Get it? Got it. Good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Leader of the Luddites.

Hand-colored etching, 1812; in the

collection of the British Museum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear All,

 

I needn't explain to you, after all this time, all these heartfelt exchanges, where I am coming from here-  you know already, and I am happy that we can be there for each other.  From time to time, I feel a little puny & tiny, a little too marginalized in my outsider place;  paralyzed, ostracized; whole technologies have passed me right by- my Brothers and Sisters talk of television shows, music, games, apps, and social media that I don't have the foggiest notions of- I am relegated to the attic, I am not relevant. 

 

You might, feeling as I know you do, find yourself in a similar funk.  As the man who built our house says "Be thee of good cheer." 

 

Somewhere, there are places for us.  Here is one now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PS  Another little something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mashed Potato

Dear Feet,

Where can we get some shoes that can move like that?!

Lurkey's Turkeys.

Dear Friends and Family,

     May your holiday be filled with cats, dogs, and thankfulness.

Lost Highway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nearest, Furthest and Dearest Ones,

I am little threatened, a little scared, a little loathe to lose my highway.  What I mean, of course, is that I prefer to continue to drive my car, and make my own mistakes, and not have to discuss too much of it with Hal.  The car, for me, is a symbol of a kind of sovereignty.  It is a wildly powerful machine, a car; and they let you first drive one in your formative years.  Which might be why it will always feel to me a little like Christmas morning to pull the strap across my chest, bandolier-like, turn the key in the ignition, place my hands at 10 and 2 o'clock, and think:  Is everything go?  It will always feel like a fine beginning to me, like an adventure.  Driving has never felt like a chore to be avoided, like cleaning grout or filing taxes.  This, they tell me, is partly due to genetics, but I prefer the conceit of believing that it is my own personal choice to be a pirate, a gadabout, a pilgrim, and a gallivanter.

Did I tell you about the thing with the light bulbs?  I abhor those efficient bulbs with their ghastly bluishdeath glow, and so I bought a C-note's worth of incandescent bulbs some years ago.  Yes, it did feel like I had gone a little mad, hoarding light bulbs like that.  And so we come to the automobile: Can I get a big box of older cars that will let me do the driving and just use them up for the next however many decades?  Would that seem crazy to you? 

By the time the self-driving car hits the shelves, I will be through with my mourning, because I am already seeing that what I really worry about, what I am most afraid we might lose, is not just the chance to drive along in an automobile, but some piece of being human.  When I figure out precisely what human attribute I fear we are losing, you will hear from me, and we can try to save it together.  In the interim, please enjoy these three songs:

 

 

one

 

two

 

three

 





 four.

 

Written down in a tear-stained letter.

Dear Recipient, or, To Whom it May Concern,

You know why I still write to you this way, don't you?  I send my love like this because I have lost your address, and I don't think you are driving past the billboard I wrote my message on; in large red spray painted letters, across the lugubrious grins of a pair of 10 foot high lawyers.

In any case, I send you all my love, mostly, and occasionally a few news items-  here is something that seems especially salient.  

The wonderfulness of this particular moment is that I received a message with this noteworthy item in it, and so I wanted to pass it on to you, but more than that, I am also reading a terrific novel about mail, and letters, and technology and pins, and pigeons and golems and well, you really should read it too- it's a delight:  Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett.

The letter un-received is a powerful metaphor and I must consider it carefully, and organize my thoughts by writing them down.  I hope you will get my letter, but if you do not, please know that I am thinking of you.

Until my next missive,
yours,
truly.






PS
A Tear Stained Letter.  And another.
- S. W. A. L. K.

The Big South.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hard, Brown, Nutlike Word.

Dear Darlings,

I am all rabid with enthusiasm for this tale, Indian Uprising, by Donald Barthelme.  I think it might just say it all.  If you have had the pleasure of reading it, black marks on white paper, I rejoice with you.  If you are one of the ones with less patience, with less bookshelves, with whatever it is you have instead of time to read, please enjoy an auditory reading of it, here.  There is an introduction, which, if you have a shred of sense, you will skip, by starting at 4 minutes and 18 seconds.

There is much superfluous closing material, also, after the story ends- remarks between the interviewer and the reader, Chris Adrian.  Which, given your hurried day, your busy life, you should also skip.  On the other hand, you may itch for explication, and then, you will open that Pandora's box, and your own definitions, your own precious meanings, will fly off, never to be heard from again.  And so, you are forewarned. 

In accord, in solidarity, may we nonevaluate everything, always.

Hey! Did you see that?! Updated.

Dear All,

I hope you did see it, because I have never seen anything like it!  Update:  Not, alas, a Taurid, but a damn fool Navy Submarine fired rocket test. This kind of a thing is going to scare the meteors off!

Will the Taurids be torrid this year?

Dear Watchful Ones,

Of course, you are still reeling from the astounding conjunction, and you have been spying for Taurid meteors since mid-October, and now you are ready for the smoking hot South Taurid meteor shower!  Use this handy tool to find a good place to watch them, and listen to this wonderful song on Radio Dodo.






PS

Another star song.

What you can and what you caint.

Dear Roger,

Yes, you can't roller skate in a buffalo herd, but you can roller skate on a stand up paddleboard, on the sea.



Roller Skate SUP at Capitola: Santa Cruz Waves Show, Ep 1 from Santa Cruz Waves on Vimeo.

PS 

Here's another thing that reminds me of what you can and what you caint.  In English.