, or communism,

or flouride, or schooling. If anyone

ever listened, it was all thought of as

funny, country-hick stuff; people in

a frenzy of fingers and limbs, seeing

evil bonfires on every hillside. The

Vandals of the night were back to get

us! Burn your books and records! The

Devil is on the loose...

-

Now, in retrospect it's all seen as just a

dream, one maybe bordering in nightmare,

but a dream nonetheless; a dream on the

edge, a precipice from which we are

about to be thrown. Learning has taught 

me only one thing, really : That the

'clarity' of old is gone, and that maybe

the Devil really is upon us and clutching.

To Hell with the books and records, burn

yourself!

-

Streetcorner preachers there still are;

they used to say 'Stop!' and 'Ban the 

Bomb!' Now they say nothing except

the most perverse words about success

and riches, achievable only on the

back of Jesus and His saints. 'Refresh

Yourself!' has taken over from 'Repent!'

The church too used to be part of that

society or propriety and rule. Now it's

a foul joke. The more I delve, the sadder

it all seems. There's a book by Richard

Fletcher, entitled 'The Barbarian

Conversion' -  I just read it, and you

should too. It puts the slow drum of

secular versus religious in a whole

other light. The entire field of that 

endeavor is all laid out.

-

I think  -  to write frankly  -  I've

become too advanced for the paltry

little world of 'Men' and all their

opinions and societies and agencies.

(Men, that is, as in Human, both

male and female, your contentious

cockroaches). My own world long

ago spun out of control and recovered

its orbit and  -  even with wobble  - 

still rolls nicely along. For me. The

rest of it all, I couldn't care less about

anymore. It's all lies and slander and

calumny and sloth and idiocy and

filth. Ever hear of the Seven Deadly

Sins? I just received the new version

of that....from on high. They've been

re-titled now, as the Seven-Hundred

and Thirty One Deadly Sins. 

And still going strong.