SEASONS IN HELL, VOL. I, NO. 7
August 28-30, 2009
Astros (62-65) vs. Diamondbacks (56-72)
Snakepit Stadium
401 E. Snake Street
Snakeville, AZ 85004
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I’M SO TIRED. I believe the first time I heard the word “ennui” used in a rock song – and probably the last time, too – was in a ‘throwaway’ tune off of one of Lou Reed’s early solo LPs, after the demise of the Velvets. At that time in his personal life, in addition to an indication of a strong predilection for opiates, I believe Reed was also exploring his feminine side. Or maybe it was his gay-ish side. Transgender-loving side? Whatever. I never quite understood, but I didn’t really care, either. Whatever Reed was up to then, it made for some damn good music. That’s what mattered.
But this song “Ennui” was never one of my favorites. It was too slow for my tastes, turgid almost; the lyrics basically conveyed how bored Reed and his then girl/boyfriend would get in between shooting up heroin. They were at best run-of-the-mill junkie existentialism, and not really my cup of tea. Anytime the song would come on my stereo, I’d put down the bong and pick up the stylus and move it to something more interesting – “Walk On The Wild Side”, or “Satellite Of Love”, or “Vicious”, or “Sally Can’t Dance”. Something like that. Reed made some good, if spotty, studio albums back then, between Transformer (1972) and Street Hassle (1978). But my favorites were the live classic Rock ‘N’ Roll Animal and the feedback-drenched “noise-music” double LP, Metal Machine Music.
I once took the latter, along with Robert Fripp’s Under Heavy Manners/God Save The Queen, with its “Frippertronic” guitar loops, and mixed them together using an early version of Acid 2.0. I ended up with a 2+ hour piece of surreal, sludgy, sometimes almost unlistenable trance music, which I used to play as background music at parties and get-togethers and, sometimes (in an edited version), while riding around in my car. But I digest.
The word “ennui” is just another example of how the French can make anything, no matter what it is, sound fey and effeminate and effete. Fuck it. If you are bored, just say you are bored. Don’t try to sophisticate it up by saying you are ‘experiencing ennui’. Fuck on-wee. Got it? Fuck The French, too.
And – oh yeah – Fuck The Cubs.
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Friday August 28, 2009
Game Time: 8:40 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Promotion: Post-game fireworks, provided by Gila River Casinos. In-game fireworks provided by Michael Bourn and Lance Berkman.
By the way, the Gila River, like its tributary the Salt (which actually runs through Phoenix) are both rivers that would naturally carry large volumes of water year round out of the mountains on the western slope of the Continental Divide, on their way to the Colorado River, which the Gila has a confluence with in Yuma, AZ, just north of the Mexican border (the Salt flows into the Gila southwest of Phoenix.) Except, of course, for diversion – for the municipal needs of the greater Phoenix metropolitan area, four million people living in a hole in the desert; and also for irrigation since, you know, of course you are going to try and grow stuff in the FUCKING DESERT. Consequently, both the Gila and the Salt are intermittent rivers, and dry streams the majority of the time, especially southwest of Phoenix, once they’ve passed through the great dam/reservoir systems in that area.
The casino, of course, is not named for the river specifically, but rather for the Native American tribe of the same name whose reservation the Gila flows through. Or, would.
Saturday August 29, 2009
Game Time: 7:10 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Promotion: Wild West Night, again presented by the Gila River people. With post-game fireworks again (yawn.) Apparently fireworks are a big deal in Phoenix. You’d think in the middle of fire season, they’d find a less potentially flammable diversion. Oh, also there is a post-game concert by Montgomery Clift Gentry, whoever he/they is/are. Another soulless, mundane “new” country act, perfect for the venue, I gather.
I’m talking out my ass here, but what passes for country music these days SUCKS. It is nothing but watered-down, twanged-up pop music, from what I can hear. I’m not a country fan, and never have been. But I used to respect it, and I guess I still do, the ‘real’ stuff. But the mainstream is just pathetic, someone big and rich should be ashamed.
Also, we’ve pretty much established here that New Mexico is a nice place, great scenery, cool people, nice restaurants. So, what happened to Arizona? Great scenery there, too; but my impression is, while the arty and intellectual set drifted into New Mexico, liked it, and stayed, the white trash just kept on going, until they got to the next state. You know, the one that won’t recognize daylight savings. The one that had to have the ML King Holiday forced on them, repeatedly, before they’d recognize it as a holiday. The place where Col. Robert Hogan got whacked, dammit. And they settled down there, built their trailer parks, dammed up all the rivers, upstream of the Indians. And apparently decided a big Saturday night out is to dress “Western”, go watch their crappy team in its hideous uniforms, then afterward watch some fireworks, and listen to Montgomery Ward Gentry. All right!
Sunday August 30, 2009
Game Time: 3:10 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Promotion: A Brandon Webb baseball cap. OK, this is more like it. Webb is the best player on the team, and even if he’s missed most of the season with injuries, it makes perfect sense to hand out this rather cool looking cap. Restricting it to the first 5,000 kids 12 and under seems kind of chintzy, but I digest. Maybe they just didn’t want to see every adult male in Phoenix wearing one the next day, which I can understand.
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INTO THE LIGHT OF THE DARK, BLACK NIGHT. SnS media polymath Andy Zipp described the ennui boredom surrounding the current version of the Astros very nicely in his most recent Day Off column, so well in fact there is no reason for me to try and expand on it much here. Zipp, who apparently dashed off his column last week in between radio and television appearances (he is scheduled to be on Larry King Live later this week, explaining his unique relationship with the celebrity troika of Michael Jackson, Miley Cyrus, and Dominick Dunne), writing a novel, and getting a Kundalini massage with an energizing mud wrap and cucumber facial at Massage Heights over on Westheimer, explained in detail why he was bored with the Astros – the team is not only not going anywhere this year, it is hard to be excited about the near future, either, since the near future will mostly be defined by the same guys who are taking the field now. Any help in the pipeline is playing A ball or lower this summer and is realistically two to three years away, at best. And there is no indication there is all that much help in the pipeline, anyway, even looking three years out. Gee, thanks for the monumental bummer, Mr. Zipp. Enjoy your massage and treatment, good luck with the novel, and please explain to Larry King when you see him that it appears he passed away or at least went brain dead two or three years ago, and he probably shouldn’t be doing a television talk show any longer, even on CNN.
At any rate, this is the first time I really remember being this bored with the Astros, myself. Ever. This indifference on my part – this utter lack of interest – is, in all the nearly 40 years I have followed the team, entirely new to me. Even at the lowest point in the early 1970’s, when GM Spec Richardson was trading away all the great young talent that had come up through the Astros’ system for mostly crap, the system just kept on producing good young players, faster than even ol’ Spec could get rid of them. Even at the nadir of the John McMullen ownership era, after McMullen had lost interest in the Astros and/or in spending much money on them, there were still good things going on, reasons to be hopeful – guys like Caminiti and Biggio coming up from the minors, the Bagwell acquisition, picking up all those good young players from the Orioles for a gimpy Glenn Davis. And so on.
But now? I don’t see anything nearly that good on the horizon at this point; and Astros fans are probably in for several more seasons of mediocrity – at best – after this one. Yecch! I am sure I will come out of this uncaring spell at some point, and start paying close attention to the team again, but for now I am pretty much overwhelmed with ennui boredom when it comes to the Astros, and looking forward to the offseason, one full of Ice Road Truckers reruns and endless episodes of The Deadliest Catch.
Not a good place for a person to be. Not at all.
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PITCHING MATCHUPS
Friday August 28, 2009
Game Time: 8:40 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Matchup: Houston – Yorman Bazardo (0-0, 4.50) Bazardo got blown out in his first appearance, just after being called up from Round Rock; though there were extenuating circumstances. One of those circumstances being Cooper brought him in on too little rest on a day he’d told Bazardo he would not be used. But Cooper had to because he had senselessly used up the rest of his bullpen already. Dude has pitched pretty well since that. He will not have appeared in a game in ten days, I am not sure if that is bad or good. Arizona – Max Scherzer (7-8, 4.12) Scherzer has not pitched well recently, including losing to the Astros last weekend, after getting off to a nice start. Still a pretty impressive young pitcher, though. Throws hard, piles up the strikeouts, doesn’t walk too many. He should shut down the inflammable Houston batting order with ease.
Saturday August 29, 2009
Game Time: 7:10 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Matchup: Houston – Bud Norris (3-2, 5.86) Well, the shine wore off this rookie phenom rather quickly, yes? To be sure, most people who’d seen him pitch in the minors were not exactly overwhelmed with his prospects anyway, but after his initial start against the Co-ardinals – a seven inning, two hit, no run gem – some of the less perceptive among us were enthralled. Unfortunately, Norris’ four starts since have got progressively worse, culminating in a blowout against the D-Backs in Houston last weekend, wherein Norris only lasted an inning and gave up six runs. Arizona – Jon Garland (7-11, 4.48) Garland was reportedly hotly pursued by the Astros this past offseason before signing with Arizona. He is a guy who piles up innings and usually stays in games long enough to get a lot of decisions. There isn’t anything particularly outstanding about him. Garland won 18 games twice several years ago as a White Sock, but those days pretty much behind him. Still, he should have no problem with the Cold Embers, a/k/a, what is left of the Houston offense.
Sunday August 30, 2009
Game Time: 3:10 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Matchup: Houston – To Be “Toobie” Announced (0-0, 0.00) Announced has one of the best ERAs and strongest arms on the Astros staff at this point, mainly because Cooper hasn’t figured out how to abuse him yet. It is not that the skipper doesn’t want to, just that he hasn’t been able to get a bead on Toobie to this point, being unable to grasp abstract concepts and all. Give him time, though; by 2011 or so, Coop should have it all figured out. Arizona – Dan Haren (12-8, 2.73) The big right-hander has really pitched well since joining the Diamondbacks before the 2008 season, and this year he stepped up into the #1 role when Brandon Webb went down, and has acquitted himself well. Haren has tailed off a bit lately – after going 9-5, 2.01 in the first half, he is 3-3, 4.59 since. Still, he is averaging nearly a strikeout per inning while walking less than 1.5 per nine innings. One tough cookie, he should shut down the fire-less Astros lineup easily.
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SHE’S NOT A GIRL WHO MISSES MUCH. As some already know, I got myself involved in a ridiculous bet with my next-door-neighbor recently. The primary result being I was not able to watch any television at all for awhile this summer, for roughly six weeks.
The original bet was for a case of Heineken, the national beer of my street. The wager was to see which of us could go longer without watching any television, and it was to last no longer than one month, regardless. At the end of that month – about two weeks ago – it was determined I had won. When I went next door to collect, my neighbor proposed a double-or-nothing renewal of the wager. I wavered, so he said, “What if I throw Annette into the deal, as well?” Or rather his wife, Annette, said that; she happened to be sitting in the room at the time, listening to us. To be honest, I am not sure now which of them proposed it first. But my buddy didn’t seem to have any problem with it. As for Annette, I looked at her and she didn’t seem alarmed about being the “prize” if I won the bet, either. Her husband said, “If you win, you get two cases of beer, plus Annette for one calendar day, at your discretion, for her to do what you want. How does that sound?”
I don’t know how it sounded. I remember being in a poker game once, at a guy’s house I didn’t know all that well. He was a friend of one of the regular players in our game. Anyway, the game had been going on awhile when the guy’s wife came in. Tall, slim girl, not wearing a whole lot. She’d been out partying with her friends or something, and was pretty loaded. She stood there by her husband for a moment, watching the game – we were playing 7-card stud. Then she reached up her short dress and pulled down a pair of pink silk panties, and threw them out into the middle of the pot. “Whoever wins this hand wins me,” she said. “I’ll be in the bedroom, waiting.” And then she walked off down the hall.
I think most of us were kind of stunned. I know I was. But the guy who was married to her acted like it was no big deal.
But, I had the sense at my neighbor’s house the other day that if I declined the bet, it would be an insult to my neighbor, and to his wife. And they are my neighbors, after all; and have been, damn good ones, for nearly twenty years. So, with some internal reservations, I agreed.
I felt kind of bad for having agreed to it right away. My damn conscience again. Too, I was thirsty and had been counting on that case of free brew. Plus, I had imposed an abstention from TV on myself for awhile longer. And, well, I had just entered into some kind of arrangement with my neighbor’s wife. Who also happened to be a pretty good friends with my wife, by the way.
I told my wife about the turn the bet had taken when I got home. I’m not crazy. I knew she’d be hearing about it pretty soon from someone, I thought it would be best if it were me.
She thought it was funny. “Annette? For a whole day? I would think you’d rather have the beer.” She was probably right. Annette is pleasant, good looking in a suburban housewife kind of way, and a genuinely nice person and all; but she is pretty much always an earful, no matter what. A little of her goes a long way. I rolled my eyes.
“So, what would you have in mind for her?” my wife said.
“I’m not sure. Right now, I am thinking maybe I’d have her clean the garage. That ought to kill a day, for sure.”
My wife can be pretty funny sometimes, whether she is trying to be or not. In this case, she put her hands on her hips and looked at me with this semi-serious look she has, the one where I am not quite sure if she is amused with me, or just vaguely pissed off. She said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not having Annette or anyone else out in our garage all day, shining your tools.”
I tried not to laugh, just in case she was serious. And now I had to think of something else to do with Annette, if I won.
ONE AND ONE AND ONE IS THREE. The funny thing is, what turned out to be six weeks without TV was a lot less of a deprivation than I thought it would be.
I usually watch television in the evenings for a couple of hours, usually something on History or Discovery or NatGeo. Or TMC. It wasn’t a big deal to give those up for awhile. I missed Shark Week, yes, but I’d probably seen all those shows before, anyway. Of course, this time of year I am usually watching more TV than normal because of baseball and the Astros. And here was my big revelation during all this – I really didn’t miss watching the ball games, either. Including the Astros.
Oh, I couldn’t tune it all out completely. I’d catch the scores and highlights on XM in the morning, on the way to work. I caught parts of several Astros games on the Houston Astros Radio Network. It was kind of nice, or at least nostalgic, having to rely on radio (and, OK, the internet) to keep up with baseball and my team (I don’t take the paper anymore.) I don’t think much of the current Astros broadcast team, any of them, but I tried not to let that ruin the experience. And it didn’t, entirely.
My love for the Astros (and MLB) hasn’t waned. Just my love for this year’s version of it. Somehow not having to actually see them made me feel less standoff-ish toward the team. Maybe this dumb-ass bet I’d got myself into wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.
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INJURIES
Houston
•Boone, Brocail. . .
•Mike Hampton (LHP). 15-day DL, return unknown, torn rotator cuff – This explains a lot. I give Hampton credit for trying to pitch through the injury, but it wasn’t pretty to watch, mostly.
•Wesley Wright (LHP). 15-day DL, return unknown, shoulder strain – In the course of being blamed for the arm injuries he probably at least partly caused, Cecil Cooper is going to get blamed for some arm injuries he didn’t have anything to do with. They call that ‘ancillary damage.’ I have no idea if misuse by his skipper has anything to do with Wright’s current malady, but I am pretty sure some will think it does.
•Geoff Blum (3B). Day-to-day, return imminent, sore neck – Blum strained his neck trying to platoon at third and manage the team at the same time.
Arizona
•Eric Byrnes (OF). 15-day DL, return first of September, broken bone left hand
•Tom Gordon (RHP). 60-day DL, return possibly for this series, strained hamstring – Yes, that Tom Gordon. Still hanging on at 41.
•Conor Jackson (1B). 60-day DL, return 2010, Arizona Valley fever (coccidioidomycosis) – Valley fever is a fungal lung disease fairly common in dry climates. Jackson’s case is unusually virulent.
•Scott Schoeneweis (LHP). 15-day DL, return imminent, depression – Schoeneweis is a testicular cancer survivor. He has undergone and recovered from Tommy John surgery. His wife of ten years was found dead in their home in May. . .
•Justin Upton (OF). 15-day DL, return possibly for this series, strained oblique
•Brandon Webb (RHP). 60-day DL, return 2010, shoulder surgery
•Mark Reynolds (3B). Day-to-day, return imminent, flu-like symptoms – The Snakes Kingman-esque 3B missed a few games this week with what could be one of the first cases of “a flu epidemic that will eventually kill 200,000-500,000 Americans this winter, more or less.” – Centers for Disease Control
•Chris Snyder (C). Day-to-day, return imminent, left glute tightness – Snyder missed several games last season with right glute looseness, so you knew this was coming. The glute is an extinct flightless bird, native to the Peruvian Andes.
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BOY, YOU’VE GOT TO CARRY THAT WEIGHT. As it turns out, I won part two of the bet between my neighbor and myself.
I had heard from a co-worker that the Cowboys were playing an exhibition game in their new stadium last Friday night, and I knew my neighbor would not be able to resist that. That evening I went over to his house and walked in on him, sitting entranced in front of the 60″ LCD/plasmatic-whatever screen in his living room, intently watching his (and most of America’s) team.
One bet, won. I picked up my two cases of Heineken from his pantry and walked back over to my house and put them in the icebox in my garage. Then I went back to make sure we were still cool and everything. In between plays, my neighbor assured me we were, and told me to enjoy the beer (a needless directive, but a nice sentiment, all the same.) His wife walked me out, and on the way to the door asked me when I wanted to collect on her part of the bet. Did I have any idea yet what it is she would be doing for/with me? And so on. I told her I’d get back to her.
“Well,” she said, grabbing both my hands at the front door, smiling at me, “I’m pretty sure it’ll be something strange and interesting. And probably fun, too.” Then she lightly bussed my cheek and sent me on my way.
Within twenty minutes of me getting home, people up and down our street began calling the house, wanting to know all the juicy details. Apparently our little bet had been a subject of interest in the neighborhood over the last several weeks. I don’t know exactly how the details of it were getting out, but I have an idea. Anyway, I let my wife handle most of those calls. She was enjoying all the gossip as much as the neighbors were. In addition to being incredibly hot, my girl is an intelligent and worldly-wise woman; she sees this whole thing as being funny more than anything else. Which it is.
While she was fielding calls from nosy neighbors, I went out into the little shop I have in our garage. It is not much, really just a 4 x 10 utility room, but over the years I’ve built an L-shaped work bench and shelving and drawers, and put up a lot of pegboard in there. You’d be surprised how much stuff you can fit in a small area and still make it work and be able to use it, if you are organized. Anyway, I’ve also wired the shop for cable and have a 13″ TV in there, and I can wi-fi with the laptop if I want. I have two 20″ box fans mounted up high, aiming down, and a comfortable adjustable Craftsman workbench stool. It is not much, Bob Vila or Norm Abram would laugh at it, but it is functional; and when I need to think, my ‘shop’ is a convenient place to retreat to.
See, the thing about Annette, my neighbor’s wife, the one I ‘won’ in the bet, well – neither my wife nor I think my neighbor know it, but I’ve known Annette for a long time. A lot longer than we’ve lived next door to each other, and that is nearly twenty years.
When I was in high school, one of my friends dated Annette for awhile. Because she and my girlfriend at the time were good friends, we ended up double-dating a lot. That was a long time ago, but I have memories of all of us going out in my mom’s 1974 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, this huge fucking luxury car, all tricked out with automatic this and precision-control that, with a front seat as big as my closet at home, and a back seat as big as my bedroom. I was nearly 6′ tall, and I could lay across the back seat fully, with the doors on both sides shut. Which is what made it attractive for dating, of course. My mom would let me borrow that land barge on date nights; I don’t know if she had any idea of the real reason why I liked that big-ass Caddy so much.
I remember one night being parked in that car somewhere, me and my date up front, my friend and Annette in the back. It seems kind of creepy now, but it was perfectly normal back then for us be doing our thing up front, while they did theirs in the back. That night at one point I was coming up for air and absent-mindedly glanced into the back seat and saw Annette, laying there in the altogether, while my friend did hideous things to her, which she seemed to be enjoying at the time. She and I locked eyes for an instant, then I dove back down into what I was doing.
Several months after that, at someone’s house party, I was in search of a restroom and walked in on Annette, naked again, with some guy who wasn’t my buddy (who she was still dating.) She and I again exchanged looks, this time as I was scrambling my ass back out of that bedroom.
And that is it, basically. Nothing was ever said about any of this stuff; not back then, and not since I found out, years later and somewhat to my pleasant surprise, that the couple who had bought the house next door to us was some guy, and his wife, my old friend Annette, who I’d lost track of years before. In fact, Annette never mentions the ‘old days’ much at all, nothing to me, anyway. I’ve always felt we have an unspoken understanding between us that I really don’t understand at all, but am happy with. In fact, I have never really even thought about it much, only occasionally.
Up to now. Sitting there in my shop, I decided whatever I was going to do with Annette, as a result of winning the bet, I should do right way. I didn’t want the whole thing bleeding over into Labor Day weekend, when we’d be having a block party, an all day and all night drunkfest during which all kinds of crazy shit usually happens. I didn’t want to be burdened during that by a bunch of gossip or speculation, and I didn’t want Annette to be.
Thinking about that reminded me of something I’d forgot, or blocked out; just a brief moment in time, from one of the block parties years ago (we have one every Memorial Day and Labor Day.) A bunch of us were standing around in someone’s backyard that evening, watching fireworks. Pretty much everyone had been drinking all day. . . I was standing next to Annette and at one point she kind of leaned into me and then when I didn’t recoil from her right away she put one arm around my waist and kind of felt me up at the same time. That in and of itself wasn’t really a big deal – stuff like that happens at those parties, and usually it gets laughed off and is soon forgot. What made that night stay in memory was that rather than immediately put Annette off, in a gentle, friendly way, as I should have done and as I would have done normally, this time I acquiesced for a moment. Before putting her off in a gentle, friendly way. I allowed myself to enjoy the clumsy pass, maybe even briefly entertained reciprocating, before I caught myself. It wasn’t Annette’s fault, she was just drunk and horny, and I was convenient. But why did I hesitate to rebuff her? I am not a philanderer, so what the hell was I up to? It bothered me for awhile. I finally decided I was drunk and horny, too (I was); and maybe not in the best possible shape at that moment to fight off a half-serious advance from an attractive woman I’d known and liked for most of my life.
And so it goes. I live next door to a woman I’ve seen naked twice, and who made a drunken pass at me one time, after we were both long married. We have never discussed any of it, and I have tried to never let those things affect the way I interact with her; and, as far as I can tell, so has she. But now here I was again, in that weird place, dealing with a half-serious offer from Annette to do whatever I wanted with her. Damn.
None of this would be much of note if I were able to forget things, like normal people. Especially when it comes to women. The consequences of this silly bet, on their own, could be pretty easily laughed off. Should be. But unfortunately, I cannot block out all the underlying history.
This past weekend I saw an old Western I cannot remember the name of now. The principal characters were played by Sterling Hayden and Joan Crawford. They had been lovers in the past but then had gone their separate ways, with apparently a lot of unresolved feelings about it all on the part of both. They met up again years later, and were discussing things in a saloon one night, between shots of whisky. At one point Hayden’s character asked Crawford’s, “How many men have you forgotten?” “As many as women you have remembered,” she replied.
Right. My problem is, I cannot forget any of them at all. They haunt me. They are all still up there in my head somewhere, exerting some kind of power over me, long after the fact. That is my curse, the weight that I must carry. Sitting there in my shop in my garage at my workbench, for a brief moment I imagined myself as Sterling Hayden, or rather his character, sitting at a bar in a saloon. Drinking shots of rye, instead of icy cold Heinekens. Thinking bitter sweetly, mostly bitterly at the moment, of all the time that has slipped by, and of the women and the brief interludes with them that went by with it.
It suddenly came to me what I should do with Annette, on the day (“one calendar day,” as my neighbor kept saying) I was granted temporary power over her. Yes, of course.
What would the consequences be, long range? Who knows? This whole life is just a crap shoot anyway, there must be some cosmic reason why I keep circling back to this woman I don’t really know that well and have never intended or wanted to ‘end up with’, in some deeper sense. I think my whole turmoil over this situation, if you can call it turmoil, has centered on the question: Will I put myself immediately back into orbit again, going out away from her, off into the dark nothingness. . . knowing that, even though I escaped her tidal pull on me, her weird gravity, once again, there is a good chance that sometime, far off in the future, I will, like Aeschylus, come wandering back? Or, will I not?
I smiled to myself as I knocked back the last of the bottle of beer I had in my hand. I pushed myself back from the workbench, scooting the tall stool on the concrete, and stepped down. Then I walked out, closed the door behind me, and headed back into the house. My wife would be been wondering where I was pretty soon, and I didn’t want to cause her any worries.
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Astros are swept in the series, 0-3.
“Nothing from nothing leaves nothing” – William Everett Preston (1946-2006)
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
All good children go to heaven” – Lennon/McCartney
Once in a cycle the comet
Doubles its lonesome track.
Enriched with the tears of a thousand years,
Aeschylus wanders back.
John G. Neihardt (1881-1973)
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