is a tiny wandering imaginary dinosaur which migrated from AOL in October of 2008.

Thinking Lizard

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Rhodingeedaddee is my node blog. See my other blogs and recent posts.


[6-16-2009 Update Insert: Most of what is in this space is now moot. I found out what I was doing wrong and have reinstated Archives and Labels searches. They do work. However, in certain cases you may prefer Labels to Archives. Example: 1976 Today begins in November of 2006 and concludes in December of 2006, but there are other related posts in other months. Note: Labels only shows 20 posts at a time. There are 21 hubs, making 21 (which is for 1976 Today) an older hub.] ********************************* to my online poems and song lyrics using Archives. Use hubs for finding archival locations but do not link through them. Originally an AOL Journal, where the archive system was nothing like the system here, this blog was migrated from there to here in October of 2008. Today (Memorial/Veteran's Day, May 25, 2009) I discovered a glitch when trying to use a Blogger archive. Now, it may be template-related, but I am unable to return to S M or to the dashboard once I am in the Archives. Therefore, I've decided on this approach: a month-by-month post guide. The sw you see in the codes here stood for Salchert's Weblog when I began it in November of 2006. It later became Sprintedon Hollow. AOL provided what were called entry numbers, but they weren't consistent, and they didn't begin at the first cardinal number. That is why the numbers after "sw" came to be part of a post's code. ************** Here then is the month-by-month post guide: *2006* November: 00001 through 00046 - December: 00047 through 00056 -- *2007* January: 00057 through 00137 - February: 00138 through 00241 - March: 00242 through 00295 - April: 00296 through 00356 - May: 00357 through 00437 - June: 00438 through 00527 - July: 00528 though 00550 - August: 00551 through 00610 - September: 00611 through 00625 - October: 00626 through 00657 - November: 00658 through 00729 - December: 00730 through 00762 -- *2008* January: 00763 through 00791 - February: 00792 through 00826 - March: 00827 through 00849 - April: 00850 through 00872 - May: 00873 through 00907 - June: 00908 through 00931 - July: 00932 through 00955 - August: 00956 through 00993 - September 00994 through 01005 - October: 01006 through 01007 - November: 01008 through 01011 - December: 01012 through 01014 -- *2009* January: 01015 through 01021 - February: 01022 through 01028 - March: 01029 through 01033 - April: 01034 through 01036 - May: 01037 through 01044 - ******************************************************* 1976 Today: 2006/11 and 2006/12 -- Rooted Sky 2007: 2007/01/00063rsc -- Postures 2007: 2007/01/sw00137pc -- Sets: 2007/02/sw00215sgc -- Venturings: 2007/03/00216vc -- The Undulant Trees: 2007/03/00266utc -- This Day's Poem: 2007/03/00267tdpc -- Autobio: 2007/04/sw00316ac -- Fond du Lac: 2007/04/00339fdl -- Justan Tamarind: 2007/05/sw00366jtc -- Prayers in December: 2007/05/sw00393pindc -- June 2007: 2007/06/sw00440junec -- Seminary: 2007/07/sw00533semc -- Scatterings: 2008/08/00958sc ** Song Lyrics: 2008/02/sw00797slc ********** 2009-06-02: Have set S M to show 200 posts per page. Unfortunately, you will need to scroll to nearly the bottom of a page to get to the next older/newer page.


Tuesday, November 28, 2006


13 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (183-197) [ AM 9 Wednesday 2006-11-29 Note: Given that I often comment on my writings, and given that I often revise what I have written, and given that sometimes I parody what I've written, I herein admit I have for some months been considering using a Creative Commons License; but, until I can be sure/ what I am writing is being read, why should I get such a license? I know I am a maverick, but not a granite head. I know an opinion I espouse today/ I may on/ some tomorrow/ differently espouse. I understand that my intent to place online as much of what I in my soon-to-be 66 years have written (and continue to write) as I see is of value, even if others do not see it so, does suggest/ I wish/ to carry on an open conversation with/ others in the noosphere, a wish which a CCL would certainly make clear; however, I am not quite ready to make that move. Also, as I want to be sure you know the obvious: I find political correctness insidious. So, if you want to call me turd, I grant you permission. I do. My point here is: Freedom of speech can only persist as freedom of speech when touting it is not undermined by subservience to/ opposing opinions. I do not advocate violence; but I do advocate tough love. If you want a certain person, myself included, to grow in knowledge and wisdom and whatever other goodly virtue, you must be willing to share, and not by saying: "Okay, we'll make it easier on you"; but rather by saying: "Okay, you are able to do this. Let's see how/ we together can enable you to do more." Teachers must always be willing to learn from whatever and whomever, but must at the same time be willing to lead forth, and not do so wimpily. Have I been guilty of wimpy teaching? Yes. I have been guilty of many reprehensible acts. Pandering is a vice. Sometimes, this or that person considered me a genius. I warrant you, I am no giant intellectually, or any other way. I am an INFP on the edge of becoming an ENFP, for what that's worth. Read what I write, and if it makes you laugh, laugh. Thank you. Brian A. J. Salchert ] - July: Year-day 183 Today my doctor informed me the fluid in my pleural space is solid, and long been so, apparently. Yet, what was wrong? He'd like to see old X-rays. There's a druid quality in this wish, it seems, but I'm as curious, too. Positive responses to TB skin tests don't just happen. Nonces that signal trouble mean something in time. My various chest X-rays, it's true, were negative, but I've been through periods of respiratory hardship when I didn't have X-rays taken, so a burr of something other than TB the gods could have stuck me with, though they won't say why. - July: Year-day 184 Poetic theories abound, as well as styles: the animals, plants, and elements of a part of a deepening realm. Has you not known? Richard Kostelanetz, gents, and I, have; and I am/ learning from him. He'll guide you through beings and things that pop your eyes and ears and sense of self. You'll swim walking, but walk on, and stop, stop, & stop. So, Richard may not care for this old form I've now for half a year worn and intend to wear this coming half, declaring it's the height of that reactionary storm slashing at poetic beauty. I'll wend his way, though, too; for now, my sonnet fits. - July: Year-day 185 Not so sure about the efficacy of prayer as it's usually defined, I still thank those who centered so much energy on my weakened being, whose each strong will was a health-giving pyramid these bones, this flesh/ could rejuvenate in. The ways I move, love, may not harmonize with tones they're used to; still, life bless their/ nights and days. Slicing with teals up a laughing cool lake, cocked toward each sound that trembles a/ slant room, kissing rose petals then stomping a face, my heart in my pocket for my head's sake, my head underground to let my heart zoom, my heart with my head/ to make whole this place. - July: Year-day 186 All the people out there cracking their fires, I gotta crack mine too--clack! clack, clack. clack! freedom for those who suffer the lack, freedom for those in whom freedom inspires repeated forays at the bricks and wires of those inhuman laws/ penned to keep back supposed inferiors: Female, Gay, Black, Chicano, American Indian. Pyres! Pyres. And a skin-and-bones child with a puffed belly rests/ at the edge of a cay; airs, waters, earths, roll with sins; judgments explode in theeyes of/ decent sense; we are stuffed wimps who need the thought Hubert Humphrey shares: " . . . be stewards of the common trust.": care goaled. - July: Year-day 187 Population zero: that's where I'm at. Can't say I'll stay there, though it seems I may, in andout of thewoods of/ my odd day on this frail planet of lust, love, and that which furthers my inheritance and hers if once, because we've decided to fuse-- whether out of care or the need to use-- the power within me within her stirs. Oh, I know this may raise a horror in some, foregoing communion so deep and good; and yet it's our right to choose how to plumb each other, and when--if we/ feel we should-- and where--neither of us seeing a bum inside, or worse, because most/ couples would. - July: Year-day 188 And the tall ships glide up the bay, the river-- and I do not like you for what you are; I like you for what you could be: a giver of life in light, a planet-holding star. And the drum and bugle corps perform. Hear. It's the bicentennial of our land. And I do not curse you for what you fear, but bless for how you extend your hand. Sure you can fool yourself, fool me, with masks; not answer fairly what a question asks; look askance at the caring in my reach. Sure you can pooh-pooh the difficult tasks that burn dark holes in the dreams in a speech; yet we harvest only as each serves each. - July: Year-day 189 Elizabeth the Second dines in state this now starred evening in the Rose Garden, the Queen of England come to celebrate with a people George the Third would not pardon the 200th birthday of their delight Adamsed and Franklined and Jeffersoned and by others begun who believed it right to establish and govern their earned land. Yet we ought not condemn old George straight out who later with John exchanged pleasantries; we ought not forget what we're now about as great ones gather in the D. C. breeze. Against our pollutions our blood cells shout: "Survival's languages don't rhyme with ease." - July: Year-day 190 (opening quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Compensation") "Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of the pleasure which concealed it." I, bumbling, learn the measure of God's justice, the pains of grace rejected. You, also, self-seeker, will learn, deflected by "unbridled desires" from the true treasure, the fruits of the false; see, taste, feel their/dead-sure poisons until God's way is re-elected. Samson slew with the jawbone of an ass I forget how many men one keen night, but didn't begin what he ended then. A laddie sleeps with a fair willing lass, and they oil and oil where she bulges tight, and if sorrows come, they share them, amen. - July: Year-day 191 Ride on, troubadour, carrying to all the songs your inspirations lead you to of how quickly we humans rise and fall as we love and hate, and are false and true; for however lyrical your works are, they yet will exhibit philosophies, they yet will teach as they dance near and far as we need them to/ who forget our knees. In Kingstone Forest Angela and Todd hide for their health's sake from their closest friends, rediscovering themselves in the God the Snowy Owls in snowy airs/ recommend/ forgetful their unnerved relatives send each other to where/ worm with/ worm contends. - July: Year-day 192 Most of those starvation enslaves don't die of starvation as such/ but some disease such as measles or dysentery. I-- ploppings of cow dung unsettle my ease. Low on cash, I can still do more than dream of a steak dinner. Look at the position of that American elm: how supreme! I know like luck, though I scuttle contrition. What is hunger? Can't say I strictly know. Oh, I have known dehydration, the hours of waiting for the intravenous needle, but hunger? I have not seen my "fat" go, have not felt my proteins burn up, with powers inside me lost I couldn't drill back, wheedle. - July: Year-day 193 It isn't easy to care about you, finding it tough to care about myself, forcing my sensitive body to do things it maybe ought not: sleep on the shelf, caution in the dump. Walking away won't pull an answer either out of some hole in our lives we weren't onto; so, dear, don't expect a jack of knowledge/ from my soul. It's an amazingly gruff world for fools. And the flag of wisdom's not nearly mine. Suicide is suicide, whether done quickly or nonchalantly. No one drools over idiocy who can decline consistently from getting/ too much sun. - July: Year-day 194 Those politically exiled, by right, can and ought to re-establish their place among the nations of the world; no might disallow the name they choose for their face, nor the anthem or flag they sing and fly. Oh let Taiwan be Taiwan, and the man whose country snubs him fly what strikes his eye, and singwhatpleases his ear! Rip the ban. This Earth's too small now for smallnesses tomake it smaller. Bodies, souls, open to the flow of what's coming: the Trans/formation Age. Bus, Bus Stop, twist and shout. Attitude. Shake it. Kneel. Increase your love. Increase what you know. Hate what's hateful. Live--with sensitive rage. - July: Year-day 195 Dream state after dream state after dream state, from before midnight until beyond dawn, and I can't remember all that took place, but I have never been dreamed-filled so long. At times it seemed I was losing my mind. I did lose my boots, my car, and my way, but not the teeth I'd expected to. Fine, I'd just as soon keep them a few more days. Some places I walked through, though, sure were strange, buildings architecturally macabre, people in dimensions I could not join. It was summer outside: sharp, hot, no rain-- not even a sprinkle; but in the park, also strange, crowds: suspiciously coy. - July: Year-day 196 And conventioneers tiptoe on the planks of their platform as if they are afraid of their own and each other's weight, dismayed some that the planks don't crack, but keep in ranks. And no one knows if he ought to give thanks, being bothered, or start a new parade, yanking planks which seem improperly laid/ replacing them. Strengthen the river's banks. Still, a platform's a platform, a small sign that need not be followed as a decree; and/ as politicians toast with their wine/ you can bet their minds will change what we see-- and it may be good, and it may be ein, and the river kindly/ enter the sea. - July: Year-day 197 How often I stopped just short of that field where the path quieted, or walked away through a marsh or woods on a sunny day where none else had gone, not sure/ when to yield, not sure/ when to push on. So I have felt this summer, watching Jimmy Carter win election after election. All sin. All freeze with doubt and, elsewhere, with doubt melt. Cartermania, a voting disease, I'd termed the rush/ to back the/ peanut man, believing what/ he stood for/ could not please sufficiently, could not properly span the worlds of those lives whose freedoms my keys demand, but now am willing to say: can. - 13 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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