He speaks. And what he says . . . to say what he says or to bite his tongue and thereby end all discourse on the facts of Shakespeare--funny coming from one who imagines that facts are not possible to discern? That is not what he imagines, is it? But he does equate facts, facts … Continue reading How Gary Taylor Has Become a Prime Enemy of Western Civilization [a short story]
There will always be an untotalizable sum in the irreducible individual human being. Every person is a sum greater than his parts, a sum greater than the numerically advantaged institutions, those of… Source: Non Totalizable Me
Prefatory Remarks He says what he says, saying things as he tells people things, the things he thnks he needs to say, things he imagines he should say, what thinking and imagining have in common he has not considered in too long he would say if he remembered, what memory has to do with saying … Continue reading When is the Question? I Think You Know the Answer
Long time passing with questions that used to beget more trenchant questions. Yes, I used to say that. I recall how many times I heard offered as a rebuttal: If you question this then you wind up questioning that and that and that. When does it end? I still have no idea what that means, what … Continue reading Where Have All the Questions Gone? prose fiction
An attempt at what others around him have called wisdom, not really knowing, he would think, what they were saying, simply using a word they had heard bandied about by others of the undergraduates who would have congregated in the English Major's Lounge when most of them were still very young, except myself, I say, … Continue reading What You Do Not Know About Conclusions [a tale, short-short fiction]
All Literature is Discourse but not all Discourse is Literary a short story You know the saying about cognac and brandy, don't you? All cognac is brandy, but not all brandy is cognac. I guess this is of no never mind, about brandy and cognac, about how all of the latter is the former but … Continue reading How Dylan Became What You Did Not Know He Was
Remember--what is there to remember? To be a member once again, of what, of where, of when, with whom? I genuinely ask, asI have suspected that I might not be doing such. Renewing one's membership--to be a member of society or not to be a member of society? Again, questions beget questions, and so on … Continue reading What is There for You to Remember?
How the Search for a Fetal Heartbeat is an Effective Return to the Curtain Rod.
An essay from a few years ago, also reissued last October, almost to the day one year ago.
There are people, organizations, institutions and leaders in politics that support the idea that a woman should be made to get an ultrasound and then listen to the fetus’s heartbeat before she can go through with the abortion she has decided to get. In the case of a pregnancy not yet five weeks, as I understand, no heartbeat can be detected, so a probe must be inserted in her up to the opening of the cervix– it cannot enter the womb, or can it, I don’t know, but this is futuristic alien invasion stuff. This is an effective return to the curtain rod.
I know that this is far, far too invasive. I cannot imagine what mind thinks of this stuff–and stuff is used without irony or pun intended. It is another punitive measure imagined by moralizers, who, when matters of morality arise, are usually wrong or wrong-headed or exaggerated…
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I do not recall the last time I said the “Hail Mary” with any devotion; nor do I the last time I recited it aloud in Latin, as I had been taught to do by my dad, a Puccini-loving cop from Brooklyn who used to walk the Fulton Street beat and was the 80th precinct mid-wife. I recall the times–what? What acts events persons wants desires needs do I recall? All of them or some of them at least in fragments now? What of or what about my Dad and I do I recall, could I recollect . . . together sitting around recollecting times he delivered babies in cabs, on buses, in coffee shops or other stores; or on the sidewalk on Fulton Street in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. Too many people did not call an ambulance, instead my Dad or the Precinct, which then meant my Dad if he…
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