Saturday, July 18, 2015

Game fish; The Stubcaster; Yay boo yay boo; Backwards in the sun; Missa Gaia

Only the Game Fish
Swims Upstream...

museum piece

The Rev.

A rerun for Rev Leroy, fisherman, from a 2008 SRN:

David, John fishing on Pewaukee lake

Getting the short end.
Long before there was even a dream of a Sewer Raccoon News, the future editor
was constrained to fish with a Stubcaster(registered trade name). He begged and begged for a regular length fishing rod, but there was something out then that supposedly offered the action of full-length rod, but which was break-downable into just two short and highly transportable parts. It was deemed to fill the bill for the diminutive boy who was brand new at fishing.
Other fishermen would row past sometimes and utter belittling words at the boy with The Stubcaster(Reg). There was tittering by little girls behind shoreline shrubbery. "Look at HIM, "he's got a S-T-U-B-C-A-S-T-E-R!!!!!!
Soon he became KNOWN as Stubcaster (reg).
It was, unbeknowst to him at the time, a nick-name that would stick to him until adolescence. He stayed short for years, all because of that unresolved equippage.
But then a change came over him.

In the boys locker room they calld him the STUDcaster.

Ed. Note:

Frank Bruni put our feeling on the presidential race
of Gov. Walker
so well in last Sunday's NYT Opinion piece
that we merely provide the following link:

Adoring front-seated fans at the Walker Expo Center announcement stage
(image taken from the Waukesha Freeman photo the day after.
Kleig lights we're told were everywhere!)

"Blinded by The LIGHT !"


Backwards In the Sun

A man loathe to give up the manual typewriter
To bow to the age of computers
Who liked push reel lawn mowers
Wringer washers
And treadle sewing machines

  Announces that
Something good happened there to mitigate
His reluctant accessions adopting the new over the old
While sitting as a machinist
 Marveling at what his word processor
And color printer could do;

He likes to correspond with fountain pen
And then hang the letter backwards in a sunny window
For a while before sending
To study the line without the ability to read text
As though the right or wrong  will show
And save him from mistake or unmeant innuendo

Hand script, even supposedly horrible hand script
Sometimes dangerous from the front side
Takes on a loveliness when viewed backwards
And thus it is when one thinks
Of evaluations involving all angles and facets
Rather than merely the most obvious surface
(Permit him to say YIBAWE)

How often has he sent letters or Emails not so carefully inspected

The thinner the paper for this sunlit viewing
The better:
He remembered a box of old onion skin typing paper
He had from when thinner meant more copies
Yielded by typewriters and carbon paper
Before clicks and double clicks and infinite production

He got this dusty box down and opened the lid
To find a nearly full box of crispy thin sheets
Audibly-crinkling onion skin paper
Talking paper very loud to the touch
After all that time being cooped up

Like a presumed useless ugly duckling
Or love-starved oldster getting dryer
It leaps to respond to the slightest tactility
And you cannot buy it anymore
(Who needs it?)

On the word processor so novel to him
He can practically put cardboard through
And obtain glorious-looking pages
But they don't talk when 
he handles them
They are dead except for the images on them
Not so with onion skin
It says something

You must be of an age to appreciate V Mail
From World War II when loved ones communicated
Across seas on government-mandated crackling tissue paper
To keep the weight of transport down
And to reduce bulk
 It was a practical and beautiful medium

He inspected his father's letters then on the flip side to the light
After he had digested all from the most obvious facade
He knew there must be more from him than that
Which showed on just one surface;
 He was only six years old

He searched side-ways both sides and between the lines
 He became familiar with the look, feel and sound of onion skin
His one contact with Dad and so much  preferred
To the dreaded telegram on dead yellow paper;
That bad paper never wanted never came here
And to find a whole box of  lively paper seventy years after
Those haunting hungry scrutinies was a blessing

He had it among his high basement cobwebs
Must have known it had value
It had escaped years of throwing out
In silent peace like a covered bird
 Intact a perfectly good box of crispy paper

Backwards fountain-penned sheets in sunny windows
Will vibrate while this irreplaceable and
Obsolete box of thin paper lasts

It will last long this new lost art
Because there are so many dry leaves fitted in the old box
Like memories they are so very thin
But strong
Tearing such gossamer  is  not as easy as you'd suppose
In his cyberspacial kingdom there are many color images
In his computer's memory favorite old snapshots
And vivid drawings he's committed to that realm
And his fountain pen will not quit till he does

A way is pointed to a blending
Validating procedures and leanings in the doing,
Printing computer-generated transparencies
On talking paper - with penned script -
 And  backlighting these marriages not on an electric monitor
But in the window backwards in the sun

(D. Zep Dix)

Backwards in the sun

Lee, here from NYC last week
works the Times crossword collaboratively

Pluto 7-15

Lee's pizza dough where he lives in Harlem

He punches it down



Missa Gaia
Paul Winters Earth Mass

Sun sets at Odd Fellows 7-14-15

Seattle's letter to the American President