HOME | BIOGRAPHY | BLOG | BOOKS | REVIEWS | ORTS | CONTACT | ON-LINE | SITE MAP



Orts

mote noun (nontechnical usage): a tiny piece of anything https://www.vocabulary.com/lists/13150#view=definitions&word=mote
ort[awrt] noun: Usually, orts. a scrap or morsel of food left at a meal. Origin: 1400–50; late Middle English; cognate with Low German ort, early Dutch oorete; compare Old English or- out-, ǣt foodhttp://dictionary.reference.com/browse/ort

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.”
VirginiaWoolf, A Room of One's Own

Invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
never categorize you.
Charles Bukowski

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.”
JDSalinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Butter thee, thine parsnips, afore taking into battle, the charge.
Yours Truly

"I've never been lonely. I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have."
Charles Bukowski

‘Woodpeckers don’t breed sparrowhawks’ is an old Tudor proverb warning that children cannot be expected to behave any better than their parents.

"…sanity involves a certain measure of impersonation, … for the sake, first and foremost, of one’s own convictions.” Michael Cunningham, TheHours

On the topic of "Social Media":
"Block": The way in which we leave a place when it becomes obvious that civil conversation of any sort is impossible and we've better things to do with our time than coddle the uneducable.
Your Author

WINDFUCKER and FUCKWIND are 16th century nicknames for the kestrel.

A little bit of shit on the subject:

From: QUORA
Jono Davies
Answered Aug 25 2011
It is an old naval term. When they used to transport manure in ships if they stored it low in the ship the gasses would build up in the bilge and can become explosive (methane) so it was marked SHIT Store High In Transit.

From: WIKIPEDIA
In North American slang, prefixing the article the to shit gives it a completely opposite definition, meaning the best, as in Altered Beast is the shit, or The Oregon Trail is the shit. Other slang words of the same meaning, such as crap, are not used in such locutions.

From: ETYMONLINE
The expression [the shit hits the fan] is related to, and may well derive from, an old joke. A man in a crowded bar needed to defecate but couldn't find a bathroom, so he went upstairs and used a hole in the floor. Returning, he found everyone had gone except the bartender, who was cowering behind the bar. When the man asked what had happened, the bartender replied, 'Where were you when the shit hit the fan?' [Hugh Rawson, "Wicked Words," 1989]

18.06
There is something in the evening light
when the days grow long and the sun grows warm
and the breezes blow cool against the face,
there is something in the sound of the rustle of leaves
and the gentle stillness that fills the World
with a hush of heart and a calm of soul
that sends my heart back
many, so many years.

And I am in the park again
alone and waiting
on the off-chance you'll walk by
or maybe
if I'm fortunate this evening
stop to talk
or just sit a while
with me.

I've been about this Earth
to places so far, so very, very far from there,
and always
always
there is something in the evening light
when the days grow long and the sun grows warm
and the breezes blow cool against the face,
that brings me back
to the park again
where I walked alone waiting
and hoping
and watching.

And I sit beside you
late at night
half asleep
but happy, truly happy
to be by your side.
And again I half hear your voice as I drift:
“I think we should take the opportunity when we have it.
What do you think?”
you said.

Wanting nothing more than to agree with you
I sleepily replied
“I agree. Oh yes, I agree.”

You turned to the your side to face me,
leaned forward a bit toward,
raised your hands,
took hold of my face
drew closer still
brought your face to mine
and ...
kissed me ever so carefully...
ever so care-full-ly.

I am weak, remembering now,
as weak now as at that moment.
I heard my heart weep out loud,
it had no where to hold all that elation.
It wept
as my soul leaped from my body
to dance on the air, in the dark, under the moon
with the stars.
And I cried...
and I cry.

There is something in the evening light
when the days grow long and the sun grows warm
and the breezes blow cool against the face,
there is something in the sound of the rustle of leaves
and the gentle stillness that fills the World
with a hush of heart and a calm of soul
that brings my heart back
and I want to cry like that
again.

Forty-three years have passed.
I am no longer spritely, young and so.
Forty-three years of time and age
and ageing
and older
and older still.

But forty-three years and still
there is something in the evening light
when the days grow long and the sun grows warm
and the breezes blow cool against the face,
there is something in the sound of the rustle of leave
and the gentle stillness that fill the World
with a hush of heart and a calm of soul
that reminds me that I have truly Loved
and once upon a time
forty-three years ago
I was Loved.

And forty-three years today...
Dear Denis
it's all very much
the same
as
forty-three years ago.

©Judah Kessler 2014
Neither part nor whole may be reproduced in any manner or fashion with-out written permission of the author. Any violation will be understood as intentional and prosecuted to the fullest extent allowable by all applicable laws.

From under the blanket there came a murmur, followed by a soft cry. The child moved, the motion could be seen. The young woman tightened her hold on the blanket, moved one hand gently deeper under the blanket and softly bounced the little bundle cradled in her loving arms and she stared directly ahead of her at the older woman seated directly across from her. In a short course, the motion of the blanket ceased, the sounds under the swaddling bundle went silent. All was well, was silent again until, when at last the soldiers had departed and the train began moving again, the young woman loosened her grasp on the infant-child and blanket. The top of the blanket opened and softly fell from across the baby’s head and face and there, in the arms of this young mother, lay a child, her child, breathless… lifeless… suffocated… dead. (Currently from the Max Manuscript - in progress) <

The note was written in a finer hand, obviously well thought, time was taken in scribing it. In fact, it was so well written that it was more like a piece of fine art and so, the sincerity of it’s content couldn’t be doubted.

"Dear, Sweet, House-keeper," the message began, "More than anything in the world, I hope I haven’t come as a shock. Shock is the last thing I want to put you into, especially since it’s probably rather early in the morning. If I have, I hope now and will continue hoping that you’ll find it in your heart to understand me and forgive the initial turmoil. Equally, I certainly hope that I haven’t vomited or lost bowel control. I’ve always been considerate of others, and have tried to keep myself presentable even to the very best of society, in so many circumstances. It was my intention to present me and the surroundings in a quiet, refined and dignified manner and to avoid all damages to the best of my ability." (Epilogue (A sketch) (30 sept 2013) The Belladonna Martini Days)

*Monday 24 Octobre: It was an “un-reality” this morning. The actuality of the day felt “distant”, some-how removed from me, from my body, from my person. I was aware of what was about to happen. I was aware of what I had to do. I moved, mechanically, just moved. A clang of a locker door, the echoing of the walkie-talkie down the hall, the clang of something in a garbage can, the howl of a voice with no reason or cause or purpose. (BitterSweet-NE)

As I stood there in the door-way to that cold yet sun-drenched room,silently holding back my own pain of seeing and knowing, from deep with-in my own memory, I ran back-wards toward the beginning of her journey to this moment. So much and almost too much of the details played and re-played in my mind. And all through I knew all too well: she wasn't alone, nor the only one. (Max Manuscript)

As the years progressed, this was the little girl whose hair I braided in the morning before school. This was the young girl with whom I'd danced in the living-room, to the entertainment and amusement of family and visitors. “Get up in the morning slaving for bread sir... so that ev-er-y mout' can BE fed. Oh! Oh! The Is-ree-al-ite...” And we'd dance and spin, twist and twirl! And we'd DANCE! (Max Manuscript)

 

 

 

 

Site-build:©JA Kessler Design