Wednesday, May 11, 2016

A Step Beyond Summerhill -- just the opening. If you want more, I can give you more.

I started to write, "this isn't the way we usually do things here..." but then I thought, this is what, the third blog entry I've done?  There is no usual way we do things...  

So. This is the opening for a story I wrote a while back.  I've always liked the story and, of course, the opening. The story was based on elements of a dream I had that impressed my imagination so much that I had to give it life through words. I've never been able to find a good market for it, partly, I suppose, because of the the odd way it's put together.

It isn't particularly long.  I hope you will read it and let me know what you think.

The story is called, "A Step Beyond Summerhill"  and is copyrighted by me

     My gran’da’ used to tell me, “Bryan, for a story to be any good, it has to have an Irishman in it. By temper, or by birth, there has to be an Irishman.”  We are the O’Connors and we’re Irish, but this isn’t our story. It is really a story about Lucius Tanner--who was never charged with murder--and his wife, Eva--who was never found.
     My grandfather, my gran’da’, was Seamus Flynn O’Connor, a bluff, old, off-the-boat son-of-the-sod who never completely left Eire behind when he came to the states. He had a rich, lilting brogue that rolled over you like a warm ocean wave and left you breathless at the beauty of the rhythm and the words. He was a shenachie, a storyteller. Though in truth, a shenachie is so much more. They are the poet-storytellers; the historians who tell you the way it should have happened. They have a tale for every occasion and every tale they tell reminds them of two more. My gran’da’ gave me the heritage and traditions of old Ireland. He gave me the sense of wonder my American engineer father never could.
My gran’da’ worked for the Tanners and used to tell me stories as he worked. Stories of clever Jack and Sean-the-Fool. He would tend the garden and I would hear about the little people and why it is so hard to capture and hold a leprechaun. He would repair a door and tell me why I should respect the Gentry--the Sidhe--and I learned what to look for in the woods to avoid being stolen away by them. For you know that if you spend any time with the Faery, everything will be different when you go back home. All that you knew and loved will be dead and gone.
     These are the wonders I grew up with. My gran’da’s stories were real to me and more genuine than the evening news. I think the reason these stories were so vivid was because there was always a note of belief in my gran’da’s voice; an implied statement of truth. As if he was saying, “I wasn’t there when this happened, but I knew someone who was and this is what they told me...” Some of his best yarns started with the statement, “...now I’m no shenachie but...” It was at that point I knew I was in for a wonderful ride back to the Ireland of his youth; the Ireland of Faery and Banshee and wise women and foolish men, yearning lovers and happy endings.

Well, I’m no shenachie, but...

Sunday, May 1, 2016

It Really is a Thing


Hooray, hooray, it’s the First of May; Outdoor fucking starts today.

It rained here most of the day, but we’ll get back to that.

Interesting news found on (of all places) Facebook.  There was a meme I saw posted about the creationist claim that the world, and by extension the universe, was created in October 4004 BC. The meme showed a phallic piece of stone and proclaimed that Creationists claimed the world was 24,000 years younger than the world’s oldest dildo.

According to the article that was tied to the photo on Facebook [Ancient Phallus] , the phallus had more than the obvious use as it was apparently used to knap flints—that is, used to chip pieces of flint off of larger pieces of flint in order to fashion tools, arrowheads, spearheads, knives, things like that. Now that is what I call a multipurpose tool. I imagine it was appreciated on many levels for a multitude of reasons by the gatherers left home, while hunters were out, possibly for extended periods of time, trying their best to secure some Ice Age prime cuts.  Sort of reminds me of the more interesting scrimshaw found in some of the estates of the families of whalers in New England.

But anyway…I have to be curious because it is believed that most tribes of that period tended to be matriarchal and goddess worship was the norm. Anthropologists point to figurines like the Venus of Willendorf and posit that they were used for religious ceremonies.  Maybe, or maybe the little sculpture was what the hunters were carrying when they left the gatherers at home—a reminder of what was waiting for their return. Just throwin’ it out there.  Also, I’d like to point out the stone dildo at 20 cm long (around 8 inches—enough to hold onto and still use effectively) was almost twice as big as the 11.1 cm (about 4.4 inches) Venus.  Whatever they were used for, I believe our Paleolithic ancestors had much more interesting lives than what I ever thought.

Now back to the little poem at the beginning of this piece. I found out that Saturday May 7th , the first Saturday in May, is World Naked Gardening Day. I’m sure many people out there were already aware of an important fact like that. I just think it’s interesting that first there’s the celebration of warm weather by fucking outside, probably for the first time since last year (don’t ask me about an adventure from my sordid youth during a snowy February in Arkansas), followed by gardening, you know: planting, dealing with fertility, making sure seeds germinate—again, outside, no clothes, and followed in turn, by Mother’s Day.  Hmmmm…

I realize Cinco de Mayo falls in there too, but I’ve heard that can be celebrated inside with clothes on if you choose.