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.


Friday, December 22, 2006


16 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (229-244) - August: Year-day 229 Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch dine on a thistle, a Canadian Bull, just west of our apartment, now and then notes of their whistles lightly passing in to chase out the dour; Janice and I chuckle watching them, him in particular, as they flick down, poking for seeds as the whisked down graphs a wind's whim and the seeds crack as if/ on fire and smoking. Olive-green yellow, charcoal black and white, Mrs. appropriately harder to see; Mr. (for courting) white, black, yellow bright, roller-coastering in neat reverie. Some things are especially to delight: Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch and, sometimes, we. - August: Year-day 230 I am the man who didn't know what's good for him, and still doesn't, uninformed, weak, not giving those worlds a chance which he should, remaining silent when he ought to speak, missing there what he'd certainly enjoy, injuring enjoyments here with regrets, daydreaming far too long about a toy he could never be loved through, losing bets. I am the man who may never know, dining beyond his adequate means, buying pains in commodities he can not long hold. Why else do you think you'd find me here whining, destroying my fields with my own harsh rains, invading the sunlight with rays of cold. - August: Year-day 231 In the heart of my heart a red wind blooms, a Jupiterian ire poised against the deleterious Earth who assumes too glibly still that it hasn't commenced a nearly unstoppable death walk, set as it too much yet is in "reason's" way of turning while sub-s and supra-s are let dangling in imaginations: Hush pay. Backwards goes the crab, futuring the past in its primordial fancies. On earths as intractable as this one/ with its diseased sight is/ I appreciate fast reversals, the deaths of evils/ in births of/ incredible beauty: night-wise wits. - August: Year-day 232 Ford and Dole; Carter and Mondale: McCarthy: perfect subjects for reasoned worlds of song such as this/ since each of them belongs to a system of politics, is party to a sort of logic despite his heart's attempts at filling his lungs with the scents of roses. We've seen enough how they went about and do/ to become special stars. Position will make a star of one there whether or not one wants it/ if the place that position's ruled by is like this ball of imposed importances. All the care in the universe won't disguise one's face who presents himself to be seen by all. - August: Year-day 233 Precursor, owl of serendipity, razor's edge of inter/personal signs, image of you I follow/ by the sea: here, with the dying summer, it is time to make a position statement: This land of mine, this U.S.A., is being lawed into schizophrenia, a scarred band of murderers, no matter there's/ a Lord. For pierced ears she needs her parents consent; to end her pregnancy she doesn't. Gay, he's hated by/ some Christians. I dissent. Our shadows scurry around in a daze. Miss Liberty's torch/ breaks off; shatters eyes. Miss Justice, no longer blind, isn't wise. - August: Year-day 234 And the answer is: I don't care enough. Caught between worlds, tolerant to a fault; too late in coming to terms with myself, I cannot decide which direction will benefit most, be a going less rough; I cannot bring my regrets to a halt; I cannot remove mistakes from their shelf in my memory, make healthy/ what's ill. So fears pushed confidence out of my soul in those Fond du Lac fifties, closed and drab-- only here and there fulfilling with light; and though writing poems is a constant goal, it's only partially/ thwarted the stabs of contradictions/ that make daytime night. - August: Year-day 235 Choosing priorities: the fight between knowing neither wealth nor power nor fame assures happiness and neither a lean nor weak nor unknown status in the game, however serious, of daily living assures sorrow. What's important is what one does with what is, persistently giving, changing, and building to/ overcome "but": the qualifier that signals the naming of barriers, excuses, indecisions; that allows books of disturbing conditions to delineate the terms of one's gaming who has no sure answers, being impure & unsettled in change, guessing each cure. - August: Year-day 236 Of course I want to kill and kill, and have, though the bodies of my victims live on because I soften each thrust with a salve: a vaseline, a lie: I come upon. Of course you have been killed by me, and will, though you may not have noticed, and may not, clambering to beat each other up a spill; I'll zigzag to rattle you off your spot. This purgatory's not for after life, since equal chances for heaven and hell are hidden in it. So watch what you do. Though every moment's a blessing: knife and fork and spoon: I need, we'll know who fell-- unless we each to each here/ keep each new. - August: Year-day 237 To what world, if not this, do I belong that I am not held as I want to be, that I seek unions through fictions of me, that I burn in silence over a song? Though lives are short/ deep-crafted dreams are long, clinging to the edges of memory, magnificent pains from the mystery of/ whoever made them. I am star strong. Arcturus, Betelguese, Sirius, Sun, my whirling energies inform the years beyond all matter of where I'm alive. In my Rune God my existence begun could not be altered by desires or fears. Through this very line, He knew I would rive. - August: Year-day 238 Aah, people hassles, hassles with oneself-- all the lost pennies! (Who knows where they are?) the good moments turned from. No, I'm no elf, I'm--yes I am. But when my mischief scars, it rightly scars me longer than you. Oh New York City, where confusions cram, why was I/ so lonely? Dream-wiled Cal--? Who? They are not numbers to this elf I am. Blessed with a mind I sometimes suspect--eye-- it's no mind at all, blanked as it is/ so easily by/ emotions misconstrued, missed. All the lost: Mt. Tamalpais high, Greenwich Village; night upon night to stow remorse in, hangdog in the farces brewed. - August: Year-day 239 Asked what I know, I find I want to blurt so much to the passing asker, I ask that question not be asked, the dubious task of asking/ best/ being mine to assert though I am touted "maker" / "namer" / "bridge builder" / "shaman". If someone's to tell time, slithering/hoofing/singing on a ridge, you've heard it said: "Genius will out." Well, . . . Creatures of polarities caught up in change, ambiguous, constant mysteries, we are dull as air, we are keen as stones; so sure I cajole us each to drop in on each of our/ answers and questions, seize what's wise/ even if it/ shivers our bones. - August:Year-day 240 As much as I moan, the luck of the draw has placed me in a favored land, and given me years and experiences to awe the Fates, though I'm suicidally driven. Do I want to/ be successful? Yes. Yes. Not for money and fame, but for the sake of this I believe in and you who press: to know, enjoy, & use what/ I here make. Editors too often only have time to be turned on; so a writer's obliged to find their switches & flick them as quickly as she / he can as if it were a crime such as Jesse performed, spiked with orange and heavy with power carried off slickly. - August: Year-day 241 Discotheques of discontent/ & delight, the moods of my minds, my hearts. O, great day, so clear, cool and full of commotion, site ambassador of autumn on the way. Am I lonely? You better believe it. Do I stretch with excitement? Catch my eyes. When a leaf tumbles, I tumble with it; when a leaf burns yellow, I heat likewise. If now I'm caught in the wrong style of living for who I am, I've only me to damn, slithering through my randy fantasies, realities wounded by partial givings. Nothing but superior luck/ could slam the gates, it seems, against what/ scatters ease. - August: Year-day 242 "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord." So we: spirited bodies, bodied spirits, day after day here challenged, poignantly free, yet charged to obey, we/ ought to be Jobs, ought to be beings radiant with thanks despite enticements, hardships, sad-eyed probes that darken love, without which/ nothing ranks. To be at peace, each sacred moment lived to the full, savored, made human, transformed so self-indulgence, self-pity/ lose strength-- but I, all night at work harried, rush , give, relish a rare calm me; yet, roiling, torn, spew my relief with my job discontents. - August: Year-day 243 It is now November twenty-fifth, Jamie, I don't mind telling you. Time is a pointless contrivance, no matter it's a bit gamey for me to be doing as I am. Jointless, unattached, the parts of a man might fly who knows how far, claim a sea there, a mountain here, send an eye to a just-forming sky, a tongue to the soul of a crystal fountain. Kneel beside the meadowlark's tufted nest pictured here in this book of U.S. birds. For fantasies we often/ have no words. What now is worst/ tomorrow may be best. Bow to the East? Bless the funereal West? Singular, alien, we move in herds. - August: Year-day 244 Heading east? Yes. Jerusalem? Mecca? No. Not even Ankor Wat, no matter they'd be better places than D.C. My soul wants notice, access. So job queries pay! Can't be a reaction without an action. Gotta care sometime. Gotta care, and do. Gotta use the strength of the one-man faction if I'm ever to lastingly break through. Heading east for sure it's looking like now. Laurel's responded affirmatively. It only takes one: so long shots excite; yet, pointing all my hopes toward one small bough wouldn't, I know, be a smart use of sight; so I haven't, exactly, but we shall see. - 16 of 25 - Brian A. J. Salchert

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