James Hart / Fiction

If fiction is dead, reality is not far behind.

James Hart

James Hart
Location
Be Home Soon,
Birthday
December 31
Bio
Hart will have maintained this blog for One-hundred-sixty-nine million, nine-hundred-forty-eight thousand, six-hundred seconds through 31 May 2014. ******************************** ******************************** ******************************* A carpenter's level designs a calm sea. ******************************** ******************************** ******************************** Violent movies and prime-time TV shows ought to have disclaimers as reality checks during curtain calls. The cast could gather for a bow and civil handshake and or cheek kisses in order to demonstrate (to the least sophisticated among us) to let us know that the aforementioned carnage was make believe. A fiction. An entertainment. Such reality checks (and stage craft tribute) would well serve a fairness to the deranged among us who are prone to confuse the fantasia of entertainment violence as 'acceptable reality behavior'. There are legions of empty vessels awaiting sustenance about 'how' to react. With sure-bet frequency, the ubiquity of guns and conditioned criminal reflex results in aberrant behavior with subsequent ruinous acts of violence. We see it along the road. We read it and see it and hear it in the news. Such a paradigm! Odd that bow and bow and bow and bow are the same word. One for thank you, one for protection (?}, and the other to stay off the icebergs ... and of course there's the shoe tie, and gift wrap and that bloke from Saginaw, reading USA Today on the Greyhound. Here's a limerick from my Average Guy series: Of all emotion, the grin 'n frown, the best among us, stand down. ******************************** Here's a paragraph from my Average Guy: a couple of satiate dinner guests had ensconced themselves on the living room sofa. Whoops that was an abandoned paste. }One Moment{ Like all boys they wanted everything: the wild treetops and Tarzan hollers, then back to the soccer game on Channel 9 with their buttered microwave popcorn and tough-guy toothpicks. The painted fancy news ladies, in high skirts. Slivered clapboard was a place to carve initials. Not far, canaries built their own thatch nest, hunkered and still against the wind from all directions. An onyx black crow its wing tips torn of feather like a shrapnel-wounded plane, stood watching. Until it was yellow and black, a flurry of woven grass and fallen scatter of shadowed ruin. A swooped escape of yellow dots and the black clawing predator of powerful wide wing, its bright beak triumphant to the sunshine, the white fluff chicks burst within merciless gripped coil. A quick flight toward 3 o'clock backward through nascent Linden buds. An automatic trick spiraling, a mystical bullet, the motion at once there and gone to stellar over soul of weathered naked branch. Its prize of canary chicks: a satiation to the endless March blue.

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MAY 16, 2012 8:11AM

Deeply from the Sixty-Six

Rate: 11 Flag
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                            scrapnel hot rain
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I'd a '57  Chevy convertible in 1966.  Paid $125.  The Vietnam War was always on the TV news, and on Time magazine.  We sanded off the robin's egg blue, fixed the rusty rocker panels and then sprayed it a metal flake midnight. Older neighborhood guys were by this time flown home dead from the war.  We scrubbed that canvas top as pure as the driven snow.  Mothers wailed at military funerals. We'd stage drag races at all hours. One of the girls would drop a pink carnation and we'd roar and wheelie-screech off into the night.  Yeah a lot of those kids were reading Atlas Shrugged, changing brake shoes and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon close to the fire. Moon River was never far. Tethered behind frayed, oily nylon cords we'd grip tight and experiment on water skis.  Zig-zagging we'd try to jump the wake behind those heavy glass boats. One of the Jacks always wore a red cap. His older brother Tommy wrote gruff letters from China Beach until he didn't.
 
 
 
 
 

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Nicely evocative piece of a time I well remember. Like to have seen a picture of that rag top and I'll bet you wish you had it now. It is bizarre to watch Jackson-Barrett and watch rich old men bid the junkers of our youth through the roof. R
Gettin' your share. Nice wheels, the '57.
"His older brother Tommy wrote gruff letters from China Beach until he didn't."

What a line!

R
this burns from top to bottom
Good memory for detail. It must have been a weird time to be a teen.
I was always too late. Born too late for this era, it's one that you bring to life vividly.
That rag top must of been something.
Elsewhere it was reported that a toddler and two year old sibling snuck outside and, taken from a neighbor's car seat, they found and drank gasoline from a red polyethylene container. On the news, behind the reporter you could see the red jug with its yellow plastic spout atop an old car. Apparently the child and baby had wondered away from their mother who had stopped to visit a friend. My guess is they sneaked out the front door of an antiquated two-story brick building that was faced, modernized, with beige siding. The baby was dead at the scene. The four year old baby was flow by helicopter to the University Hospital and now, several weeks later, is purportedly recovering. I ought to Google my facts here. This sad sad happenstance to my knowledge has been ruled (by the authorities) an accidental death. At the water cooler, I tried to imagine what those babies were thinking. Children do not wonder why. And there is the disbelief, a naivety. A fatal curiosity of how. I am perplexed wondering how the pungent odor of gasoline did not deter the babies. The near fire-like deterrent of gasoline. Awfully, conjecture would have it that even tiny sips and perhaps, goshdarn it, one maybe two convulsive gulps would rip the food track of the baby and the baby would choke. The body would shock, expire. This news report was several weeks after an unrealted story of a fifteen year girl who'd escaped her family basement (read dungeon, 2012). Barefoot in broad daylight in the dead of a winter's day she walked down the road (I picture her walking as fast as she could nearly running in a thin dress over sharp gravel on the suburban street's shoulder). She'd escaped years of alleged torture, rape and deprivation. She is fifteen and can be mistaken for a ten year old as she weighs only 72 pounds. She tells her story behind obfuscated digital dots, in order to protect her privacy. Allegedly her dad and step mother imprisoned the child in the cellar for years or since (I ought to Yahoo this) what was it 1,2,3,4,5, years or so since she was ten. Allegedly the teenage stepbrother was terrible to her. Allegedly raping her. Currently the victim is in warm professional care undergoing rehabilitation. I suspect that in a good while the MSM will 'revisit' her situation. My hope is that she knows she is innocent. Her incarcerated family is attempting to solicit a defense fund. I am not sure of any of this (I ought to Bing this for accuracy).
Thanks for reading and taking a moment to rate and comment.
Have a beautiful day.
I wish you joy.
That war gave us an edge.
shrapnel stills flashing over the boys
Elsewhere it was reported recently that a toddler and two year old sibling snuck outside and drank gasoline from a red polyethylene container. On Wisconsin TV news, off camera behind the reporter you could see the red jug with its yellow plastic spout atop an old car. Purportedly the car belonged to a neighbor who stored and carried the gasoline inside an unlocked car. Apparently the children had wondered away from their mother who had stopped to socialize with a friend. My guess is they sneaked out from the front door of an antiquated two-story brick building that was re-faced, modernized, with beige siding and windows. The two year old died at the scene. The four year old was flown by helicopter to University Hospital and had been reported in stable condition. I ought to Google my facts here. To my knowledge this sad sad happenstance was ruled (by authorities) as an accidental death. At the water cooler, I tried to imagine what those babies were thinking. Children do not wonder why. And there is the innate disbelief, a naivety, a trusting lack of fear. A fatal curiosity of how. I am perplexed wondering how gasoline's pungency did not deter or instinctively repel the babies. Gasoline has an odorous fiery stench. Awfully, conjecture would have it that even tiny sips and perhaps, goshdarn it, one or maybe two convulsive, spontaneous gulps would rip the food track of the person. The body would shock, choke, expire. The news report of the ingested gasoline was several weeks after an unrelated equally depressing story of a fifteen year old girl who'd escaped her family basement (read dungeon, 2012). Barefoot in broad daylight in the dead of a winter's day she walked along the road (I picture her walking as fast as she could trying to run in a thin dress over sharp gravel on the suburban curbside). A passerby picked her up and rushed her to a clinic. She'd escaped years of alleged torture, rape and deprivation. She is fifteen, suffers emaciation, and can be mistaken for a nine year old as she weighs only 72 pounds. In faint voice, she tells her story obfuscated behind digital dots. Allegedly her father and step mother imprisoned the child in their cellar for years or since (I ought to Yahoo this) what was it? For more than several (1,2,3,4 or 5) years or so. Allegedly the teenage stepbrother was terrible and cruel to her and participated in the abuse. The stepbrother has been charged with multiple counts of rape. Currently the victim is in warm professional care undergoing protracted rehabilitation which includes extensive psychiatric therapy. I suspect that in a good while the MSM will 'revisit' her situation. My hope is that she knows she is innocent. Her family has been arrested, charged with a list of felonies, and remains incarcerated under high bond.
It has been reported that the father, mother and stepbrother are attempting to solicit a defense fund.
(I am not sure of any of this (I ought to Bing this for accuracy.)

Thanks for reading and taking a moment to rate and comment.
I wish you a beautiful day.
I wish you joy.

*
[This comment was initially posted on May 17, 20112 8:21 a.m. EST and has been edited, re-posted.]
[A brief essay comment to Alysa's topical EP, 18 May 2012]

(I've attempted to read the entire comment list, please see today's front page.)

I did not see 'intimidation' mentioned. As an example, let's posit that Ayn Rand's cult ought to be exposed as a gang thieves, a galleon of intellectual bullies and, as others mention, our penchant to analogize definition within schoolyard-cell block-lunch table-business conference microcosm avoids the large obscenity of political adventurism as well as subtle 'macro' real life sociological cruelties that rear their ugly heads and manifest themselves in 'objectiveness' power mongering for the sake its own non altruism. Genocide and subliminal propaganda are the science of greed and fear. Is the supposition to eradicate words that are abrupt? Fascism sadism masochism mesmerizer power-mongering brutal goons night riders a little bit of buckshot etcetera.
This from Online Etymology:bully (n.)
1530s, originally "sweetheart," applied to either sex, from Du. boel "lover, brother," probably dim. of M.H.G. buole "brother," of uncertain origin (cf. Ger. buhle"lover"). Meaning deteriorated 17c. through "fine fellow," "blusterer," to "harasser of the weak" (1680s, from bully-ruffian, 1650s). Perhaps this was by influence of bull(n.1), but a connecting sense between "lover" and "ruffian" may be in "protector of a prostitute," which was one sense of bully (though not specifically attested until 1706). The verb is first attested 1710. The expression meaning "worthy, jolly, admirable" (esp. in 1864 U.S. slang bully for you!) is first attested 1680s, and preserves an earlier, positive sense of the word.
Respectfully I do not believe that 'bully' ought to be eliminated. I am astonished that there is no synonym for bully in French.
I point to the larger concern of disambiguation and discrimination of critical thinking.
[Thank you for writing, Alysa.]
The body bags were just beginning to return... It was 1968 before anyone that I knew bought the farm in Southeast Asia.