Chamblee54

The facebook friend linked to an article with the catchy title “Falser Words Were Never Spoken”. It is about the quotes used to decorate coffee mugs and automobile bumpers. Many of these phrases are inspiring and life changing. The only problem is, the famous person never said it. The key phrase of this feature is When you start to become aware of these bogus quotations, you can’t stop finding them. Mr. Google produces 23 million results.
The second result, and this is true , is typical. It has a quote from the NYT article, and a second quote … “Don’t believe everything you read.” – Julius Caesar. Since Mr. Caesar did not speak english, this is a translation. Since he lived a long time ago, it was written down by someone, probably years after it was said. The wikiquote page for Mr. Caesar does not mention this quote. This probable misquote was in several of the results. You should think before you retweet.
This trip to google city is a disappointment. There are a lot of people quoting the NYT and JC, but little commentary of the business of jazzing up quotes. There are lots, and lots, and lots, of quotes. There are heartbreak quotes by redneck girl, sponsored by Allstate insurance. The quotegarden has Quotations about Men. There is a site devoted to clever sayings, All Aphorisms, All The Time .
AAATT has a post about a book of clever sayings, Landmines of the Mind: One Thousand Asseverations, Surmises, and Questions about the Design of the Universe and the Meaning of Life. The amazon comments are fun. Plagarism R’ Us By Robert L. Cronyn “Some great aphorisms from the ages. Problem is, no citations, thus rendering the book useless. I suppose the auther wants me to attribute these great thoughts to him since no one else is acknowledged. Loved the thoughts, hated the lack of sources . . . ” author’s response to Cronyn By Manfred Weidhorn “There is no documentation because the aphorisms are original and are all mine. Thanks for the inadvertent compliment! “
If you want to bask in wisdom, follow the links and dive in. Check the batteries on your BS detector first. Pictures today are from The Library of Congress.

These two stories are borrowed from Gartalker’s Blog. The pictures are from ” The Special Collections and Archives,Georgia State University Library” .
One day Bubba is setting at home watching the Saints play ball. He has the house to himself and is totally enjoying the solitude. Mary Jane has gone down to Wal-mart. Bubba knows she will be gone until after the game. The kids are all over at their Aunt’s house for the afternoon. Things  can’t get any better.
“Touch down!” The announcer screams as if he had made the catch himself. Bubba jumps up, and his beer goes one way, and the sack of Doritos fly the other.
Finally, after the Saints get the extra point and placed themselves in a good position on the score board Bubba eases back down in his chair. Before he can get settled in there is a knock at the door. Bubba cusses under his breath, and for the first time wishes one of the boys was at home to answer the door. Before he can make it to the door, there is another knock. The second knock is louder and more impatient sounding than the first. When he opens the door there stands two large deputy sheriffs.
Bubba says, “What has them boys gone and done now?” The bigger of the two deputies seems to ignore Bubba and ask to see a picture of Mary Jane. “What you need a picture of my wife for?”
“Please Mr. Jones surely you have a picture of your wife.”
“Course I do.” Bubba then fishes a picture of Mary Jane out of his wallet.
“Here you go. Now what is this all about?”
The first deputy studied the picture a moment and then passed it to the junior officer. Both looked at each other, as if they were in agreement. “Mr. Jones I hate to be the one that says this, but it looks like a truck ran over your wife.”
Bubba frowns. “I know it does but she has a great personality, and their ain’t no one in the county that can out cook her.”

There was a couple unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the proxy father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife goodbye and said, ‘Well, I’m off now. The man should be here soon.’
Half an hour later, just by chance, a door-to-door baby photographer happened to ring the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. ‘Good morning, Ma’am’, he said, ‘I’ve come to…’
‘Oh, no need to explain,’ Mrs. Smith cut in, embarrassed, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘Have you really?’ said the photographer. ‘Well, that’s good. Did you know babies are my specialty?’
‘Well that’s what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat ! After a moment she asked, blushing, ‘Well, where do we start?’
‘Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch, and perhaps a couple on the bed. And sometimes the living room floor is fun. You can really spread out there.’
‘Bathtub, living room floor? No wonder it didn’t work out for Harry and me!’
‘Well, Ma’am, none of us can guarantee a good one every time. But if we try several different positions and I shoot from six or seven angles, I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the results.’
‘My, that’s a lot!’, gasped Mrs. Smith.
‘Ma’am, in my line of work a man has to take his time. I’d love to be In and out in five minutes, but I’m sure you’d be disappointed with that.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Mrs. Smith quietly.
The photographer opened his briefcase and pulled out a portfolio of his baby pictures. ‘This was done on the top of a bus,’ he said.
‘Oh, my God!’ Mrs. Smith exclaimed, grasping at her throat.
‘And these twins turned out exceptionally well – when you consider their mother was so difficult to work with.’‘She was difficult?’ asked Mrs. Smith.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I finally had to take her to the park to get the job done right. People were crowding around four and five deep to get a good look’
‘Four and five deep?’ said Mrs. Smith, her eyes wide with amazement.
‘Yes’, the photographer replied. ‘And for more than three hours, too. The mother was constantly squealing and yelling – I could hardly concentrate, and when darkness approached I had to rush my shots. Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment, I just had to pack it all in.’
Mrs. Smith leaned forward. ‘Do you mean they actually chewed on your, uh…equipment?’
‘It’s true, Ma’am, yes.. Well, if you’re ready, I’ll set-up my tripod and we can get started.’
‘What do you need a tripod for?’
‘My cannon. It is way to heavy to hold in my hand for any length of time.’
Mrs. Smith fainted.

Andrew Sullivan had a post today with the lurid title Do Atheists Understand Christian Arguments? And Vice Versa?. The post reported a study, which was filled with semantic nonsense. However, it did use the phrase Epistemic Humility. Pictures today are from XXX, and are probably more fun than the text.
Perhaps a definition of terms is in order. The Free Dictionary says “Phrase not found in the Dictionary and Encyclopedia. Please try the words separately … Epistemic: 1. (Philosophy) of or relating to knowledge or epistemology 2. (Philosophy / Logic) denoting the branch of modal logic that deals with the formalization of certain epistemological concepts, such as knowledge, certainty, and ignorance [from Greek epistēmē knowledge]” Humility “The quality or condition of being humble.”
The first response from Mr. Google was Lambeth 1998 and Epistemic Humility. This was at a wonky facility called The Anglican Scotist. They do serve up a definition of EH. I. “What is epistemic humilty anyway? According to the doctrine of epistemic humility, Christians cannot have absolute certainty about anything in their dogma outside a minimal core, the kerygma. On everything else, they should always remain open to correction and reversal–in particular correction, that so far as they can know, is intended by God.”
PG is already getting nervous. He feels that practice is more important than belief. He also has little patience with the little intellectual worlds that some religions build for themselves. Third, he does not have a clue what kerygma is, or whether it is curable.
The Free Dictionary says that kerygma is “The proclamation of religious truths, especially as taught in the Gospels.” … “the essential news of Jesus, as preached by the early Christians to elicit faith rather than to educate or instruct.” This sounds like something else that you have to understand, in order to understand the rest of the message.
Perhaps the true course of action can be found at The Kerygma Program. This is a proprietary venture. “Adult Bible Studies with a Difference … Kerygma is REALLY THERE for you! … You get more than bible study resources from Kerygma. You get a partner … Whether by phone or email, or in person, a Kerygma consultant is there for you. We will come to you! Face-to-face brainstorming sessions with your Committee can provide a pivotal moment in decisions that will affect the life and vitality of your congregation for years to come. Get ready to think BIG!”
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy presents something called Humility Theory. This is based on a story about Socrates. The story is that Socrates interviewed some of the smart people of his day. Many of them were smart, but many claimed to be smarter than they really were. Socrates decided that the true wise person is the one who is aware of how much they do not know. This gives us Humility Theory 2 (H2): S is wise iff S believes S does not know anything.
PG has noticed how learning about a subject makes you aware of how much there is that you don’t know. The admission of ignorance is often the first step to knowledge. There is also the matter of boasting about knowledge. While this is not always a sign of ignorance, it is usually very annoying. And lets not even consider those who boast of being a “humble servant”.
Rankin File is written by a University chaplain named Steven Rankin. (Is it time for a moratorium on questionable puns as blog titles?). His contribution to the EH discussion is Epistemic Humility and the Force of Ideas. A key sentence is “Christians of all stripes (especially Christian college and seminary professors who don’t recognize that they’re doing it) make the mistake of confusing the force of an idea with coercive tactics in arguments.” The ideas here are presented from a Christian POV.
This view is seen here. “Coercive tactics sometimes fly under the flag of “informal fallacies” in logic. When I think I can undermine your idea by making a reference to something about you personally – the charge of “homophobe” is a classic example on a very contentious topic – it’s called an informal fallacy (ad hominem attack), but it is also a power move. Another one is “fundamentalist” (or “liberal”).”
Name calling is a sure way to degenerate a discussion of ideas. What is noteworthy here is his first two choices … homophobe and fundamentalist… are likely to be used against a Christian. It is the third insult… liberal… which would be used by a Christian, against someone who disagrees with their ideas. It is presumably included here for “balance”.
Mr. Rankin ( apologies if he has a PhD) tips his hand later in the essay. “What about when an idea that I hold as fundamentally true, say, that Jesus Christ is God in the flesh and the Savior of the world, is considered exclusionary (here’s the power) by someone who doesn’t believe that idea? If I insist that Jesus Christ is the only way to the Father, what about people who don’t agree?” This sentence is vigorously disputed by many people, PG included. And yet, Mr. Rankin sees it as kerygma, a fundamental truth. It is as if he is wearing red glasses, which turn everything red is his path white. Everything he sees is filtered through this concept.
Jim Manzi was a key figure in an earlier discussion of Epistemic Closure. He ventures again into epi land with this piece, Jim Manzi on the Stimulus and Epistemic Humility. This feature was written by Reihan Salam, and deals with the economic stimulus. The ideas here are rather horrifying, and have little to do with online Bible study programs.
Stand to reason blog chimes in with an exciting title, Epistemic Humility or Intellectual Instability? “If you are consistently changing your beliefs, one of two things (or possibly a combination) is happening. Either, 1) you’re constantly getting a flood of new information that forces you to reevaluate (which happens in science, but not usually in theology), or 2) you didn’t think very carefully about your convictions the first time around. There is little virtue in saying, “I’ve changed my theology many times over the last few years.” This isn’t humility; it’s instability. ”
If religion were an intellectual affair, rather than an emotional one, this might make sense. In the Southern Baptist tradition, ten year olds are routinely pressured to “make a profession of faith”, be baptised, and go to heaven when they die. These children do not have the emotional or intellectual capacity to “think very carefully about your convictions the first time around.”
Some of the comments to this post are fun, and are a good way to wind up this feature. If you google “epistemic humility”, you can read much more about this *fascinating concept*. ” i was christian and became agnostic. i dont recommend it to anyone – it sux. … which one “sux”–being a Christian or an agnostic……? … Now I understand why folks become agnostic. It saddens me. “

Living a diamond life in a rhinestone world. // “Writing is…that oddest of anomalies: an intimate letter to a stranger.” —Pico Iyer // “I live my life as an open book. I just don’t intend to read it to anyone.” // I write, you read. It’s a clean and simple relationship. // This video contains an audio track that has not been authorized by WMG. The audio has been disabled. // If you know someone or are related to someone who suffers from stupidity post this on your wall. People need to understand that stupidity is real and should be taken seriously. You could be sitting next to a stupid person right now. There is still no known cure for stupidity and sympathy does not help. // There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. – Anais Nin // Never go to bed angry. Stay awake and plot your revenge! // “Don’t speak to me about your religion; first show it to me in how you treat other people. Don’t tell me how much you love your God; show me in how much you love all God’s children. Don’t preach to me your passion for your faith; teach me through your compassion for your neighbors. In the end, I’m not as interested in what you have to tell or sell as I am in how you choose to live and give.” – Newark Mayor Corey Booker // I don’t believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive. ~ Joseph Campbell // I just want to make it clear that a hobby is not a pre-requisite for a fulfilling lycanthropic lifestyle. // “The problem with quotes on the Internet is that it is hard to verify their authenticity” – Abraham Lincoln // The economy is so bad that I got a pre-declined credit card in the mail, CEOs are now playing miniature golf, Exxon-Mobil just laid off 25 congressmen, Angelina Jolie just adopted a child from America, Motel 6 will no longer leave the light on, a picture is only worth 200 words, and Wall Street was just renamed Wal-mart Street. Finally I called the suicide hotline, got a call center in Pakistan and when I told them I was suicidal, they got all excited and asked if I could drive a truck. // A redneck mountaineer took his son to a school to enroll him. “My boy’s after larning’, what d’ya have?” he asked the teacher. “We offer English, trigonometry, spelling, etc.,” she replied. “Well, give him some of that thar trigernometry; he’s the worst shot in the family. // Aristotle writes, “If everything, when it is behaving in a uniform manner, is continually either moving or at rest, but what is moving is always in the now, then the moving arrow is motionless.” // Bertrand Russell adds, “It is never moving, but in some miraculous way the change of position has to occur between the instants, that is to say, not at any time whatever. … The more the difficulty is meditated, the more real it becomes.” // “I have never thought much of the courage of a lion tamer. Inside the cage he is at least safe from other men. There is not much harm in a lion. He has no ideals, no religion, no politics, no chivalry, no gentility; in short, no reason for destroying anything that he does not want to eat.” — George Bernard Shaw // Energy is wasted when you try to influence people who have already decided they’re not going to be happy or nice. Let them be as they are & spend energy on the people that love & accept you, where you are, & as you are. // OMG!….I was in in the public restroom – I was barely sitting down when I heard a voice in the other stall: “Hi, how are you?” Me: embarrassed, “Doin’ fine!” Stall: “So what are you up to?” Me: “Uhhh, I’m like you, just sitting here.” Stall: “Can I come over?” Me: (attitude) “No, I’m a little busy right now!!” Stall: “Listen, I’ll have to call you back. There’s an idiot in the other stall who keeps answering all my questions! ~~ Re-post if this made you laugh // “The reverse side also has a reverse side” // “We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life, when all that we need to make us happy is something to be enthusiastic about.” ~ Charles Kingsley // “Forgetting is very important to the experience of awe or wonder.” // I feel encouraged when people agree with me, but even more encouraged when people persevere in disagreeing with me in a mutually respectful way. I value hearing others’ perspectives. It helps me make informed decisions instead of stumbling around in the dark…. With all due respect, you’re totally wrong on that one. // #justbecause i said, you’re cute doesn’t mean i like you. // I’m done copying posts. I just don’t get it, and I think it clutters up Facebook. I wish people would stop asking to “copy and paste this post.” Copy and paste THIS *insert gesture here* // “…run down by the drunken taxicabs of absolute reality.” -AG // “The minute a writer offers nine hundred ninety-nine out of one thousand facts, the worm of bias has begun to wriggle.” // “Get the HELL off the beach right now. You’re done. You’ve maximized your tan. Evacuate.” // ‘An action is not virtuous merely because it is unpleasant to do.” // “The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves happy. The amount of work is the same.” — Carlos Castaneda // “I think Lady Gaga’s fashion is derived from her covering herself in industrial adhesive and rolling around in a landfill. She’s basically a living Katamari.” // Money weed pussy and more money // Brian: “Stewie, you’re quoting Scriptures out of context and you can’t even read.” Stewie: “Welcome to America, Brian.” // If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution. // Some woman just screamed “GOD I AM SO BORED!!” from her balcony behind me. Preach it, lady. //Selah

There was an event last night, Big Joy Salon/Benefit/Reading and Screening. PG was in the house. The question now is how to best remember the event. James Broughton was a poet, film maker, babydaddy to Pauline Kael, and all around mischief maker. PG is a prose kind of guy. Perhaps the best way to chronicle the evening is to follow the slogan “Follow your own weird”. Don’t get mad get odd. The chit chat part of the evening went on until 7:45, when Franklin Abbott started to talk. The only seat PG could find was on the front row, which was handy for taking pictures. The Big Joy project was discussed. This is an effort to make a movie about the life of James Broughton. If you go to Big Joy dot org , you can learn a bit more. If you go to Big Joy dot com or Big Joy dot ru, a totally different message appears. 16 readers took the podium. Each read a poem by James Broughton, and some read two. Don Perryman channeled the spirit of Mr. Broughton, as he told the story of Joel Singer. ( Mr. Singer was a student of Mr. Broughton, who seduced him and became his lover. Mr. Singer was 26, Mr. Broughton was 62.) Chad Shone and Griff Tester were next, and read poems describing the passage of Mr. Broughton and Mr. Singer into their new life. Cleo Creech and A’Roara Thunder share the award for best costume. A.R. Thunder’s outfit is better suited for hot weather. Don Perryman incorporated a costume change into his presentation. It was noted that Mr. Broughton would have taken his pants off, instead of stopping with the shirt. PG brought a clipboard, and intended to take more notes than he did. “Mostly, I boddhi sit around and bask in my universal mind” “Please turn off all cell phones” “The word for no is yes, the word for no is yes, the word for no is yes, and the star and the faun are one” “Death is thinking about us all the time” “Not enough appreciation, and not enough thanks” “cinema is truth 24 times a second” At the end of the reading, a hat was brought out. In it were the ticket halves. A drawing for door prizes was held. PG noted the parade of winners before him, and accepted his loser fate. Then, his number was called. PG won a very nice book, All: A James Broughton Reader. The second part of the evening was a showing of four films directed by James Broughton. They were shown on two sixteen millimeter projectors, on loan from the Smithsonian Institute. When PG was in grammar school, they had movies like that. Those movies started with the Georgia State Flag flying in the breeze, while the canned music band played “Dixie”. The films were introduced by Andy Ditzler, who operated the projectors. He said that sixteen millimeter is a ritualistic device, where strips of images are moved by magic. The projectors did add a retro feel to the evening. The first movie shown was “Gardener of Eden”, which is embedded here. (Whatever magic celluloid has simply does not lend itself to digital transmission.) The film that PG enjoyed the most was “The Bed”. It ran at a theater in San Francisco for over a year, and is the only film he did which made money. It seems tame today, but was quite controversial for 1968. Finally, the lights came on, and it was 2011. Again.
UPDATE Videos of the readers are available at the AQLF youtube page.

This post is borrowed from Twenty Two Words, who borrowed it from someone else. The pictures are from ” The Special Collections and Archives,Georgia State University Library” .  Every year, the Edinburgh Fringe Festival has a contest for the best joke. The winner this year is Nick Helm , aka “The Human Car Crash of Light Entertaiment”. Here are the ten best jokes.
1. Nick Helm – “I needed a password eight characters long so I picked Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.”
2. Tim Vine – “Crime in multi-storey car parks. That is wrong on so many different levels.”
3. Hannibal Buress – “People say ‘I’m taking it one day at a time.’ You know what? So is everybody. That’s how time works.”
4. Tim Key – “Drive Thru McDonalds was more expensive than I thought … once you’ve hired the car …”
5. Matt Kirshen – “I was playing chess with my friend and he said, ‘Let’s make this interesting’. So we stopped playing chess.”
6. Sarah Millican – “My mother told me, you don’t have to put anything in your mouth you don’t want to. Then she made me eat broccoli, which felt like double standards.”
7. Alan Sharp – “I was in a band which we called The Prevention, because we hoped people would say we were better than The Cure.”
8. Mark Watson – “Someone asked me recently – what would I rather give up, food or sex. Neither! I’m not falling for that one again, wife.”
9. Andrew Lawrence – “I admire these phone hackers. I think they have a lot of patience. I can’t even be bothered to check my OWN voicemails.”
10. DeAnne Smith – “My friend died doing what he loved … Heroin.”
PG did a bit of value added research, and found an article in The Telegraph about the joke contest. This article has the NINE WORST JOKES from this year’s festival.
1. Tim Vine – “Uncle Ben has died. No more Mr Rice Guy.”
2. V. McTavish – “The Lockerbie bomber put Lockerbie on the map, well he nearly took it off it too.”
3. Josh Howie – I’ve got nothing against the Chinese. Don’t get me Wong.
4. Card Ninja – “I went to see this show and the guy said ‘Hey kid do you like magic?’ And I said ‘Yeah!’ So he asked if I wanted to see a trick and I said ‘Yeah!’ So he said ‘think of a number, times it by 2 and if it’s odd …’ Oh no, he’s a MATHmagician! “
5. Tom Webb – “Due to the economy, profiteroles will now be called deficiteroles.”
6. Nathan Caton – “Postcode wars? That sounds like a really shit BBC game show.”
7. Andrew Bird – “My wife’s eating for two. She’s not pregnant, just schizophrenic.”
8. Mark Olver – “During my first murder I was like a dyslexic having my back teeth removed … losing my morals.”
9. Andrew O’Neill – “A song for the colour blind: “And I think to myself … why did I become a bomb disposal expert?”

Rick Perry, known by The Field Negro as Governor Big Hair, wants to be the next POTUS. Some people say he enjoys executions. As one popular story shows, this might be an asset. “Veterans of Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison’s unsuccessful 2010 primary challenge to Perry recalled being stunned at the way attacks bounced off the governor in a strongly conservative state gripped by tea party fever. Multiple former Hutchison advisers recalled asking a focus group about the charge that Perry may have presided over the execution of an innocent man — Cameron Todd Willingham — and got this response from a primary voter: “It takes balls to execute an innocent man.” (One person thinks people are making too big a deal out of this quote. “Besides, it’s not like Texas is lacking for other perfectly good things to mock!”)
The case of Mr.Willingham is mighty controversial. Some say the Governor of Texas has little to do with who does or does not get executed, (There is a school of thought that the Governor of Texas is weak, with little ability to do much. If this is the case, the much touted economic miracle in Texas has little to do with the Governor.) Governor Big Hair did replace the chair of the Forensic Science Commission two days before a hearing about the Willingham execution.
Playing politics with executions seems to be a recent tradition for state Governors who want to be POTUS. In 1992, Bill Clinton went home to Arkansas to make sure that Ricky Ray Rector was executed. Mr. Rector had severe brain damage, and did not know what was going on. During his last meal, he put a slice of pecan pie to the side, and said he wanted to save it for later.
In 1999, George W. Bush was the Governor of lethal injection happy Texas. A lady named Karla Faye Tucker was scheduled to be poisoned. The Governor gave an interview.
In the week before [Karla Faye Tucker’s] execution, Bush says, Bianca Jagger and a number of other protesters came to Austin to demand clemency for Tucker. “Did you meet with any of them?” I ask.
Bush whips around and stares at me. “No, I didn’t meet with any of them,” he snaps, as though I’ve just asked the dumbest, most offensive question ever posed. “I didn’t meet with Larry King either when he came down for it. I watched his interview with [Tucker], though. He asked her real difficult questions, like ‘What would you say to Governor Bush?’ ” “What was her answer?” I wonder.
“Please,” Bush whimpers, his lips pursed in mock desperation, “don’t kill me.”
Mr. Bush got lots of blood on his compassionate conservative hands during eight years as POTUS. BHO (who never ordered an execution) wasted Osama Bin Ladin, and a few women and children in Stanland. Governor Big Hair will probably get a few more Texecutions before next years election.
Pictures today are from The Library of Congress. Here is one more quote: “Here in Texas we believe that juries are wise as Solomon when it comes to deciding who needs to die but dumb as posts when it comes to figuring out damage awards.”

The Base of All Metaphysics

And now gentlemen,
A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,
As base and finale too for all metaphysics.
(So to the students the old professor,
At the close of his crowded course.)
Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems,
Kant having studied and stated, Fichte and Schelling and Hegel,
Stated the lore of Plato, and Socrates greater than Plato,
And greater than Socrates sought and stated, Christ divine having studied long,
I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems,
See the philosophies all, Christian churches and tenets see,
Yet underneath Socrates clearly see, and underneath Christ the divine I see,
The dear love of man for his comrade, the attraction of friend to friend,
Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,
Of city for city and land for land.

Recorders Ages Hence

Recorders ages hence,
Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior,
I will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,
The friend the lover’s portrait, of whom his friend his lover was fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him,
  and freely pour’d it forth,
Who often walk’d lonesome walks thinking of his dear friends, his lovers,
Who pensive away from one he lov’d often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov’d might
secretly be indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods, on hills,
he and another wandering hand in hand, they twain apart from other men,
Who oft as he saunter’d the streets curv’d with his arm the shoulder of his friend,
while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.

When I Heard at the Close of the Day

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d
with plaudits in the capitol,
still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d,
And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d,
still I was not happy,
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming,
O then I was happy,
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more,
and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,
And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me
whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.

Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone

Roots and leaves themselves alone are these,
Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods and pond-side,
Breast-sorrel and pinks of love,
fingers that wind around tighter than vines,
Gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the sun is risen,
Breezes of land and love set from living shores to you on the living sea,
to you O sailors!
Frost-mellow’d berries and Third-month twigs offer’d fresh to young
persons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up,
Love-buds put before you and within you whoever you are,
Buds to be unfolded on the old terms,
If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they will open and bring form,
color, perfume, to you,
If you become the aliment and the wet they will become flowers,
fruits, tall branches and trees.

Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes

Not heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer,
bears lightly along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
Waited, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;
Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consuming,
burning for his love whom I love,
O none more than I hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the same,
O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds,
are borne through the open air,
Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,
Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.

Trickle Drops

Trickle drops! my blue veins leaving!
O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,
Candid from me falling, drip, bleeding drops,
From wounds made to free you whence you were prison’d,
From my face, from my forehead and lips,
From my breast, from within where I was conceal’d,
press forth red drops, confession drops,
Stain every page, stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody drops,
Let them know your scarlet heat, let them glisten,
Saturate them with yourself all ashamed and wet,
Glow upon all I have written or shall write, bleeding drops,
Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops.

City of Orgies

City of orgies, walks and joys,
City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one day make
Not the pageants of you, not your shifting tableaus,
your spectacles, repay me,
Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at the wharves,
Nor the processions in the streets,
nor the bright windows with goods in them,
Nor to converse with learn’d persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast;
Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan,
your frequent and swift flash of eyes offering me love,
Offering response to my own—these repay me,
Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.

Behold This Swarthy Face

Behold this swarthy face, these gray eyes,
This beard, the white wool unclipt upon my neck,
My brown hands and the silent manner of me without charm;
Yet comes one a Manhattanese and ever at parting kisses me lightly
on the lips with robust love,
And I on the crossing of the street or on the ship’s deck
give a kiss in return,
We observe that salute of American comrades land and sea,
We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.

I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,
But I wonder’d how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there
without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it
and twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
solitary in a wide in a wide flat space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,
I know very well I could not.

To a Stranger

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking,
(it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only
nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass,
you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone
or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

This Moment Yearning and Thoughtful

This moment yearning and thoughtful sitting alone,
It seems to me there are other men in other lands yearning and thoughtful,
It seems to me I can look over and behold them in Germany, Italy, France, Spain,
Or far, far away, in China, or in Russia or talking other dialects,
And it seems to me if I could know those men I should become
attached to them as I do to men in my own lands,
O I know we should be brethren and lovers,
I know I should be happy with them.

I Hear It Was Charged Against Me

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions,
But really I am neither for nor against institutions,
(What indeed have I in common with them?
or what with the destruction of them?)
Only I will establish in the Mannahatta and in every city of these
States inland and seaboard,
And in the fields and woods, and above every keel little or large
that dents the water,
Without edifices or rules or trustees or any argument,
The institution of the dear love of comrades.

Poems are from Leaves of Grass, Book V: Calamus by Walt Whitman.
Text is courtesy of Project Gutenberg.
Formatting of text, and pictures, by Chamblee 54. Calamus part one.
The Big Joy Salon/Benefit/Reading and Screening is Friday July 26, 2011, at 7:30 pm. The location is the Rush Center, 1530 DeKalb Avenue Atlanta GA 30307. This is an evening of enjoyment, centered around the product of the Late James Broughton. $5.00 suggested donation.

New Yorker recently published a fascinating account of the mission that offed Osama Bin Ladin. If you have a few minutes, it is highly entertaining. It makes BHO look like a fierce warrior POTUS, which will not make any difference to the tea party.  Soon after the appearance of this story, the nit picking began.
It came to light that Nicholas Schmidle did not talk to any of the Navy SEALS who were on the mission. (Mr. Schmidle confirms this here.) The article is full of fine detail. People began to wonder how he learned what he did.
Christine Fair knew Mr. Schmidle, and told a story about his reporting. He wrote a story about Pakistan. “Mr. Schmidle wrote that the men in attendance mostly spoke Pashto but “knowing Urdu, I could understand enough [of their Pashto] to realize that they weren’t rehashing the typical J.U.I. rhetoric.” That made the rest of the article immediately suspect. I knew Mr. Schmidle, and knew that his language skills in Urdu were functional at best and, even if he had superb Urdu skills (and he did not), this would not render Pashto comprehensible in the slightest.”
The official story is that the US forces found the safe house in Abbottabad by tailing Mr. Bin Ladin’s courier. Supposedly some torture was involved in getting the information, which is politically advantageous to report. The entertaining blog The spy who billed me has a different story.
It was good old fashioned bribery that found Mr. Bin Ladin. Saudi Arabia was paying Pakistan to keep Mr. Bin Ladin, for various reasons. A Pakistani officer outed Mr. Bin Ladin, and was well paid.
Not everyone believes the stories told at TSWBM. The comments are highly entertaining, and the source of some good stories. A senior Pakistani security official said “We don’t use toilet paper – we wash. But toilet paper is all this theory is good for.” Lets not shake hands on that.
The pictures today are Union soldiers,from the War Between the States. These images are courtesy of The Library of Congress.

Bloggingheadstv facilitates multitasking, among other crimes against humanity. Night after night, PG manipulates images while listening to pairs of people talk. This vessel has a feature called “amplifier”, where listeners are invited to send in clips from the conversations. There is a  contest to see which snippet gets the most clicks. Unspecified merchandise goes to the winner. Today, the winner is chamblee54.
The diavlog in question featured Ann Althouse and Rebecca Watson . (This conversation inspired a post by Chamblee54 ) Ms. Watson had been involved in an incident at an atheists convention, where a clumsy man hit on her. The incident sparked a blog controversy , with thousands of comments made. Ms. Watson said it was not her job to get men laid. Ms. Althouse said that there was money to be made.
PG heard this comment . He minimized his photoediting, went to the screen, found the comment, and made the clip. The comment was posted on amplifier, with the comment “Ann Althouse comes out as a capitalist”. A thousand clicks  later, and Chamblee 54 wins.
At the time of this announcement, PG was upset that another clip had not been mentioned. A certain neo conservative described someone as a total drama queen. PG said the man was talking about himself, and thought it was pretty funny.
Pictures today are from The Library of Congress . There have been one , two , three BHTV tributes at chamblee54. UPDATE The email from BHTV arrived at high noon Thursday. The prize is an item from the Cafepress Store. The item should be worth $25.00 or less. PG chose a khaki hat, with the BHTV logo.

Football is just around the corner. The teams are busy with the pre season, and soon weekends will be full of hitting and drinking. Perhaps this is a good time to wonder whether football is worth the human cost. Especially now, with a national debate raging about the future of our health care. Football injuries keep hospitals hopping during the autumn.
This is a recycled post. There is a helping of hypocrisy here, as PG enjoys watching the hits. Pictures are from The Library of Congress.
Football season is here. While the games are fun to watch, the players are paying the price. Your health insurance premiums just might be affected.
Football is a contact sport. On every play, the linemen block other lineman to keep them from tackling a back. Someone gets hit on every play. Most of these hits are “clean” and cause only bruises. Some are “dirty”, and cause injuries. Even the clean hits can hurt someone.
It is estimated that 187,000 emergency room visits every year are due to football. What if an illegal drug sent 187k to the er annually? There would be a hue and cry to kill the pushers.
Knee injuries are especially prevalent. An estimated 45,000 knee operations are performed each year due to football injuries. Arthroscopy is a wonderful invention.
With all those helmets slamming into each other, head injuries occur. “The researchers found that there is approximately one catastrophic head injury per every 150,000 athletes playing, or 7 catastrophic injuries yearly. There were 0.67 injuries per 100,000 players at the high school level and 0.21 injuries per 100,000 for college level football players.” Often, the coaches get caught up in the do or die spirit of a big game, and don’t get the player the medical attention that he needs. “Football is a very macho sport. Athletes are taught to play through pain,” …“But concussions range in severity and symptoms, so all a player may experience is a headache several hours after impact. High school players need to be educated in these symptoms and encouraged to self report.”
Even cheerleading squads are reporting more injuries, due to botched stunts.
When you see the players in their youthful glory, you don’t think what they will look like after they quit playing. Many players know this, but the lure of today’s glory justifies the pain of tomorrow. The heroes of yesterday often walk with pain today.

Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

After Apple-picking
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound 25
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.





Putting in the Seed
You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Poems written by Robert Frost. Text by Public Domain Poems.
Pictures from The Library of Congress .