LC Classification

 

Who says

that the guy who made

up the Library of Congress

system of cataloging

had no sense of humor?

BS is the classification

under which the Bible

is put.

 

published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

first published on the internet at BlogSpot.com, 8/21/2015

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Death by Doctor Who

 

I tried to explain about the strange man

in the phone booth,

but nobody would listen.

He nattered about weird stuff:

Pity, now the universe is down

to 699 wonders,

in a Mad Hatter sort of way.

Twenty-five years and

they still look at me queer.

When I was a kid; it was comics.

Alternate universe, alternate issues going

forward in time and back in time.

Now it’s Dr. Who.

Talk about social suicide,

talk about Doc at a cocktail party,

you’re standing alone in a corner

with an empty glass.

If they don’t like the Doctor,

strange isn’t in their blood.

And if strange isn’t;

where’s passion?

Under all that conformity?

Fun counts.

 

published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.

first internet publication on BlogSpot.com, 8/22/2015

Making Plans

 

 

Death is what happens to you when you are making other plans.

Skeletons

Note to Readers

Just thought I would let you know, two of my posts over the last week have been snatched from my old BlogSpot.com “A Total Solid Waste”.  I realized that some of that material has not had that much exposure, and Google does a much better job of doing so.

 

For those of you still reading, thanks!

 

 

blue1

Cobalt Blue

 

 

Authority Files

 

I drink too much; I’m partly drunk now.  Mary left me last week; she told me I needed to talk to somebody: a psychiatrist.  I was doing fine up until a month ago when the nightmares started again.  Started drinking again, and finally got drunk enough to tell her the story.  She thinks I’m nuts.  It only took her a week to leave me after I told her.

Go to a shrink?  I’d rather kill myself with the booze.  They wouldn’t believe me either.  Things like that don’t happen, can’t happen.  No white rooms for me.  Computer rooms?  They’re mostly all white.  I’m even writing on a computer.  I shouldn’t be writing this.  It can get me this way.  He’s dead, isn’t he?  I should know, I killed him.  But that damn machine is still out there.

I’m drunk enough.  I can write this.  Maybe it will help me forget it.

It started in college, working in the library.  That’s on a computer most of the time inputing bibliographic records into a large nationwide system.  All big libraries are computerized these days.   They don’t even have card catalogs anymore.  They’re linked into networks of holdings.  You can punch in a title, and if one library doesn’t have it, another one does.

So I had a lot of library experience and decided to go to library school.  That’s what they like to call an MLS in the library business, a Master of Library Science.  That’s where they taught me about authority files.  Authority files keep all those computer records straight.  Uniform titles, authors, series: everything neat and tidy.  Just check your authority file.

I was fresh out of graduate school, looking for my first job.  But times were tight for librarians.  Nobody was hiring in reference work, and I was tired of cataloging.   So when I heard about a new bibliographic network starting in the Pacific Northwest, I applied.  When I took the call for an interview, I was down and out.  There were only a couple hundred left in the account.  So I had to follow through.  The rent had to be paid; I had to eat.

The network was based in Seattle.  It always rains in Seattle, at least that’s what everybody says.  The first time I saw Seattle it was sunny, warm, with blue skies.  The interview went well, and I was offered the job.  It was checking records against an authority file just like the records I input back in college.  I was a natural.  I took it.

You have to make sure those records are all the same or they get all messed up.  Too many ways to spell a name, too many open entries.  And you have to close those entries when they are finished.  You have to close those entries.

Do you know what Seattle reminds me of now?  Something washed up on a beach.  Some huge pale sea-beast with tentacles reaching out into the dark forests and mists of the Sound.  It’s something that doesn’t quite belong there. A modern technological wonder somehow linked to ancient forces that twist the finest ideas along dark paths.  It’s evil.  Like that white room where they put me to work, with a couple of computer terminals, me on one and him on another.

At first I didn’t think of him as strange.  A spindly little clerical worker, yes, a bit of a nerd, yes, but just a guy.  His name was Drew.

He was about forty I guess, thin greying hair, black plastic glasses, and fond of those button up sweaters you parents always made you wear when you were a kid.  I guess he was always cold.  Computers need to be cool.  Drew was cold inside anyway.  After we were introduced by our supervisor, he never said a word except to answer my questions about work.

It started to get on my nerves.  I didn’t know anybody in the town.  He was my closet contact to a human being in that little room with the computers.  It started to seem like the whole world.  So I started to talk to him, started to work my way through that cold exterior.  We didn’t have anything in common except books.  That’s where I stared.  If I knew what I know now, I would have asked him to a Seahawks game and put him right off.

We talked American writers, English writers, French writers: good writers and bad writers.  We didn’t really connect on who we liked, but literature was at lease a beginning.  He liked Wordsworth, I liked Coleridge.  When I brought up Poe, Drew brought up Hawthorne.  Fitzgerald brought up Hemingway, Cather made him talk of Anderson.  Baudelaire turned him to Voltaire.  He was kind of stuffy in what he liked, nothing too far out of  line with the world as he saw it.

I finally asked him out for a drink after work.  To my surprise, he excepted.  We ended up at a little dive near the U district.  It was quiet that night, we could hear each other.  Before we went in, he stuck a quarter into a paper-stand for the evening edition.  He set it carefully folded between us on the bar, occasionally glancing at it as we talked over our first couple of drinks.  Eventually there was a lull in the conversation.

Drew picked up the paper and turned straight to the obituaries without even glancing at the front page.  Scanning the column of people who had died, his eyes stopped at a name.  His lips curled up into a smile.  Setting it in front of me, he tapped his finger on the notice.

“Good, I’m glad he’s dead.  Never liked him anyway,” he said with definite glee, no remorse what so ever.  His actions were those of man almost expecting what he had found.  It was a stupid thought, but it did cross my mind.  He must have heard it on the radio or something.

I looked at the name.  I’d heard of it somewhere before.  Reading quickly, it turned out that I probably had.  He had been a minor writer over the last ten or twenty years.  He had turned to politics for a time in the sixties, little protests and court cases over the war, women’s liberation: that kind of thing.

“Hell, I thought he was dead years ago,” I commented.  “I guess I’ll have to close his entry in the database.”

“Humph,” he breathed out, “don’t even bother.”

It was just a statement of disgust, but thinking back there was something else there.  We closed out our evening early and he went his way, I went mine.

When I arrived at work the next day, I sat down with my first cup of coffee in front of the machine.  I glanced over at the empty station where my fellow drone should have been sitting.  He was a little late today.  No big deal, he usually stayed late.  I started sorting through the set-works.  Then I remembered the obituary from last night.

I keyed in the name.  It came up readily enough with about half a dozen entries attached.  He wasn’t prolific or anything.  I was about to put his date of death in after the little dash following his birth date, but it was already there.  Somebody had beaten me to it.  I looked over at the empty terminal.  He couldn’t have.  And there was nobody else in the office that would have.  Just a strange screw-up I guessed.  Like me, somebody else had figured that he was dead years ago.  But it was this years date?

Drew wandered in about an hour late.  He looked a little worse for wear from the night before.  The man wasn’t use to drinking.  It was break time before he looked like he could be spoken to.  I told him about the closing date.

“I told you not to bother,” was his answer.  “I closed it yesterday morning.”

I still thought he had heard it on the radio or TV, on the way to work or something, and shrugged it off.  I went  back to correcting records, and sending them back if they were too messed up.  AACR2 has to be stuck to, there are rules to find pigeon holes.

After lunch, Drew was looking a lot better.  We started to talk about one of my favorite writers from the sixties.  He had recently been rediscovered by a whole new generation.  He was on the supermarket shelves.  That must have annoyed him no end, being in a supermarket was counter to all he wrote about.

Of course my co-worker hated him with a passion.  Our discussion grew a little hot.   With a final jibe about what a crummy writer the man was, and how stupid the people were who actually read  him, the man called me around to his side of the work station.  He pointed to the screen of his terminal.

Drew had called up the authority file record on the CRT.  There was my author’s name all neatly outlined in little green electrons on the screen.  He had placed his cursor next to the dash by his birth date.  The man typed in the current year as his death, making him dead according to the computer.  A totally contented look filled his face.  I frowned my displeasure.

“Ha, ha, ha,” I let fall in a totally bored way.  He was pissing me off the little jerk.  I went back to work, and we didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of the day.  I didn’t plan to say much to him for the rest of my life.  I’d just about decided he was too much of a geek, and I’d rather be bored and lonely.  I went home at five, ate some food, had some beer over the tube, and fell asleep to late night static.

After a shower in the morning, I pulled in the paper from the concrete and wrought iron “veranda” outside my front door.  That’s what I liked to call the walk-up to my one bedroom apartment.  The paper boy was getting to be a better shot by then.  I was pouring my coffee when the article on the front page made me spill it.

It was the freakiest thing that had ever happened to me.  That writer was dead as hell, some kind of car accident.

“Weird coincidence,” I thought out loud.

That was the sort of thing I would gladly have drunk away the night talking to my friends about back in college.  But I didn’t have any friends here, just work, and Drew.  I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of mentioning it.  I didn’t have to.

“I’m glad he’s dead too,” was what he hit me with first thing in the morning.  He had the same smile he had back in the bar that night.

“I’m not,” I answered as indifferently as I could.  I was not happy about how happy he was.  “It was strange the way it happened though.”

“Bullshit.” Drew said firmly.  “I killed the fucker.”

‘He’s crazy as well as a loon,’ I said to myself.  He must have known what I was thinking.

“I can prove it.  Who do you want me to kill.  As long as they’re in the machine, I can kill them.  All I have to do is close the entry.”

“Sure . . .” I hesitated.  I decided to humor him.  “Kill the president you jerk.”

“No, I like him.  I only kill the people I want to.”

I didn’t say anything else to him.  I worked on the machine for the rest of the day, took long breaks, and generally avoided him until I could get out of there.  He was totally nuts.  The squirrel had finally cracked up in his chosen profession.  I decided then and there, I wanted a nice quiet library to work in.  I wasn’t going to wind up like this freak.  I made it home with out talking to him.  There was a bottle around and beer in the fridge.   I forgot about the day fast.

That night the dream started.  I woke up sweating in Seattle and it wasn’t the humidity.  It took place at work.  Drew was sitting across the way from me doing his job.  I was closing entries on my terminal.  I glanced down at what I was doing.  When I looked up again, he was the skulled face of Death.  I go back to work, try and ignore him.  When I look up again his eyes are staring into me.  There are no eyes, just empty sockets, but I know that they are looking at me.  It scares me.  I decide not to look up again.  I close more entries.  Then I look down at my own hands; they are bones.  They rattle on the keys.  I have become Death.  I woke up and had to check if my hands still had flesh on them.  I had to go into the bathroom and look in the mirror to see if I still had a face.

It  was just a dream, I knew that.  But I didn’t get back to sleep until it was nearly light outside.  I woke up tired, made coffee.  Drank it while I took a shower, and pulled on some cloths.  When I pulled in the paper from outside, I didn’t even look at it, just let it sit on the kitchen table.  I wasn’t afraid or anything, just didn’t have the time.

When I arrived at work, Drew was already at his terminal.  He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t about to.  The days passed like this.  If it wasn’t work related, we didn’t talk.  And during those days, I never opened the newspaper.  I began to think I was afraid to look.  I was running down fast.  Drinking helped, but I always woke up with a hangover.  When I didn’t drink, I woke up terrified.  It was starting to show in my work.  I was making mistakes.  This couldn’t go on.

One morning I decide that what I was feeling was all bullshit.  I walked deliberately to the front door of my apartment and ripped open the paper and started reading it.  On the second page, the coffee cup froze half way to my lips.  Another writer was dead.  This time a poet from the beat generation of the fifties.  I didn’t want to go to work that day.  I called in sick.  But that only worked for one day.  I had to face the evil little man tomorrow.  He had become the “evil little man” in my mind.  I was really cracking up.

It was just a coincidence.  I kept telling myself this.  I would go to work the next day and everything would be fine.  He would just be a clerical worker.  When I went to sleep, the dream came again.  My hands became white, bony claws on the keys.  I think I woke up screaming, but the apartment was quiet.  There was no one there to tell me otherwise.

I drove to work the next day telling myself that I was just going to ignore him.

‘He isn’t going to get to me with his crazy power trip.   It is a figment of his twisted mind.  If it gets any worse, I will tell my supervisor that the guy has obviously snapped and let him take care of it.’  That is what my rational mind was saying.  The tired side of me, the dream side of me, was shouting that I should keep driving, turn south, find some beach with sun.

It had been raining for what seems like two months solid.  When I pulled into the company parking lot, I sat for a minute listening to the wipers clear my vision.  Then the mist would cloud it over again.  I turned off the engine and climbed out into the damp, grey mist and black asphalt.  The worms were all on the surface so they wouldn’t drown.  I had to avoid them as I walked in the side entrance of the office.

He looked up when I sat down at my terminal.  Drew had  been waiting for me.

“You were sick yesterday,” he said with the same smile from the bar.  “Did you see the paper?”

“No,” I said curtly trying to hide the fact that I had by staring into my screen.  He knew that I was lying.

“I killed him too,” he pointed out with a giggle.  Then he stood up and headed off to the break room with an empty coffee cup in hand.

“Drop dead asshole,” I yelled after him.  He glanced over his shoulder and giggled again as he went for his coffee.

I dropped my hands from the keyboard and stared into my screen.  My mind had gone, too little sleep, no one to talk to, I don’t know.  The image of my hands turning to fleshless bone filled my head.  I began to type.  I dropped out of set-work screens into the main authority file.  I made up a record for a new author, filled in his birth date.  I glanced up at the break room door.

“Drop dead asshole,” I whispered.  Then I filled in the death date and hit the enter key.  There was a moment of quiet, a slight hush of soundless automation stopping.  And then the sound of a coffee cup falling on the concrete floor in the break room: a cry of a concerned staff member.  I didn’t bother to look.

Putting on my coat from the back of the chair, I stared down at the screen.  I glanced at the flesh covering my hands, and then kicked out the terminal screen with a soft, electrical implosion.  I left by the side door and never went back.

I was doing ok, until the dreams started again.

 

published in Fugue: The Univ. of Idaho Literary Digest, Spring/Summer, 1992, #5

first internet publishing BlogSpot.com, 1/4/2015.

 

 

 

 

Profound Wonder

MOON BACK ROAD

Today I looked up at the November moon as I was driving my route, picking up the garbage. It was just a day before the last quarter, between the lead of storm clouds, hanging in the sky during a sun-burst. It was the first time I ever looked up and felt that drop in the stomach, as if I was looking out at the erosion of the Badlands, or the cut through the basalt of Hells Canyon. It felt like I finally understood that I was standing on a rotating ball, locked in a duel orbit, and the craters and dust was only a quarter of a million miles away, moving with me. If I just stretched my arm far enough, I could touch it.

I remember the time sitting waiting for my mother; I was on the passage side of the front seat, light streaming in from the warm sun. I must have been five-ish, certainly under ten. It dawned on me exactly why I could not see the stars in the day time. The sun is too bright; it overwhelms them. It does not seem so important now, but at five-ish, certainly under ten, I felt a profound wonder.

Today, as I picked up the garbage, I felt that again. There is something to be said for being this old, being this broken but plodding on. Every day, the wonder comes back.

 

 

They Love to Touch

 

I once saw a man at a pretzel stand

with a giant pretzel on top of it.

You couldn’t help but know that it was

fake: nobody makes pretzels that big.

He just had to touch it, though, creep!

It should have fallen on him.

It must be the same thing with snow;

they always walk on the clean stuff.

Monkeys will sleep in their own shit

even if you show them how not to.

Even a dog won’t do that.

Let them not breed in great numbers

or else they will slime over the world.

The filthy fools remind me of

apes in crimson capes pretending to

be their human masters.  It must

be and oral fixation of the skin and

the thoughts have all atrophied.  It’s

possible they have forgotten to feel with

their minds.  Don’t get me wrong,

I enjoy a good tussle in the hay

as much as the next person but

this sort of thing isn’t lasciviousness.

Opening windows and closing doors

most of the time they don’t know what

for.  I think they forgot.  It must be

that they spent too much time with their

hands in their pants or up their skirts

or whatever.  Self-gratification gets

that way after awhile.  Nobody thinks of

the next person who walks across the snow.

Pretzels should learn to fight back.

 

first published in Wind Row, fall 1984.

1st internet publication BlogSpot.com, 2/23/2014.

 

 

Frosty the Wall Patch

 

Img01_07-11-2016

Waiting in a parking garage, enjoying the weird.

 

Pareidolia

43976_15

Pregnant with Possibilities

When we lie down on the ground and look at the clouds, we let our imagination wander.  Some days we can just enjoy the endless variety of weather, but on others there as flocks of sheep, horses, faces, etc.   People who study how the brain works call this phenomena pareidolia, the brains ability to perceive things in objects that have nothing what so ever to do with the things themselves.  Pareidolia may be a form of something called apophenia which is a term for seeing unwarranted connections.

I like to think of it as just enjoying the weird.  It reminds me that we are all one big gestalt.

 

 

 

Health Care

 

The never ending struggle of the “Haves” vs. “Have-nots” goes on.  Unfortunately the “Haves” are in the governing position, so they have the ability to make the laws that govern us all.  All I can do right now is be a squeaking wheel and hope that I get greased or drive them insane so they make a mistake.  I sent the following e-mail to my state representatives a month or so ago.

*

Sept. 18, 2018

I just want to be sure that my representatives for Idaho know that I consider anyone who votes for the repeal and replacement of the ACA to be in criminal collusion with an attack by the Russian Federation on our country. Those who are not actively responding to this attack and are attempting to push a divisive agenda should be brought up on criminal charges. This is not government as usual.

*

This is the response from one of my representatives:

Simpson Redacted oct102017

Simpson Redacted oct102017 (2)

*

This is my response to that letter from Simpson:

In 2010 it was a compromise with factions in the GOP which allowed the ACA to pass. It was these compromises that were installed by the GOP to help it fail. They could have spent the time fixing the problems in the ACA. Instead they obstructed any attempt to make health care better. Once the GOP controlled Congress they encouraged that decline. They allowed it to rise in cost and insurance companies to limit choices. Most likely it is a result of the for-profit medical system and the lobby monies going into political pockets to get more money out of consumers. The GOP sabotaged the program without any bipartisan attempt to make a single payer program.

Trump has done his part by sabotaging with executive order. He says it is the first step in reversing the course of failure. The first step is having a single payer system in bill form with a budget to cover it. They need to figure that “budget constraint” first before going off half-cocked.

The Congressional Budget Office (CBO) did not find lower costs, it found higher and fewer people covered. The 130 billion to state funds has not been addressed by “budget reconciliation” and when the GOP finds it would increase the deficit, they would sabotage the new system in the name of fiscal responsibility. They would leave the states to fend for themselves. There is a lot of faith that the American Health Care Act (AHCA) will work on a state level, but states have budget constraints that do not exist on a federal level.  States will cut services that a federal mandate legally would not allow, especially in the poorer states.

He is correct that our health care is at a crossroads. But he shies away from a responsible single payer system because he and the GOP are not willing to work for it. They are in the pay of for-profit-medicine contributors. He talks about Veterans Health and the problems in care, but he and Congress have done nothing to fix Veteran health care and they have known about it for years. He and Congress are responsible for their own failures.

Increased competion is right up there with supply side economics. It is built on a corporate fantasy that has no relevance to the general population. The trickle down theory only works with garbage.

The McCarran-Ferguson Act is there for a reason. Corporate monopoly is part of the wealth inequality in the world. By supporting its removal, the GOP supports Kleptocracy and keeping wealth in the hands of the few, like repealing the inheritance tax.

The Small Business Health Fairness Act (SBHTA) would help with health insurance and might save 50 billion dollars that the Congressional Budget Office  (CBO) mentions. But the rider of capping 250,000 dollars in tort liability and percentage of contingency fees for lawyers is just protection for big business and should have nothing to do with the SBHFA.

In his attempt to sound like this is government as usual, he is ignoring the Russian attack to spread chaos in the nation. He is willing to sit idly by in the investigation into the Russian attack to pass legislation benefiting the people the attack supported, the GOP and the wealthy, while fermenting derision in the less fortunate in America.

This letter is basically an “I know what I am doing and it is for your own good” response. I fully intend to stay engaged with this problem until he and his ilk are out of office and the world is getting better.

*

So the fight goes on, Donald Trump rode into the executive office of President on the backs of these people who continue to use the less fortunate to support their lavish lifestyles generation after generation.  We have about thirteen months until we can kick the Congressional support mechanism out from under the Republican party to slow the process, but the battle between the “Haves” and the “Have-nots” will go on as long as the human species exists.