Monday, July 18, 2011

The Lady of the Camelias

This post dedicated to Marie Duplessis, a current resident of Montemartre Cemetary.

Sempre Libera
I will never like camelias,
ordinary flowers grown in clumps
'round stucco houses and
church school playgrounds.

Flowers of my childhood,
pink, white, red,
the same, but for the color,
around our home of
small neighborhood and similar mind.

Memories of friends who teased and taunted,
feeling hurt and sibling scalded,
like I don't belong.

Camelias lose their attachment,
fall, not yet faded,
alive, still red,
but disconnected.

-poem by Z in Los Angeles

82 comments:

Speedy G said...

In the language of flowers... Camellia japonica - Unpretending excellence

Z said...

OH, FJ, thanks so much. I'm so proud to be among the amazing artists and poets and philosophers you've posted over the years! I never thought of that story, Camille.... but my poem really fits it somehow, doesn't it! I wrote it about 25 years ago!
I really appreciate this...........xx

-FJ said...

It was certainly a pleasure. I love any excuse to embellish pearls, especially those involving a journey to Montemartre AND the opera (la Traviata). ;)

Now, if I could only sneak in a reference to Carlotta, and the underlying romantic symbolism running through Alfred Hitchcock's "Vertigo", this post might be considered complete, it's marrow largely extracted. ;)

Z said...

Good point about VERTIGO and Carlotta, FJ...is there ANYTHING you don't remember? :-)
When you said "embellish" I suddenly thought you'd changed words but see you didn't. (thanks!)
I love that you see Camille and Carlotta in this...two of my favorites.

Z said...

Pris tried to make a comment and put in her password, etc., but she gets ANONYMOUS and it won't print ? :-( She loved what you did with my poem, too!

Always On Watch said...

Memories of friends who teased and taunted,
feeling hurt and sibling scalded,
like I don't belong.


In my case, not camelias but rather boxwoods.

My school years were filled with torment.

Nice job in this post, FJ.

-FJ said...

Thank you for authoring and sharing such a thoughtful poem. And I'm afraid I don't allow "anonymous" comments. Please convey my apologies to Pris.

-FJ said...

I guess I should ask... boxwoods? My yard is filled with the English variety. :(

-FJ said...

...and I would never change an author's work w/o noting the changes. By embellish, I meant that I'd added some "adornments"... a dedication, a title, and some video/links to set a mood that perhaps altered the context a bit to take the reader of the post in the same directions my mind went when I read the poem. And like I said at your blog, what I did was a presumption, but I'm glad that you weren't offended by them.

ps - You should share your poetry more often. If your other works were as evocative as this one, they would be a delight to read. :)

Z said...

Here's another one from the past:

Our history was
a street of doorways
Like kids, we ran through
thinking nothing could stop us

But you did

when you left

I didn't notice
'til I pulled the doorknob
old crystal and dirty brass
that stuck
from the inside

I'd thought we'd grow old
behind one door
having stopped running
at the end of our street

but you left
slamming the door
with me
on the other side
wiping rust off my fists

Z said...

FJ, re Pris...I thought having a password makes one not anonymous? She'd got an account and password and tried but it would work...what am I missing?

Z said...

Here's another of many: Very old and reminiscent of the other one I just sent you...I think there's a theme here :-)


Hours of nothing
thickened the air
reminding me
of us
and walking in water

I turned away
from you
and the room
my luggage sagging
with our life

A house of remembering
reached to pull me
back to weeklong afternoons,
amber lamplight,
and a needlepoint
canvas of unfinished
stitches

And then I pushed the suitcase
back inside,
knew that it would be secure,
and turned away
from it and you,
and I walked...
the porch
luxurious
under my feet

Z said...

another of the same 'mood' and theme: I like this one a lot:


My tears poured out of his hands

like pebbles finely sanded
from years in a stream

He gave them back
“I don't need them
you do”

So I scooped them up
from beneath us
he didn't help
he just kept pouring

until my hands couldn't carry more
and I knew it was time to stop

I had enough

of everything

So I threw them at him

and the little rocks
did nothing for his face

but plenty for me.

-FJ said...

I've changed the security settings so as to allow all comments (including anonymous ones), so hopefully Pris can comment, should she try again.

And I really enjoyed the middle poem, but probably should keep the analytical reasons to myself, although I can disclose that the image it brought to mind was that of Vermeer's "The Lacemaker".

And thank you again for sharing these with me. You have a wonderful talent for creative imagery.

-FJ said...

ps - The bare/hard 'emptiness' of the porch surface "luxurious under my feet" contrast was a masterful touch as well! ;)

Z said...

thanks, FJ....
I have many....I'll be back :-) Maybe in another 10 years! :-)

Always On Watch said...

FJ,
Yes. Boxwoods. The ones that grow quite large such as those you find at Gunston Hall.

The building I went to school in predated the American Civil War.

-FJ said...

Maybe in another 10 years!

Let's hope it isn't THAT long! Geeeeez! ;)

-FJ said...

I think I may know the EXACT ones you're talking about... ;)

Mine came out of a black-shoe box. ;)

-FJ said...

...and my life was never the same, after.

Z said...

I'm not following you, FJ, but am touched, anyhow xxx

Z said...

by the way, how come I'm not taking ANonymous comments, either, but Pris's password gets her in and all's okay but she can't here?

-FJ said...

I can't answer the question.

...and what your not following I should have annotated for AoW. Sorry. :(

-FJ said...

La Traviata, Giuseppi Verdi's beautiful opera, was based upon the book, "The Lady of the Camelias". Translated, it means, "the fallen woman" or "the woman who has gone astray". If you click on the word "Camelias" in the title of the post, you'll get a snippet from the opera, Sempre Libera, which is translated into English if you are curious and later click on the title of the poem.

What can I say. I love Easter egg hunts. ;)

Brooke said...

Lovely poem, and a good find, too, on the 'Easter eggs'!

Anonymous said...

BETRAYAL

I thought that I had grown too wise to let
Myself be tripped and thrown against the spike
That tears a passage for the sharp regret
Of ever having started just to like

You through all my hard won toughened skin
To reach a tender region I had smothered
In hope of killing all the hurt within.
To know you taught me I should not have bothered.

There never has been refuge from reality,
Or sure escape from phantoms in the mind,
And you, sweet advocate of no morality,
Are everywhere - are all that I can find.

Oh Christ, why must it always come to this -
That life, itself, means less than one kind kiss?


Anna Blaisdell Arbiti

-FJ said...

Ode to Melancholy - John Keats

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Anonymous said...

Petrified

Kaleidoscopic bits of vanished days ––
Ancient forests petrified –– undemolished
Trees –– fallen witnesses –– still gaze
Humorless at cultures long abolished.

Yielding jittery rings when sliced then polished
Showing clearly in each long-dead tree
A chart laid bare –– unedited –– unpublished
Now reveals a climate’s history.

Does the beauty of these records’ punditry
Enable us in any way to cope
Rationally with surrounding bigotry ––
Still burdened, as we are, by unquenched hope?

Oh, we’ve learned much, but can’t stop shedding tears ––
No wood, however petrified, has fears.

~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

...another wonderful, thoughtful poem, FT. The woods seem sooo temperate, but they haven't a heart or a brain or any cour age at all, for they do only what we expect them to do, and THAT is to grow and then to one day die.

Anonymous said...

Thank you, Farmer. I think what I had in mind might be this: It is only through the process of petrification -- a state where we no longer grow, no longer strive, no longer think, feel or hope -- that we might achieve any sort of (physical) immortality. The earth holds so many secrets -- most of the dark. That doesn't stop life from being wonderful while we're still animated, though, does it?

Funny thing about poems. You never know what you're writing about till you've gone through the process of crafting one of these things. Then you discover what your intentions are.

Thanks for letting me stop by.

~ FT

Anonymous said...

Since you enjoyed Petrified, you might like this:

Banquet

Generously spread with gracious living
The table beckons. Lace and candlelight
Mingle with fine china. I am diving
Into the tureen, which is a sight

All white and warm while guarding snowy chowder.
Savory is a casserole of brains.
Sparkling wine has made our talk much louder --
Louder than the voices of our pains.

Drink has numbed our virtues and our faults.
Now food will warm our anxious, craving hearts.
Later, we will step into a waltz
Whose cycle whirls till every fear departs

Leaving us quite buoyant -- out of breath --
Saddened that this time must suffer death.

~ FreeThinke

Anonymous said...

FJ are you familiar with Robert Browning's Youth and Art?

Just wondering what you might think of it. Be gentle, please. It's an old favorite of mine.

~ Freethinke

Anonymous said...

I've always thought Z has a real talent for writing lyric poetry, and I've told her so numerous times back when we used to write emails to one another.

I wish she had concentrated more on using his talent. There's no "money" in writing poetry, of course, but a world of solace and satisfaction in just the doing of it.

I've written hundreds of poems, myself. Some of them just little rhymes, many satirical, some topical, over two-hundred acrostic sonnets, and some highly personal, lyrical stuff from my youth. All I can say is it's been a better way to pass time than fretting and worrying over what might occur. And it beats counting beans by miles.

And I would say to Z: Do not weary in well-doing -- just keep on keeping on. I for one would like to see more of your poetry.

I had hoped this thread would continue.

How about starting a Poetry Blog?

~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

Sorry, FT. I lost track of this thread, and only just now realized that you had still been posting. My apologies. I don't keep track of these things very well...

And I agree with your assessment of Z's poetry, and admire yours, as well. I believe it was Theognis (or perhaps Plutarch) who once commented that a poor man has a hard time giving rich men presents worthy of the effort, since the man could likely buy it himself, so a purchased trinket might be perceived as "insulting"... but a well crafted "thought" makes a present that no money can buy... a poem is kind of like that. There's no "money" in it, but there is something much more valuable within it.

And I'm not sure a poetry blog is my thing. I have too many blogs as it is....(more than the link list here). But you could start one... hint, hint... ;)

-FJ said...

I'll be back when I can find a few quiet minutes and address some of your other posts. Ciao 4 now.

Anonymous said...

Glad you returned, Farmer, if only for a moment or two. Thanks for your kind words.

Here's another sonnet; this time about satisfaction we might find in old age.


Time to Maintain

The time to wrap and hold it has arrived.
It looks as though expansion’s at an end.
Maintaining what we have is now contrived
Earnestly our assets to defend.
Taking stock we should feel gratified.
Our catalogue of battles lost and won
Mostly leaves us feeling satisfied.
At least we did our best, and had some fun.
I think ‘tis better that than Grand Achievement ––
Noble efforts –– Nobel Prizes gained ––
Taken in perpetual bereavement ––
A life by constant criticism stained.
If living just to live our time employs,
Now’s the time to savor all our joys.


~ FreeThinke - January 2011

-FJ said...

Robert Browning's Youth and Art

A bit melancholy isn't it? It's not "all over" for us yet, is it?

Youth is wasted on the young, and old age upon regret.

-FJ said...

I pray a different fate... and confess that to you now.

-FJ said...

NOT to listen to music so as to reach the end of the song and then savour the reprise at the end, but to savour it each and every day. The time to maintain is ALL the time. Therefore the time to ROLL the dice is each and every day.

Da capo al fine.

Da capo...

Da capo...

That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.

-FJ said...

Not a very "wise" policy for a comfortable retirement. But one open to the experience and opportunities afforded by "life".

Anonymous said...

Here's an Opus for Our Time, FJ. Too bad we haven't the power to format these things properly. This should be "centered" to achieve maximum impact, but the words speak pretty well for themselves anyway, I believe.



KIPLING'S LITTLE MAN

~ or ~

Bolshevism Revisited

A Leftist caught in doubt
Lifts up his head to shout:

Your treatment is unfair,
You bully! How you dare
To question my veracity
With cruel, hard-eyed tenacity
I do not know. My views
Which boldly you accuse
Of being falsely ranked
In truth are sacrosanct.

My thoughts are Holy Writ.
Your thoughts are quite unfit;
Based on selfish fears
They inspire tears
And dare to say the blame
Lies squarely in the frame
Of those whose failing lives
Look to him who thrives
And say: Your gold is mine,
You greedy, bloated swine.
You have more than you need.
It's up to you to feed
Me, the ill and weak,
Else Heaven that you seek
Will ever be denied.

And I will see your hide
Shredded, tanned and dried.
And hung outside the gates
Of each neighborhood that hates
The needy and the poor,
Who soon will storm your door
And drag you from your bed
And then lop off your head.
While the masses you denied
Will ever take great pride
Your ignominious demise
Was effected in the guise
Of condign righteous wrath
Giving Bourgeois digs a bath.

With stolen food and goods
We'll raze your neighborhoods
And laugh to see you hurt
Dying in the dirt.
WE DO NOT CARE TO RISE;
We live for your demise.
We thrive on righteous hate.
It is by now too late
To make a plan to stop us
End the Founder's opus.
Our Marx destroyed your God.
He's in - not on - the sod
Feeding nematodes
In their dark abodes.

With mockery and shrill
Sarcastic gibes we kill.
We drool with sheer delight
At the thought of endless night.
Where everything that's witty,
Charming, gracious, pretty
Slumps to the nitty gritty,
As we revel in the dung
Corrupting all your young.

For 'we are the little folk, we
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone, and soon you will see
How quickly we'll drag down the state.'*


* Rudyard Kipling
___________________

~ FreeThinke (2010)

Thersites said...

Do you remember Orwell's "Shooting the Elephant"?

Both Orwell and Kipling spent time in India. Orwell argued for "withdrawl" and eventually, socialism, but I suppose I've never explored Kiplings views. This inspires me to do a little research. Thanks, FreeThinke.

Thersites said...

I suppose Kipling might be considered quite the racist, by modern day "progressive" standards. And I suppose that history has born out the results of Orwell's views. The burden of leadership is indeed, heavy. Perhaps too heavy for any single civilization or culture to bear for very long.

Thersites said...

"Cultural Imperialism" is al Quaeda's complaint against America and the capitalist West (Great Satan). There is a truth to the complaint, but I suspect it is largely exacerbated by the Islamic birth rate, and our inability to stay out of Europe's Empires and pick up his burden. The Chinese seem to be falling into the same trap.

We live in interesting times....

Anonymous said...

What’s in a Name?

Bastard
Egomaniac
Asshole
Malignant
Inimical
Sadistic
Horrific


Congratulations on the way you thrust and parry, FJ. I saw it elsewhere, and was delighted that someone called him an ass and made it stick. Only he's worse than an ass, he's a MALIGNANCY.

~ FT

-FJ said...

The exchange gave me no pleasure, FreeThinke. I think I need in future to become a better judge of character.

-FJ said...

...especially of those I choose to confide in.

Anonymous said...

Some people just radiate hostility, FJ, and never have anything encouraging or enlightening to say. I've never understood what attracts so many to bombastic bullies and smartasses.

Perhaps it was distasteful of me to mention this here, but I wanted you to know that someone appreciated the way you stood up to arrogance, truculence, insolence and aggressive stupidity.

"Tis sad the way the net brings out the worst in so many of us. I'm always glad to see it effectively counteracted.

Here's a new-minted motto for you:

A person is known by the idols he or she worships.

Cheerio!

~ FT

Thersites said...

Thanks for the smile, FreeThinke. :)

Anonymous said...

Only A Decade Ago

One bright morning, now ten years ago,
No one dreamt, while going off to work,
Lunatics had planned to go berserk
Yielding fury like a lava flow.

A scant ten years –– an amplitude of woe ––
Denial since that demons near us lurk
Enraptured by sheer rage –– sharp like a dirk ––
Craftily whetted in hellfire’s glow.

A grim corrosion followed the attack.
Demented perverts scheme to have us think
Euro-centric values are at fault ––

American prosperity is black ––
Greed and gall have brought us to the brink
Of seeing all we have come to a halt.


~ FreeThinke - 9/11/11

Anonymous said...

  A Wry Memorial

The Swarthy Ones took over;
And made weapons of four planes.
The riders had no cover;
They suffered dreadful pains

That ended once their deathtraps
Burst into roaring fires
Turning instantly to mere scraps––
Cinders––made of former flyers.

The burning towers crumpled,
And fell into the street.
New York was more than rumpled;
Briefly, it knew defeat.

The nation drew together;
We felt collective grief.
Anger broke its tether;
To express it gave relief.

But only ten years hence
We're at each other's throats;
We've built ourselves a fence
Over which the Devil gloats.

We've failed to give the orders
To build a proper wall
Sealing off our borders
To the fiends who’d have us fall.

Instead, we've made division––
Went to war against ourselves––
And are mired in derision
Sparked by partisan elves,

Who forget this blessed land
In pursuit of powers lost
In close elections manned
By fraud. So, tempest-tossed

The country is in turmoil.
The enemy's our own.
He says it's all for Big Oil,
And he'll soon usurp the Throne.

The heap of twisted rubble
Raising toxic fumes for weeks
No longer gives us trouble
Because of media leaks

Designed to throw us off the scent
Of whom we need to blame
And encourage ruinous dissent
That hopes to break the frame

That holds us all together
And preserves our liberty,
So many now doubt whether
We really should be free.

And each rabble rousing louse
Should 'neath these words be pinned:
"He who troubleth his own house
Shall inherit–––the wind."


~ FreeThinke - 9/11/08 

-FJ said...

Bravo! Very apropos. Proverbs 11:29.

You seem to suffer fools more easily than I. What's your secret? Turn your frustration with them into poetry? I might begin to give it a try.

Anonymous said...

"Turn your frustration with them into poetry?"

Isn't that what all poets do, FJ?

Perhaps I could say, "Writing well is the best revenge."

But self-praise stinks, and who am I to judge anyway?

Art is often described as useless, but I find it to be just the opposite. My verses may be no more significant than embroidery or making hooked rugs as a hobby, or making a good pan of cornbread, but writing passes the time agreeably -- at least for me. And who knows what might be made of it after I pass on?

It used to bother me a great deal when I was ignored, misunderstood or rudely rejected. Now, I realize it reflects more on the mental capacities of the antagonists and those who remain studiedly indifferent than it does on my own abilities however good or poor they may be.

I can't be sure I'm not a fool, myself, although I hope not, but that uncertainty stops me from judging others too harshly. And then some simple-minded souls are pleasant to have around if they are kind, respectful and willing to be helpful. That sort is frankly an asset.

I am intolerant, however, of insolence, hubris and deliberate cruelty. There's no excuse for it. If I had my way bullies and blackmailers would be put to death.

Thanks for your interest, FJ.

~ FT

-FJ said...

No. Thank YOU for yours, FreeThinke. I hope to heed your advice.

Anonymous said...

Hello, Farmer John,

Happy New Year to you! I've missed seeing you out and about.

I hope you enjoy this new-minted greeting to the New Year:


On New Year’s Day

Our hope would be to take the roadblocks down
No more to have to hide behind the walls
Negativity built with a frown,
Even though she smiles in gleaming halls
Welcoming all with fawning falsity,
Yet yearning all the while for something solid.
Excitement dies in stuffy halls at tea,
As hypocrisy makes discourse witless, stolid.
Rarely may we speak without a filter.
‘Tis safer not, lest someone take offense.
So, fearing to be thought bizarre –– off kilter ––
Daft –– depraved –– or simply too intense ––
A fear of ostracism serves P-C,
Yet makes a moribund society.


~ FreeThinke - 1/1/12

-FJ said...

Too timely and true, FT. Far too timely and true.

Anonymous said...

Hi, Farmer John.

Glad to see you still check in on this thread.

I appreciate your appreciation.

Trying to be clever while expressing some basic truth or other is challenging, but it's always fun -- even when it's not successful.

I'm finally getting adventurous enough to go visiting at several blogs at once. Better not to be "omnipresent" in any one place. Invariably, it draws resentment, and does nothing to advance the cause of Truth, Justice and the American Way ;-)

Hope to see more of you in future.

Have a great new year.

~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

Well you do a very fine job of expressing yourself. It's a shame that the "pusillanimous pussyfooters", "nattering nabobs of negativism", and "hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history" seem omni-present (Spiro Agnew).

It's good to see you up and about again, too. May you enjoy an ever more fruitful and expressive New Year!

Anonymous said...

Well, FJ, the "roadblocks" got put up again in a hurry in a certain once-hallowed quarter, didn't they?

Apparently, telling the truth puts one on the express route to banishment.

Perhaps haughty, hysterically hypocritical hypochondriacs prone to pretentious posturing, prettified prevarication and pouting paranoia ought not try to temper trivial tempests in tiny torrid teapots, lest teapots transform into tosspots, is it not true?

Tallyho!

~ FT

-FJ said...

Sometimes banishment and exile isn't all that much of a punishment, FT. It gives Zarathustra a break from the citizens of the Motley Cow and gives him plenty of Sun time in his cave with his snake and eagle. ;)

Anonymous said...

GOTCHA! -- I think.

At any rate, an open, unrestrained, unsupervised ambience -- where one feels perfectly free to do one's darndest -- is more salubrious than it's authoritarian opposite -- especially in regard to one's mental health.

Dealing with a warped, mean-spirited personality is challenging enough. Trying to do so in a suffocating atmosphere where one's wrists get perpetually slapped by a captious, fretful, scolding, petulant, humorless, cheerless, self-absorbed would-be micro-manager who, apparently, listens to nothing but the echoes of projected anxiety bouncing about inside a vacant cranium is frankly maddening.

Yes. It's good to retreat into the natural world, indeed.

Cheers!

~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

Dealing w/ idiots like beamish is simple enough. It's dealing with so-called "friends" that's difficult/ stifling.

The great thing about the blogosphere is that you can perpetually reinvent yourself, should you so choose to do so. ;)

Anonymous said...

Yes, indeed, to all of that, FJ.

I've been "burned up" so many times in so many ways playing these net games I ought to start calling myself "PHOENIX." (FeeNicks, PhoeNicks, FeaNix? -- whatever "registers")

I wish I had your techspertise. Right now I can't even manage to create ONE legitimate "ID" let alone two or three.

THREE QUESTIONS:

How DO you do it?

Why does it annoy people so much?

Don't "they" understand it's the quality of THOUGT that counts -- not the name attached to it?

_____________________

Yes "friends" who stop being "friends" for no good reason are more disturbing than black-hearted bastards. Wish I could understand why anybody ever liked Beamy Boy.

What sane blogster welcomes the blemish
Brought by the likes of Herr B. Emmisch?


Cheerio!

~ FT

-FJ said...

1) Create a Hotmail e-mail account, then sign-up with Blogger under the account.

2) Alias and pseudonyms have always annoyed people who believe in strict personal responsibility. But authors need to escape censorship, and so they employ pen names.

3) No, they don't. They like to believe that thoughts have a pedigree.

Anonymous said...

Thank you, FJ. I'm afraid you credit me with more intelligence than I possess. I am an abject, irredeemable Tech Moron.

~ FT

On another tack altogether here is some not unwelcome news:

This information should be of vital interest to Z -- and many others who have vivid memories of the Bad Old Days at FrontPage Magazine.


OBITUARY

Gerald Bruce Reynolds (1952-2011)

Gerald Bruce Reynolds, 59, of Hanford, California, passed away unexpectedly in June , 2011. Gerald was born August 26, 1952, in Montgomery County, Maryland, the son of Raymond Morrow Reynolds and Joyce Kristine Reynolds (née Collopy), and the brother of David and Nancy. He is survived by his daughters Melissa Reynolds, of Hayfield, Minnesota, and Melanie Reynolds, also of Hanford. Gerald graduated from Alhambra High School in 1969 and received degrees in broadcast communications and English with an emphasis on history from UNLV and SFSU. He was employed at Pleasant Valley State Prison as a GED teacher. His hobbies included playing guitar and singing his own original songs, playing tennis with his daughters, watching movies at home and at the movie theater, and expanding his intellect through rigorous study every morning before work.

He will forever be greatly appreciated and missed dearly.


Arrangements by Peopleís Funeral Home in Hanford. A memorial service will be held Friday, July 8, 2011, at 7 pm at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 2400 N. 11th Ave, Hanford.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/hanfordsentinel/obituary.aspx?n=gerald-bruce-reynolds&pid=152405947&fhid=11394

Those of us who had the great misfortune to know this character will remember him best as "Socrates." Surely he was one of The Devil's Own.

~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

I never knew him. And I never hated him, either. In many ways, I admired his creative genius, even if ill used.

As Nietzsche once said, "That which does not kill me, makes me stronger." And so it is to him I owe much of my "strength."

Anonymous said...

Your charitable response to the Socrates obituary surprises me, FJ. Surely if you experienced the devastating effects he had on FPM, and witnessed the methods he used to produce the havoc he created, you would recognize that Herr B. Emmisch possesses a set of character traits and behavior patterns nearly congruent with those of the late Gerald B. Reynolds?

We run into these warped individuals everywhere on the net. Each time one rears its ugly head in reference to any subject, it feels as thought ALL of these "types" must be the SAME individual -- or so it seems to me.

Perhaps I disappoint you when I say that I hate gratuitous unkindness and lack of respect for human dignity -- i.e. bullying -- more than I hate theft and crimes of passion.

~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

Sorry, but I have a hard time holding a grudge, especially given my own flaws and shortcomings. There but for the Grace of G_d go I.

Don't get me wrong, I hate the bullying, too. I personally reserve my own misbehaviour for just such types, a dose of tit-for-tat, so to speak.

And perhaps since I give back as much as I perceive myself to receive, I can be more forgiving. I don't "hold it in," so to speak. I have an outlet for the rage that I can direct at my antagonist.

My first "bullying type" encounter was a 'mind bullet' that literally sent me to a mental ward. So Soc was nothing in comparison. Soc wasn't looking to hack my computer and destroy me and my reputation. His challenge was purely intellectual. And intellectual, I can handle.

Anonymous said...

I'm not above slinging a little mud, myself, FJ, when I feel it's warranted -- as I'm sure you know. Here's a new example you might find amusing:



A Bombastic Boor

Fields stretch far to meet horizons broad
Underneath a glaring, vacant sky.
Cowering in the grass a fear-filled fraud,
Kicking at the pearls cast from on high,
Yells invective from his open grave ~
Obstreperous bravado. As wolves bay
Unnervingly in hopes the moon might save
Black-hearted braggarts from the need to pay
Escaping thus Sin’s consequences dire,
And reaping rich rewards they have not earned,
Malignancy of mind destroys like fire ~
Its path strewn thickly with the scorned and spurned.
Some may be fooled all of the time, but most
Hear the cowardice behind the boast.


~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

That's very well done.

You really need a blog, FT.

Anonymous said...

'Morning, FJ!

Thanks for your compliments. There are tech reasons I don't have -- and can't have -- a blog. It's all to complicated -- and too dull to explain here.

I hope the kind suggestion doesn't mean I am being too intrusive here? I know other bloggers -- one in particular who shall remain nameless -- who felt I was too "present" at their blogs.

Possibly one of my many blind spots. I never could understand the attitude.

At any rate, good day to you, sir.

~ FreeThinke

PS: Remember what I said too about "Writing verse being the best revenge." It does help soothe the savage breast, I assure you. - FT

-FJ said...

No, I didn't mean to imply anything other than a centralized place where your works might be viewed might prove enjoyable to both you and others.

...and I know all about seeming omni-present at other blogs. I am a "troll's troll", after all. ;)

Anonymous said...

I've never thought of you as a troll, FJ. Certainly a strong and lively presence. I think of you as most definitely a member of The Brotherhood of Grand Eccentrics -- like me. Often you give us all a great deal more than we could hope to digest properly at one or two sittings, but it tends to be a plethora of riches -- not an embarrassment thereof.

Not to indulge in wretched excess, myself, I dare to offer you today's creation in the field of Profane Acrostic Sonneteering:

The exercise truly is therapeutic, because I find myself cleansed of animosity and filled with pity after making these efforts:


A Soul in Torment

Foul-minded, ill-intentioned –– your
Ugly disposition yearns to battle.
Caring only to distress not cure,
Kicking at the sky you shake your rattle
In defiance of Propriety.
Noxious noise is all you can produce ––
Grotesque behavior seeking notoriety ––
Bad smelling like a long-uncleansed prepuce.
A soul in torment must be what you are ––
Suffering with the fear you are inferior.
Too bad! A fine intelligence you mar
Assaulting with produce from your posterior.
Redemption might be earned should you relent,
Desist your endless insults, and repent.

~ FreeThinke - 1/26/12

-FJ said...

Very apropos. Thanks.

Anonymous said...

Hello, FJ.

Just checking in to see how you are, and to offer a wee bit of amusement.


'Tis FINE to be HUMAN.





Foolish

Immature

Neurotic

Erratic





A fellow named Sigmund Freud,

Whose writings cannot be enjeud,

Said, "I've found, I confess

Mankind's mind is a mess,

And would be better off unempleud!




__________ ~§~ __________




What we do is rooted in Vanity
'
Tis destructive, divisive Inanity.

We think we're so clever,

But our every endeavor

Leads Humanity on toward Insanity.


~ FreeThinke

Be of good cheer, FJ!

~ FT

-FJ said...

Always! ;)

Anonymous said...

If you share my distaste for this public figure, you might enjoy this latest acrostic sonnet, FJ.

Gloria Allred

Castigating vixen on the prowl
Under no constraints of good decorum
Never missing chances to cry foul
This dominatrix seizes every forum.
Overbearing, shrieking old virago,
Nasty as three-day-old garlic breath,
This baggage must have studied in Chicago.
Her nature like the lady named Macbeth
Eerily erupts in ersatz rage
Prompted by the lust to castrate men.
Roaring like a mad beast in a cage
Our All Red Gloria befouls her den.
With extravagant dishonesty she’ll claim
Love for Justice, but her claim is lame.


~ FreeThinke

-FJ said...

I do. An "inspired" work, no doubt. ;)

Anonymous said...

Profound distaste may, indeed, provide great mental stimulus -- enough to motivate assault and battery if only of the verbal variety.

};-)>

The Happy Imp, FT

-FJ said...

The former, I suppose, would be the more satisfying recourse... alas society no longer condone the proper correction of n'er do wells.

Anonymous said...

" ... alas society no longer condone the proper correction of n'er do wells."

Possibly, but one man's ne'er do well might be another man's genius -- and vice versa.

from the lack of positive response my best efforts have largely drawn throughout seven decades of bizarre and challenging experience. I could only assume that i would be one of the first to be horsewhipped, stomped to jelly and set ablaze in the Public Square were Society released from its present agreed-upon constraints altogether.

It never ceases to amuse, amaze -- and frankly terrify -- me the way people react to stimuli.

Regretfully I have reached the conclusion that Singleness is, indeed, Blessedness and Solitude is Sublime.

The very occasional meeting of the minds is more than enough to sustain me.

My mind and I have the best times together. Join us any time you feel like it, FJ.

~ FT

-FJ said...

I'll try". ;)