Photoverio © (#149): The Hoop Tree

________________________________________________________________________________________________

© Oliverio
Bixby Park

The Hoop Tree
is waiting for
the Picnic People

The children will play
in its Sleep Hole
 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

A Poem About Time

________________________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________

Time works in mysterious ways

But never loses count

Of minutes, hours, days

We talk of our years

We talk of our fears

We talk in mysterious ways

______________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 Footnotes

A POEM ABOUT TIME  is the copyrighted property of LCSoL.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The 48th Bullet: Youth

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Youth is not required to have
an expiration date.   

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 Footnote

THE 48th BULLET  is the copyrighted property of  LCSoL.
________________________________________________________________________________________________

STREET ART UTOPIA #18: Eye On The Prize

________________________________________________________________________________________________

           

Artist = Nautil
Siouville-Hague, France

The next Street Art Utopia page is  here. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

A Worm's Eye View Of History

________________________________________________________________________________________________

© Oliverio
90803

To the human eye,
this is a withered, 
old tree


But to a woodworm,
this is a condo 
complex


And that woodworm could be
descended from an uninvited 
guest aboard Noah's Ark...

Julian Barnes
A History Of The World In 10 1/2 Chapters
[excerpted from Chapter 1: The Stowaway] 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

(7:30 + 9:30) Candles = Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa Gift For Zip 10536

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The gift was from 10022 
[St. Patrick's Cathedral]
Purloined in a blazer pocket

Will Jennifer light the candles?

________________________________________________________________________________________________

I Know What Jennifer Is Thinking

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jennifer is thinking:
What will my next Page look like
or will the Artist insist 
on removing 
this Page? 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Please Don't Tell Anyone Where You Read This Story

________________________________________________________________________________________________

THE HANG OF IT

This country lost one of the most promising young men to tilt a pinball table when my son, Harry, was conscripted into the Army. 

As his father, I realize Harry wasn't born yesterday, but every time I look at the boy I'd swear it happened sometime early last week. So offhand I'd say the Army was getting another Bobby Pettit.

Back in 1917, Bobby Pettit wore the same look that Harry wears so well. Pettit was a skinny kid from Crosby, Vermont, which is in the United States too. Some of the boys in the company figured Pettit had spent his tender years letting that Vermont maple syrup drip slowly onto his forehead.

Also one of the dancing girls in that 1917 company was Sergeant Grogan. Us boys in the camp had all kinds of ideas about Sarge's origin; good, sound, censorable ideas that I won't bother to repeat.

Well, on Pettit's first day in ranks the sarge was drilling the platoon in the manual of arms. Pettit had a clever, original way of handling his rifle. When the sarge hollered "Right shoulder arms!" Bobby Pettit did left shoulder arms. When the sarge requested "Port Arms!" Pettit complied with present arms. It was a sure way of attracting the sarge's attention, and he came over to Pettit smiling.

"Well, dumb guy," greeted the sarge.
"What's the matter with you?"

Pettit laughed. 
"I get a little mixed up at times," he explained briefly.

"What's your name, Bud?" asked the sarge.

"Bobby. Bobby Pettit."

"Well, Bobby Pettit," said the sarge. 
"I'll just call ya Bobby. I always call the men by their first names. And they all call me mother. Just like they was at home.

"Oh," said Pettit.

Then it went off. Every fuse has two ends; the one that's lighted and the one's that clubby with the T.N.T.

"Listen Pettit!", boomed the sarge. "I ain't runnin' no fifth grade. You're in the Army, dumb guy. You're supposed t'know ya ain't got two left shoulders and that port arms ain't present arms. Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

"I'll get the hang of it," Pettit predicted.

The next day we had practice in tent pitching and pack making. When the sarge came around to inspect, it developed that Pettit hadn't bothered to hammer the tent pegs slightly below the surface of the ground. Observing the subtle flaw, the sarge, with one yank of his hand, collapsed entirely Bobby Pettit's little canvas home.

"Pettit," cooed the sarge. "You ar...without a doubt...the dumbest... the stupidest...the clumsiest gink I ever seen. Are ya nuts, Pettit? Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

Pettit predicted, "I'll get the hang of it."

Then everybody made up full packs. Pettit made up his like a veteran - just like one of the Boys in Blue. Then the sarge came around to inspect. It was his cheery custom to pass in rear of the men, and with a short, bludgeon-like stroke of his forearm slam down on the regulation burden on the back of every mother's son.

He came to Pettit's pack. I'll spare the details. I'll just say that everything came apart save the last five segments in Bobby Pettit's vertebrae. It was a sickening sound. The sarge came around to face Pettit, what was left of him.

"Pettit. I met lotsa dumb guys in my time," related the sarge. 

"Lots of 'em. But you, Pettit, You're in a class by yourself. 

 Because you're the dumbest!"

Pettit stood there on his three feet.

"I'll get the hang of it," he managed to predict.

First day of target practice, six men at a time fired at six targets, prone position exclusively. The sarge passed up and down, examining firing positions.

"Hey, Pettit, Which eye are you lookin' through?"

"I don't know," said Pettit. "The left, I guess."

"Look through the right!" bellowed the sarge. 

"Pettit, you're takin' twenny years offa my life. 

 Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

That was nothing. When, after the men had fired, the targets were rolled in, there was a gay surprise for all. Pettit had fired all his shots at the target of the man on his right.

The sarge almost had an attack of apoplexy. 

"Pettit," he said,

"You got no place in this man's army. You got six feet. 

 You got six hands. Everybody else only got two!"

"I'll get the hang of it," said Pettit.

"Don't say that to me again. Or I'll kill ya. I'll akchally kill ya,

  Pettit. Because I hatecha, Pettit. You hear me? I hatecha!"

"Gee," said Pettit. "No kidding?"

"No kidding, brother," said the sarge.

"Wait'll I get the hang of it," said Pettit. 

"You'll see. No kidding. Boy, I like the Army. 

  Some day I'll be a colonel or something. No kidding."

Naturally I didn't tell my wife that our son, Harry, reminds me of Bob Pettit back in '17. But he does nevertheless. In fact, the boy is even having sergeant trouble at Fort Iroquois. It seems, according to my wife, that Fort Iroquois nurses to its bosom one of the toughest, meanest first sergeants in the country.  There is no necess-
ity, declares my wife, in being mean to the boys. Not that Harry's complained. He likes the Army, only he can't seem to please this terrible first sergeant. Just because he hasn't got the hang of it yet.

And the colonel of this regiment. He's no help at all, my wife feels. All he does is walk around and look important. A colonel should help the boys, see to it the first sergeants don't take advantage of the boys, destroy their spirit. A colonel, my wife feels, should do more than just walk around the place.

Well, a few Sundays ago the boys at Fort Iroquois put on their first spring parade. My wife and I were there in the reviewing stand, and with a yelp that nearly took my hat she picked out our Harry as he marched along.

"He's out of step," I told my wife.

"Oh, don't be that way," said she.

"But he is out of step," I said.

"I suppose that's a crime. I suppose he'll be shot for that. See he's  in step again. He was only out for a minute."

Then, when the National Anthem was played, and the boys were standing with their rifles at present arms, one of them dropped their rifle. It makes quite a clatter on a hard field.

"That was Harry," I said.

"It could happen to anyone," retorted my wife. 
"Keep quiet."

Then, when the parade was over and the men had been dismissed, First Sergeant Grogan came over to say hello. 

"How do, Mrs. Pettit."

"How do you do," said my wife, very chilly.

"Think there's any hope for our boy, sergeant?" I asked.

The sarge grinned and shook his head. 

"Not a chance," he said. "Not a chance, colonel."

©J.D. Salinger

 Colliers, July 12, 1941

  

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Footnote
Hall Of Fame basketball player,  Bob Pettit,  was eight years old when this story was written.

The next Salinger page is  here  but don't tell anyone I sent you there.    ________________________________________________________________________________________________

Post-Humous Gratitude From Kurt Vonnegut...Thanksgiving 2015

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The head of The Department of Anthropology 

at [the University of] Chicago...

became the most satisfying teacher in my life. 

He scarcely noticed me. He looked at me 

as though I were a small furry animal 

Kurt Vonnegut
W..F...and G
[p.189]

trapped in an office wastebasket.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Footnotes
The teacher Vonnegut referred to was  Robert Redfield.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

  

Self-Portrait With Virgin Mary + Modified Rolling Stones Lyrics

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yes she really looks quite religious
She's been an outlaw all her life
Me, I'm waiting so patiently
Lying on the floor
I'm just trying to lick this jig-saw puzzle
Before it rains anymore

 Jigsaw Puzzle
(Jagger-Richards) 

Happy Thanksgiving 
to anyone reading this,
especially to the person 
who identifies the painting
featured in today's
Art Daily games  

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Exactly Three Years Ago Tomorrow

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The phone rang

Her first words:

How did you get my number?


That number resulted in...

Two million and two words

Twenty four thousand miles by air

Six thousand miles by car

Two thousand and two GodFather pages

One discovery of a resurrected heart
________________________________________________________________________________________________

Another "New Artist" From Art Daily!

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Exhibition of works by Nico Krijno 
on view at the Ravestijn Gallery

Nico Krijno
Sculpture Study with Wooden Blocks
(2015) 

© artdaily.org

________________________________________________________________________________________________

This Is NOT A Song About Surfing

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Surf's Up
 
A diamond necklace played the pawn

Hand in hand some drummed along, oh

To a handsome mannered baton

A blind class aristocracy

Back through the opera glass you see

The pit and the pendulum drawn

Columnated ruins domino

 
Canvass the town and brush the backdrop

Are you sleeping?

 

Hung velvet overtaken me

Dim chandelier awaken me

To a song dissolved in the dawn

The music hall a costly bow

The music all is lost for now

To a muted trumpeter swan

Columnated ruins domino

 
Canvass the town and brush the backdrop

Are you sleeping, Brother John?

 
Dove nested towers the hour was

Strike the street quicksilver moon

Carriage across the fog

Two-Step to lamp lights cellar tune

The laughs come hard in Auld Lang Syne


The glass was raised, the fired-roast

The fullness of the wine, the dim last toasting

While at port adieu or die

 
A choke of grief heart hardened I

Beyond belief a broken man too tough to cry

Surf's Up 
Aboard a tidal wave 
Come about hard and join...
________________________________________________________________________________________________

            

Parabolas: Two More Roland Topor Images

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Roland Topor
(1938-1997)

His next page is  here.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Photoverio © (#148): Beyond What You See

________________________________________________________________________________________________

© Oliverio
Beyond The Sea

________________________________________________________________________________________________

A Poem For Scott And Zelda

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Zelda Fitzgerald,  sitting on a typo:
F.S. FRITZGERALD

THE STEAMER TRUNKS

They found a place to hide 

They found a place to decide

The agony of austerity

    

The limits of insanity

      

The pulpit of posterity

________________________________________________________________________________________________
Footnotes
THE STEAMER TRUNKS
is the copyrighted property of LCSoL.

A poet who profoundly inspired Scot Fitzgerald
is featured  here. 
________________________________________________________________________________________________

Describing The Protaganist Of A Jean-Paul Sartre Novel

________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Tell me Mathieu is intelligent, well read, and I’ll agree; 

but not likable…If you look at his eyes, you can see 

he knows too much. He’s the sort of fellow 

who can’t enjoy anything in a simple way, 

either eating, or drinking or sleeping with women. 

He has to think about everything. 

It’s like that voice of his: 

the cutting voice of a gentleman 

who is never wrong–I know it goes with the job 

of having to explain things to small boys. 

I had a teacher who talked like him 

but I’m not at school anymore 

and I find it tiresome.”

     

  The protagonist is Mathieu Delarue who teaches philosophy 

at a public school. The description is given by Lola, 
a cabaret dancer.  She is the only character 
in The Age of Reason older than Mathieu. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Existential Inspiration For Brian Wilson And The Beach Boys

________________________________________________________________________________________________

In My Room
 Originally recorded in 1963.

Jean-Paul Sartre
Age Of Reason
Originally published in 1945

The next page related to this novel is  here.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

....If You Were A Ten Year-Old Girl Who Could Write Like This....

________________________________________________________________________________________________

This...being a Birthday Letter to your Father

who happened to be a Math Professor...

And your Dad had an "employee"

with a dodgy name (Dodgson)

and an uncanny ability to create

a Wonderland just for you...

Then you would be none other than

the  Original ALICE  and the "employee"

would be none other than the man who became

LEWIS CARROLL

THE HYPERNOOSE AND THE HYPERLINK

One is related to the square of the legs
The other informs you about j-pegs

–And its translation into plain text– 
           

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Footnotes
The caption is the copyrighted property of LCSoL.

Alice Pleasance Liddell  was born on May 4, 1852.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Eric Sevareid Rode Sidecar With Walter Cronkite

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Eric Sevareid
(1912-1992)

Other Sevareid quotes are  here.
but his most profound quote is  there. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Photoverio © (#147): A Spaghetti Tree With Cream Sauce

________________________________________________________________________________________________

© Oliverio
Just one thought:
Where are the meatballs?

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Poem By Robert Desnos (Re-formatted)

________________________________________________________________________________________________

SKY SONG

The flower of the Alps told the seashell:
"You're shining"

The seashell told the sea:
"You echo"

The sea told the boat:
"You're shuddering"

The boat told the fire:
"You're glowing brightly"

The fire told me:
"I glow less brightly than her eyes"

The boat told me:
"I shudder less than your heart does
when she appears"

The sea told me:
"I echo less than her name does in your love-making"

The seashell told me:
"I shine less brightly than the phosphorus
of desire in your hollow dream"

The flower of the Alps told me:
"She's beautiful"

I said:
"She's beautiful, so beautiful, she moves me."

Robert Desnos

(1900-1945)

The dedicatee of this poem
knows who she is!

________________________________________________________________________________________________

IQ And Its Doppelganger

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Our new IQ–Information Quotient–is at an all-time high,
thanks to Google, Wiki, and all things Apple.
 

© Oliverio

The old IQ–Intelligence Quotient–
is at an all-time low because...       

Intelligence = Information + Wisdom

Why bother with wisdom when we can 
instantly twitter what is on our mind?

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Baseball Haiku From A Friend Of Allen Ginsberg's Father

________________________________________________________________________________________________

     
at a produce stand

a kid  with a baseball
plays catch with the awning

Alan Pizzarelli

________________________________________________________________________________________________

She Said...He Said...(Guest Author #1)

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jean Paul Sartre
(1945)
The Age of Reason

 "Do you think I can get a job 
  as a saleswoman in a big 
  department store?"

"You can't be serious...
  it's a killing life."

"Or as a mannequin?"

"You're rather short, 
  but we might try."

        
    


________________________________________________________________________________________________
Footnote
The next page related to this novel is  here. 
________________________________________________________________________________________________

The GCD Of Larry Doby And Allen Ginsberg

________________________________________________________________________________________________


Hall of Famer, Larry Doby,
was the first African-American
baseball player to win 
a World Series ring.

His team, the Cleveland Indians,
won the 1948 World Series.

The New York Yankees had won
the five previous World Series,
defeating Jackie Robinson's
Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947
(and also in 1949).

Allen Ginsberg  was a poet 
and political activist who helped
define the Beat Generation 
and the counter-culture 
of the Sixties.

Both Mr. Doby and Mr. Ginsberg
attended  East Side High School
in Paterson, New Jersey.

GCD stands for 
Greatest Common
Denominator.    
________________________________________________________________________________________________

The 47th Bullet: The Thing

________________________________________________________________________________________________

It is a good thing to say the right thing

but if you say it at the wrong time

–or say it the wrong way–

you'd be better off saying nothing.   

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 Footnote

THE 47th BULLET  is the copyrighted property of  LCSoL.
 ________________________________________________________________________________________________

Not My Words But I Agree With Every One Of Them

________________________________________________________________________________________________

"You know why all the history books are written by men?" 

Nurse DiDi Ortley asks, as the third

and final season of  Getting On begins. 

"Because women were too busy getting all of the work done." 

Who does the work, and who simply takes credit for it, is a tension
at the heart of HBO’s smart workplace comedy, 

where doctors, nurses,  and administrators 

all jockey for position in a hospital

extended care unit where the only 

contented people seem to be

the contented dead.

 
Based on a British series with the same name, the American version of Getting On retains its predecessor’s bleak premise but roots itself firmly in America’s demented health care system. It is  one of the smallest shows  on HBO, both in size (each season consists of just six 30-minute episodes) and in popular reception (it has stayed stubbornly under the radar). Despite a well-deserved Emmy nomination for Niecy Nash, who plays DiDi, Getting On is the sort of show you stumble on while browsing HBO Go and then wonder why you’ve never heard of it before.

Casey Newton 
The Verge

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Please Do Not Hate Us

________________________________________________________________________________________________

But we are on hiatus

© Oliverio
We'll be back on track real soon! 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Con Vive Brio No Mas = An Acrostic For Keyboard Alphabetics

 _______________________________________________________________________________________________

© Oliverio
...Laptop Zinc Xylyphonics...

Quietly
While   
Everyone
Relaxed...
There’s
Your
Uncle
Isadore:
Outside
Playing…
And
Singing
Delicious,
Funky,
Groovy
Harmonics:
Jazzy
Keyboard
Laptop-
Zinc-
Xylophone 
Con 

QWERTYUIOP
ASDFGHJKL
ZXCVBNM

Vive
 Brio
 No 
 Mas

 _______________________________________________________________________________________________
Footnote
CON VIVE BRIO NO MAS is the copyrighted property of LCSoL.
 _______________________________________________________________________________________________

Wherever...

________________________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________

Wherever there is a church

Wherever there is a steeple

There is pure beauty

Except when full of people

______________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Footnote

WHEREVER... is the copyrighted property of LCSoL.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

This Is The Recipe For A Moonlight Cocktail

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Couple of jiggers of moonlight and add a star,
Pour in the blue of a June night and one guitar,
Mix in a couple of dreamers and there you are:
Lovers hail the Moonlight Cocktail.

Now add a couple of flowers, a drop of dew,
Stir for a couple of hours 'til dreams come true.
Add to the number of kisses, it's up to you.
Moonlight Cocktail–need a few.

Cool it in the summer breeze
Serve it in the starlight underneath the trees.
You'll discover tricks like these
Are sure to make your Moonlight Cocktail please.

To be served, when deserved

________________________________________________________________________________________________