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.


Sunday, April 22, 2007


Fond du Lac Nine - Snickering off, I pass George Webb's almost preconsciously while biting into a piece of log cabin. The temperature stretches itself yet along the pebbles of my perspiration. In Geyber's: pearls and diamonds. Greta, Greta, not till now, one thought of you. Buenos Aires shivers. A Germ--. Christ, help us; there's no returning. The bus depot's arch reminds me that the buses meet now farther north; that the blind woman passing me perceives, perhaps, as well as I. Shall each minute experience, Greta (girl too easy to love), progress a man toward tunnel vision, give him surer proof of his infinity? Will this slim lady's purple hat/ become an nth example, then, to dogmatize some prejudice? What matters it. Ten - O crammed profusion! City? Puke. I yawp and gawk, read that "The Fortune Cookie" will click at/ the theatre before me; inhale the warmth of marigold popcorn some kids are buying in the carmel shop next door; image the night a friend/ pissed on a walk-- there was no wind. And who is strong enough to care. A barber pole. This headline squawks: "Sharp VC attack"--why not. I squint at men and words that/ advocate a Faith/ I do not understand. Here is a bar, there is another jewelry store, and there's a novelty shop. Things as they are. But what? what can we say we know, we feel, believe? The Arcade: bowling. So the skulls have rolled, the hard, black balls of human power and skill; so Main Street flicks, a space of free electrons, vomit, song. Pressing against the gases, flesh and cloth seem dying blades of algae, caught in a thick brook, disparate, desperate. I wave at a brown convertible, friends of mine. The driver honks. Shouts and whistles disturb his radio into the semi trembling the parked car beside me; across this shoal I oscillate through, in the bone-tight weeds of a storefront display, a plastic car-- aPlymouth by Revell--interests me, bends my nose to a pane again. Above an HO switcher, and three rubber perch, a scum-green monster doll: who thinks to scare me in--I would suppose--to save that engine or/ to delight my younger sister's coming birthday: presides. But I am not impressed. Outside the Arcade, three boys and a girl chatter through smoke: "--what she did to o' Lou, I'd never want to--" "Remember Chris? Well, she's finally getting a divorce!" "From Sambo?!" "Yeh." "You know, I always thought that guy--" Pulling the wooden, heavy door open, I move up the stairs. Pins are falling. I listen for the strikes. A housewives' league. On alley nine a woman like a plum hops to the line. Her black and blue ball bumps, rolls two-thirds of the lane/ quite straight, then hooks to the left, tipping only the seven pin. On alley six a slimmer gal lightly glides to the line, letting her ball, barely heard, go swiftly down the lane. The pins all jump/ into the pit. Her teammates cheer, applaud. Another tray of beer goes out to ten. Some of the wives are packing. My thumb sticks in a thumbhole. I pluck it out, and head back down the stairs just as a green balloon and a laughing girl appear beside those four I overheard when--"But Linn, what makes you so positive Chris will keep her kids?" "I know her, numby. She will." "Okay, she will." "Look, Rudy, Chris and I were buds. . . ." The green balloon floats back, and a passing nun's smile, dipping into the little girl, pleases her. As they round the bandying group, they arouse in me St. Mary's and how nervously I wade along Main. Sand jets from the gutter, turns and jabs at me. My left eye itches, sinks; flounders back up. Fond du Lac: page 7 - Brian A. J. Salchert

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